Chapter 31 Valentina
VALENTINA
Ishould have seen this coming.
From the moment Lucia stepped out of the car that night when Marco dropped her off, she was basically humming with energy.
I should’ve known she’d go off and say something to Isabel.
What six-year-old ever kept secrets? Especially when they had no idea something was even supposed to be a secret.
And it wasn’t like I’d given Lucia a detailed list of “topics not to share with Mommy,” so really, this one was on me.
And Marco.
But mostly me, for being an idiot.
I knew Lucia had told Isa, because I was here, standing in the kitchen, watching my phone vibrate with Isa’s name across the screen.
I considered not answering. Maybe if I let it ring for long enough she’d assume I was busy—which, to be fair, I was. Busy avoiding unnecessary complications. Busy pretending my life wasn’t currently an absolute disaster tied together with legal paperwork and tailored suits.
But Isabel knew me too well.
With a sigh, I answered. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Isabel said, amused. “So . . . who’s your friend?”
I stalled. “What friend?”
She sighed. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“The man, Valentina.”
I winced.
“The one Lucia met. The one she’s been raving about since she walked in the door. She called him—and I quote—‘the big scary man who’s actually kind of nice.’”
I groaned. “That girl has no concept of keeping things to herself,” I muttered.
Isabel laughed. “Gee, wonder where she gets that from . . .”
I ignored her, leaning against the counter. “She exaggerates. He’s not scary.”
“No?” Isabel sounded unconvinced. “Because according to her, he barely smiled, barely talked, and somehow made people at the park move when he walked past them.”
I sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little scary.”
Isabel made a quiet humming sound, and I knew that sound too well. She was about to press me for more information.
“So?” she said expectantly. “Who is he? Why are you walking around with someone like that?”
I considered my options. Lying was pointless—Isabel would see right through it. But telling her the full truth? That wasn’t happening either.
“His name is Marco.”
“Marco,” she repeated, like she was testing out the name. “And how long have you been seeing him?”
“Why are you asking like that?”
“Like what? I just want to meet him.”
I groaned. “That’s not necessary.”
“Of course it is,” she said easily. “He’s important enough for you to introduce him to Lucia, but not me?”
“I didn’t introduce them,” I argued. “It was circumstantial.”
Isabel wasn’t buying it. “Right. Well, circumstantial or not, I want to meet him.”
This was happening too fast. Marco and I had barely figured out how to coexist without me pushing every button he had just to see what would happen. And now I had to throw him into a family dinner?
This was a bad idea.
No. Worse. It was a terrible idea.
“I don’t know . . .” I started, trying to find an excuse.
“Dinner. Tonight,” she said. “I’ll cook.”
I paused.
“Vale,” Isabel said gently, “it’s just dinner. You don’t have to be weird about it.”
I hesitated.
She wasn’t pushing. She wasn’t prying. She just . . . wanted to meet him.
Somehow that made it worse.
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“Seven?”
I exhaled slowly. “Seven.”
“Great,” she said, sounding pleased. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I wasn’t. Was this really happening?
Oh gosh. This was happening.
Tonight.
Not in a week. Not in some distant, hypothetical future where I had time to prepare Marco for Isabel-level scrutiny. No—in just a few hours, I had to sit across from my sister and pretend like my marriage wasn’t held together with fine print and mutual exhaustion.
This was a mistake.
A massive, irreversible mistake.
I mean, what was I even supposed to say?
Hey Isa, meet Marco. Yes, he’s my husband, but don’t worry—it’s not what you think.
It’s just an arrangement, nothing more. Oh, and did I mention he’s involved in some shady things I can’t exactly talk about?
But don’t worry! Lucia loves him, and he feeds ducks, so he can’t be that bad, right?
I stared at my phone for a long time, debating whether to call him. Texting felt safer. I could control my words, think through my responses, avoid any awkward pauses where my panic might actually slip through. But Marco wasn’t a texting person—not really.
If I texted him, he’d brush it off. He’d act like this was nothing.
If I called him . . .
I took a deep breath and pressed the call button before I could talk myself out of it.
The phone rang twice before he answered.
“Grey.”
“Heeey . . . ” I began slowly.
“Valentina.”
I curled my fingers tighter around my phone. “So we have a problem.”
