Chapter 25 Valentina
VALENTINA
I’d barely pushed the door open before Lucia bolted past me. Her sneakers slapped against the hardwood floors, probably tracking in dirt I’d have to clean up later.
“Lucia, don’t run in the—”
Her short, sudden scream stopped me in my tracks. My heart lurched.
“Lucia?”
She turned, big brown eyes wide with alarm. “Tía! There’s a big, strange man in your apartment!”
Oh god.
My heart didn’t just skip—it full-on tripped over itself. My mind flashed to every true-crime documentary I’d ever watched, every terrible headline, every scary scenario imaginable, as I stepped past Lucia and quickly scanned the living room.
And then I saw him.
Marco.
He was standing in the middle of the living room with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dress pants. He looked at me like he hadn’t been gone for the past week.
I almost didn’t notice the flowers on the counter behind him. They were lilies. Expensive ones too, judging by how carefully they were arranged, how perfectly clean the glass vase was. Marco hadn’t grabbed these from a gas-station bucket at the last second—that much was obvious.
Honestly, the idea of Marco even setting foot into a flower shop was almost laughable. The man didn’t do flowers. He barely did conversation. And yet here he was.
He looked the same. The color of his suit hadn’t changed, and his tie was still tight around his neck. His beard hair had grown in a bit though. It looked good on him, the subtle scruff. I wondered what it would feel like against my fingers. And then I hated myself for wondering.
Because hadn’t I told him to stay away?
Hadn’t I made it painfully clear I didn’t want to see him again? That I didn’t want to want him?
I could still hear myself: “Get out.” I’d said it. I’d meant it. And yet here he was, standing there like I hadn’t said it. Like maybe I hadn’t meant it enough.
Or worse, like he knew I’d said it and had showed up anyway.
The part that really messed me up? That night .
. . it hadn’t left me. Not even a little.
Not the way he’d looked at me afterward, not the way he’d said what he said, not the way my chest had gone cold while my body was still warm from him.
It had stuck. It clung. And now, even after days, even after the silence and the space and the stubborn, angry pride, I could still feel that heat under my skin as if it had never fully gone out.
Now he was here. In my apartment. Looking at me like I was supposed to just pick up the pieces and say, “Welcome back!”
So I didn’t say anything. Because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out. Anger, sarcasm, want.
I just stared at him.
The grip I had on Lucia finally loosened. “He’s not a stranger, carino.”
Lucia looked at me, then back at Marco, skeptical.
Six years old and already able to smell bullshit from a mile away.
She was definitely Isabel’s daughter. I could almost hear her little brain wondering why a strange man who looked like he’d walked straight out of some fancy law show was suddenly standing in the middle of my living room.
“Then who is he?” she asked again, narrowing her eyes as though she’d caught me red-handed in a crime. “And why does he have flowers?”
I was suddenly realizing just how complicated I’d managed to make my own life. How was I even supposed to answer that question? What could I possibly say?
Well, Lucia, he’s just some guy I impulsively married for convenience and money, but don’t worry—it’s totally fine.
Would she even understand something like that? Probably. Knowing Lucia, she’d give me one of those disappointed looks that usually came from Isabel, shake her head, and think her tía was officially a gold digger.
And honestly, she wouldn’t even be wrong. Not completely.
But the question was still there, glaring at me like Marco himself, waiting for an answer.
Who is he?
He was an asshole.
He was flaky.
And he was—unfortunately, officially, and very inconveniently—my husband.
He watched me closely. I swear, he lived for moments like these. Moments where I tangled myself up in my own lies and he got to sit back and watch.
I cleared my throat, trying to buy myself a few seconds to think. “He’s just a—”
I paused.
Friend?
No.
Marco wasn’t exactly the friendly type.
Colleague?
Even worse.
I didn’t want Lucia repeating that to Isabel, because she’d ask questions I really wasn’t ready to answer.
Finally, I settled on the weakest possible option. “He’s just a guy.”
Lucia narrowed her eyes at me, utterly unimpressed. “A guy?”
“Yes.” I nodded quickly, hoping my confidence would magically make my lame answer believable. “A guy friend.”
Marco made a quiet noise from across the kitchen—something between a cough and a laugh—and I deliberately ignored him, though I mentally added another point to the Marco-is-an-asshole tally I’d been keeping.
Lucia, unfortunately, wasn’t letting me off the hook so easily. She tilted her head, suspicious. “Since when do you have friends?”
