Chapter 20
VALENTINA
“What?” I blurted.
The phone cracked. “I know it’s last-minute, but you want your inheritance, don’t you?”
The way Max asked that sent my heart racing—the kind of adrenaline rush you got when you knew something was wrong. Really wrong. Fight-or-flight. And I’d never been good at choosing the right one.
The idea of marrying someone—anyone—felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I hated it. Hated how it felt cheap. Hated how I wasn’t proud of this. Hated how I was stuck here at all.
But pride didn’t pay the bills. So I took a breath and said, “Yeah, I do.”
The second those words left my mouth I felt sick.
Like I’d swallowed something sour—something nasty.
It was almost as if regret, shame, and anger were having a fucking party in my chest, and nobody had asked my permission.
Of course I wanted the money—I needed it, God knows—but marriage? Again? Seriously?
The cabinet caught my eye before I even realized I was looking at it.
It felt pathetic, really, how automatic it still was. I hadn’t touched the bottle in days, thought I’d convinced myself I was past this. Sobriety wasn’t easy, but it had felt manageable, safe, even a little bit real. That was because nothing serious had come along yet. No tests. No humiliations.
No fucking weddings.
Weddings weren’t something I knew how to handle sober. The only way I knew how to face a wedding was with a few sips—just enough to get through the day without wanting to claw off my own skin.
I moved slowly toward the cabinet like if I took my time, it meant I was still making a choice. Still had control. When I opened the door, there it was: the bottle of vodka I’d hidden from myself.
I grabbed the bottle roughly, twisting the cap off before I could think twice. No one said sobriety had to happen all at once, right? Maybe tomorrow I’d figure out how to handle my problems without a buzz. Maybe tomorrow I’d finally get it together.
But today? Today I just needed to survive.
“Can you be at the courthouse in an hour?”
Max was waiting. I could picture him perfectly, leaning back in his big leather chair, probably staring at that stupid watch of his, counting down the seconds because he already knew what I’d say.
I always said yes.
That was what bothered me the most—not just saying yes, but that he was never surprised.
That I wasn’t a wildcard, wasn’t unpredictable, wasn’t dangerous in the ways people liked to pretend I was.
Everyone talked about me as if I were some reckless, chaotic thing, when really, I was just predictable, boring, and pathetically desperate.
I needed this, and I had no way out of this mess but through it. A part of me wanted to say no just to see what would happen—to test the limits of my own self-destruction—but there was no space for pride when you were drowning.
“Yeah, I can.”
The words felt like betrayal. The kind I’d learned to live with.
“Okay. Don’t be late.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving nothing behind but silence and that empty ache settling deep in my chest.
For a second I just sat there, staring into space. Thinking. Feeling way too much, or maybe nothing at all—I couldn’t even tell anymore.
Slowly, I turned the bottle over in my hands. I took a sip, then another, and before I knew it, I’d lost count, like I always did.
I was late to the courthouse.
Not intentionally.
Okay, maybe a little intentionally.
My dress wasn’t anything special, just some simple white silk gown I’d dug out from the back of my closet—the same one I wore the night Cillian proposed. Probably bad luck. Definitely bad luck actually, but did it even matter at this point? I was pretty sure my luck had run out years ago.
The plan was simple. So simple I’d repeated it in my head at least a hundred times to stop myself from spiraling into overthinking again.
Walk in. Sign my name next to Jonathan’s. Smile like this wasn’t humiliating. Let him slide another meaningless ring onto my finger, and then walk out with my inheritance, my dignity—or at least whatever scraps of it were left—and finally be done.
Quick and easy.
I didn’t care about Jonathan. That was the best part. He was forgettable, harmless, quiet. Exactly what I needed. The kind of man who’d leave me alone once this was done, who wouldn’t ask questions about why a widowed woman was so desperate to get married again.
Honestly, I was looking forward to it. Not the marriage, obviously, but the lack of drama. This was supposed to be the calm after the storm. The payoff at the end of an exhausting conga line of “sober living” steps, courtesy of Max and his ultimatum.
I’d get my money, I’d fix everything—Mama’s treatment, Isabel’s fears, my own guilt about being the screwup in the family—and I’d do it without hitching myself to someone who might think this was real.
Jonathan was the perfect solution.
So when I half-jogged up the courthouse steps, I was fully expecting to see him—the tall, maybe-sort-of-handsome Fed with the stiff posture and the cautious smile—waiting with a polite handshake and a ring that meant absolutely nothing to either of us.