A pause. Then, calmly, he said, “You usually do.”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “Okay, let me rephrase,” I began. “You have a problem.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. My sister invited you to dinner tonight.”
Marco was quiet for exactly three seconds. Yes, I counted.
“Is that the problem?”
“Are you joking?” I asked, pacing around the kitchen island. “This is Isabel we’re talking about. She’ll smile politely, ask you about your childhood, and within fifteen minutes, she’ll know your blood type and every secret you’ve ever kept.”
“I don’t have secrets.”
I laughed. “Right. Just ‘confidential matters,’ right, lawyer?”
“It’s dinner. How complicated can it be?”
Clearly, he underestimated the situation.
How on earth was he so calm?
“Marco, Isabel doesn’t do small talk. She does deep psychological excavation. She’ll figure out we’re”—I hesitated, searching for the right words—“not exactly a love match.”
“Is that what worries you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It’s dinner,” Marco said calmly. “Not an interrogation.”
“You say that now, but I guarantee you have no idea what you’re walking into.”
“I think I’ll survive.”
I gripped my phone tighter. He wasn’t getting it.
Of course he wasn’t getting it—this was Marco after all.
Unfazed, unreadable Marco. But me? I was very much fazed.
Extremely fazed. Possibly more fazed than I’d ever been.
Because this wasn’t just dinner. It was Isabel, and Isabel was basically a human polygraph test wrapped up in sisterly concern and freshly baked bread.
She could smell bullshit from three zip codes away. Maybe four.
“She’s going to ask how we met,” I warned.
“We met outside of José’s.”
I cringed, remembering exactly how we’d met. José’s wasn’t a cute little café, and our meet-cute had been anything but cute. He’d found me drunk, desperate, and dangerously close to losing whatever scraps of dignity I had left. Not exactly a story we could share over Isabel’s chicken parmesan.
The fact he’d seen me at one of my absolute lowest points and still stuck around—well, that raised questions. Questions I definitely wasn’t ready to have answered.
“She’s going to ask how long we’ve been together.”
“A few months,” he said smoothly.
“She’s going to ask what you do.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but not the normal kind. You don’t exactly handle traffic tickets.”
“And?”
“And,” I sighed, pacing faster now, “what are you going to say if she asks what kind of law you practice?”
“Corporate law.”
“That’ll work.” I froze, mind racing. “I work with you, by the way.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” I argued stubbornly. “That’s what I told her.”
“That’s not working with me, Valentina,” he said, unamused. “You distract me at work.”
I grinned. Okay, fine. That part was technically true.
I did distract him.
Frequently.
Three times . . . after the first time. After I’d told him that was the last time. So four times, to be exact.
The sex was great. It really was.
“Semantics,” I dismissed. “It’s how I told her I’m paying for my mom’s medical bills. I can’t exactly tell her I married someone for it.”
“Why not?” Marco said easily. “You married someone for it before.”
Asshole. Did he really have to go there?
Of course he did. Marco never missed an opportunity to remind me of my questionable life choices, especially the ones that had landed me here.
“Not exactly the same thing,” I snapped back, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. “Besides, Isabel doesn’t know the details, and I’d like to keep it that way. Forever, if possible.”
He paused, considering. “Then keep it simple.”
“That’s your advice? Simple?” I laughed, mostly to myself. “Have you met my sister? Have you met me?”
“I’m sure neither of you specialize in simple, but we can at least pretend for one evening.”
Pretend. I was getting disturbingly good at that lately—pretending I didn’t care, pretending I didn’t miss him when he was gone, pretending like this was all business.
Like it wasn’t complicated by every stupid little feeling creeping its way past my defenses.
Feelings I definitely wasn’t prepared to examine tonight—or ever.
“Fine,” I finally muttered. “But when this blows up in our faces—and it will—I’m blaming you.”
“Of course you will,” he murmured with amusement. “What time? I’ll pick you up when I get off.”
This was definitely going to blow up spectacularly—I could already feel it. And yet despite the racing heartbeat and clammy palms, a tiny, traitorous voice whispered, Maybe it won’t. Maybe this time, just once, it’ll be okay.
“It’s at seven. You really don’t mind?” I asked quietly.
There was another pause.
“No,” Marco admitted. “I don’t.”
For some reason, that made my heart race worse than anything else.