Ouch. Okay, that was fair, but also rude, and maybe just a tiny bit true. Still. “Since always,” I said defensively, crossing my arms. “I have lots of friends.”
Lucia’s face said she wasn’t convinced, which was honestly a little insulting. Was it really that hard to believe I had friends?
“Then why haven’t I met him before?” she pressed.
God, was I glad she didn’t remember him from that night on the subway. Explaining that would take more brainpower than I currently possessed.
“Because,” I said, thinking quickly, “he’s not that kind of friend. He’s a . . . uh . . . grown-up friend.”
Lucia squinted again, glancing toward Marco with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for cartoon villains. Marco hadn’t moved. He was still leaning casually, enjoying this way too much.
Finally, Lucia turned back to me and whispered loudly, like she was letting me in on a serious secret, “He looks mean.”
Marco raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I’m right here, you know.”
Lucia gasped, eyes widening dramatically. “He heard me?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “He has ears.”
“Big ones,” she whispered.
“Still here,” Marco said.
I ran a hand over my face. This was chaos. This was exactly what I didn’t need. Him showing up unannounced. Lucia playing investigative reporter. My entire personal life unraveling like a badly wrapped burrito.
And still—still—the part that bothered me the most was how good he looked standing there as if the past week hadn’t happened.
I hated that some small, stupid part of me had missed him.
I fixed him with a pointed look, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “What’re you doing here?”
“Didn’t realize you had company,” Marco finally said.
Lucia tugged at my arm, impatient. “Tía, we have to go! The ducks are waiting!”
Marco’s eyebrow went up slightly. “Ducks?”
Lucia nodded eagerly, her ponytail bobbing with enthusiasm. “We’re feeding them at the park. Do you wanna come?”
Oh god. I stiffened instantly. “He’s busy.”
Lucia pouted dramatically as if I’d just crushed her entire worldview. “You didn’t even let him answer.”
Marco’s mouth twitched, clearly amused. I shot him a quick, pointed look that hopefully conveyed how very little I appreciated this.
Unfortunately, Lucia was persistent. “Are you busy?”
He shrugged casually, hands still in his pockets. “Depends.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “On what?”
“On whether or not your tía wants me to come.”
Lucia, blissfully unaware of the tension and subtle threats that always lingered around Marco, jumped in immediately. “You should come,” she said, nodding seriously. “But you have to bring bread, because last time tía said crackers were better, and the ducks didn’t even like them.”
I sighed. “The ducks were being picky.”
Lucia shook her head seriously. “No. You’re just bad at ducks.”
Marco laughed at that. It caught me off-guard, tugging at something in my chest.
“Fine,” he said, pushing off the counter, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Bread it is.”
Lucia cheered, dancing in place, and I had no choice but to follow them out the door, silently wondering how my peaceful afternoon had suddenly turned into a weird little family outing involving Marco, ducks, and a niece who was entirely too perceptive for her own good.
God help me.
Marco walked beside me with his jacket draped over his arm and his sleeves rolled up.
It was warm out, sunny enough that it almost felt like a normal afternoon.
And honestly, it felt weird. Good weird, but still weird.
A few months ago, my afternoons had looked so different—spent sitting on bodega steps, bargaining with anyone who’d sell me a bottle or a sip or whatever I could manage.
Duck ponds and family outings weren’t exactly my scene.
But here I was, sneaking sideways glances at Marco. He seemed weirdly relaxed like this—no tense shoulders, no phone pressed permanently to his ear, no bored lawyer expression in place. Just a man who surprisingly enough looked like he belonged here in the sunshine too.
Lucia stopped abruptly at the pond’s edge and spun around to face Marco. “Have you ever fed ducks before?” she asked, eyeing him like she was about to interrogate him for credentials.
Marco’s lips twitched slightly as if he were holding back a smile. “Once or twice.”
I couldn’t picture it, him casually feeding ducks. It sounded ridiculous. And yet there he was, playing along.
Lucia nodded solemnly. “Good. Then you know the rules.”
Marco raised an eyebrow. “Um . . .” He hesitated. “Rules?”
“Yes,” Lucia said, placing a tiny hand on her hip like she was delivering a serious business presentation. “Rule number one—no throwing whole pieces of bread. You have to tear them into little pieces.”
He nodded seriously. “Okay. Deal. That makes sense.”
She continued, lifting a finger for emphasis. “Number two—you can’t feed the mean ones.”
Marco glanced at the pond, genuinely curious. “Which ones are mean?”