Instead I got . . .
Max.
Dimitri.
And Marco?
It didn’t seem like anyone really wanted to be here, which wasn’t the feeling most wedding ceremonies brought.
Max was on his phone doing God knows what, Dimitri was standing there with his head in the clouds, and Marco was standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.
He didn’t bother lifting his eyes to find mine.
There was no Jonathan in sight.
Just these three.
The damn musketeers.
I crossed my arms. “Where is he?”
Max looked up. “We’ve had a change of plan.”
A change of plan. Of course. Why not?
“Okay . . .” I scanned the deserted stretch of sidewalk behind them, half-expecting Jonathan to appear out of nowhere. “So he’s late too?”
Dimitri shrugged.
Marco still wouldn’t look at me.
A slow prickle worked its way up my spine. Something was off.
“No. He’s not coming.” Max slipped his phone into his pocket. “It’s Marco.”
I blinked. “Marco what?”
“Marco,” Max repeated, as if that explained everything.
Suddenly, I got it. They weren’t waiting for Jonathan.
There was no Jonathan.
The man I was supposed to marry wasn’t the safe, polite Federal agent Jonathan who’d disappear quietly once I got my inheritance.
No.
Instead it was Marco, the one man who couldn’t even meet my eye. The man who could barely stand being in the same room with me yet somehow always ended up exactly where I was. The man whose mouth had pressed against mine, whose hands had already left bruises I couldn’t stop touching days after.
Of course it was Marco.
Because apparently, the universe wasn’t done screwing with me yet.
“You’re joking,” I said with a pitiful laugh.
“Let’s go,” Max said quickly. “You’re already late.”
Late. Like this was some dentist appointment I could just stroll into. Like it didn’t completely change my life—or screw it up more.
I always thought if I got married again—and that was a massive “if”—I’d at least know basic things about the guy before the ink dried.
Maybe his middle name, his favorite color, if he was secretly a cat person, or if he snored like a train, God forbid.
Maybe I’d even know if he ordered pizza with black olives because he was secretly a psychopath or something.
You know, critical details.
But nope.
Apparently, knowing someone beyond their first and last name was a luxury I wasn’t getting.
And honestly, even Marco’s last name felt weird rolling around my head.
Marco Grey. Lawyer. Pain in the ass. Professional brooder.
That was it. That was the entire list of facts I had about the man I was about to marry.
Not to mention, the last time I saw him, he’d literally left me sitting alone on a bed he’d broken—one he still hadn’t bothered to fix. I mean, what was that? Who breaks someone’s bed and then just . . . leaves like that?
It was embarrassing. Humiliating even, now that I was thinking about it—which of course I was, because self-respect wasn’t exactly part of my skill set lately.
The guy had bolted so fast I’d barely had time to blink, and now, suddenly, he was standing here volunteering to marry me?
He didn’t want me then, so what exactly was this supposed to be now?
Charity?
Obligation?
Or was I just another problem he thought he needed to fix—one more mess in Marco Grey’s endless list of responsibilities?
I hadn’t asked for this. Hell, I wouldn’t have asked for him even if he were the last man on Earth, because there was something humiliating about needing to be saved by someone who clearly couldn’t stand the thought of me.
It felt pathetic. Like I’d somehow become his burden. I hated how small it made me feel—how insignificant.
I glanced at him again, willing him to look at me. But no. Marco kept his gaze locked down stubbornly, hands deep in his pockets, jaw set tight enough to crack teeth. Even being here was too much for him.
Inside the courthouse, it was silent enough that the click of my heels echoed off the walls. There was no one here. Seriously, no one. Did nobody else decide to get impulsively married at four on a Thursday? Just me?
Marco still wouldn’t look at me. At least Dimitri had the decency to pretend he was busy checking his phone, and Max was staying conveniently quiet. But Marco? Silent treatment. Complete radio silence.
“Romantic,” I muttered, tugging nervously at my sleeve.
Marco’s back stiffened slightly, as if even the sound of my voice irritated him. Fantastic. We were off to a stellar start.
The clerk behind the counter glanced up from her computer, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Names?”
“Marco Grey,” he answered quickly.
“Valentina De La Vega,” I added.
The clerk nodded slowly, bored, clearly having seen weirder pairings. “License is ready. Sign here.”