Chapter 35 Marco
MARCO
I’d never been good at mixing worlds.
The idea of Tommy standing in my apartment, of all places, coming face-to-face with Valentina, unsettled me in ways I didn’t have time to analyze. Tommy was from another lifetime, a part of my past I’d deliberately left behind, sealed shut, and boxed away.
I’d stayed at work hours longer than necessary, pretending to be occupied, because facing Valentina tonight meant explanations I didn’t want to give. Answers I wasn’t ready to offer. Conversations that required admitting things I’d rather keep buried.
By eleven, I finally pushed away from my desk and grabbed the box, turning it over in my hands.
It was probably a bribe.
I knew exactly what Tommy wanted. He wanted me back on the field, back in DC, back in physical therapy—back to being someone useful.
Someone he recognized. Not the guy in a suit behind a desk pretending paperwork was just as meaningful as putting boots on the ground.
Tommy’s world was black-and-white, simple: clear lines, direct orders, measurable results.
And I used to fit into that world perfectly.
But the truth was, I wasn’t ready to go back. Not yet. Not when Valentina had somehow become the reason I was still here, pretending to fit into a world I really didn’t belong in.
So I set the box down unopened and turned off the light to go home to her.
Because even when I wasn’t looking at her, I was still thinking about her.
That wasn’t new, but the way it settled low in my stomach, somewhere behind my ribs, an awareness that didn’t fade even after she left?
That was new.
She had a way of slipping past every line I drew, every boundary I built, finding weak spots I’d forgotten existed. She didn’t just push—she dug, pried, excavated, until she found something worth holding onto. And then she held it up in front of me, daring me to deny it.
She thought birthdays meant something.
To me, they never had. Birthdays were the luxury of permanence; the privilege of being wanted enough to be celebrated.
They were marked by people who mattered and moments that stuck, by gifts that didn’t come with conditions attached.
Those were the things I’d learned to stop expecting a long time ago.
But Valentina didn’t care about that. She saw something else—something no one else bothered to look for. It hadn’t been pity in her eyes when she’d realized I didn’t celebrate birthdays; it was irritation. As if the absence of something so small, so normal, was a personal offense to her.
It bothered me. Not because she cared, but because deep down I knew what she was really asking.
Beneath all that teasing, beneath the casual provocations, she was asking why.
Why I kept at a distance. Why I ignored the calendar.
Why I treated another year of existence like an inconvenience instead of something worth acknowledging.
I didn’t have a good answer.
Not one that didn’t involve admitting something uncomfortable.
Like maybe I was still the kid waiting on a doorstep, garbage bag in hand, convinced the people behind every new door would see through me eventually—see I wasn’t worth keeping.
Valentina wasn’t supposed to see that. She wasn’t supposed to matter enough to look.
But she had.
When I got home, I froze in the doorway. The smell hit me first. Something comforting. Something I hadn’t had in years.
Grilled cheese.
It was strange how one smell could make me forget everything else for a second. For a moment, I was ten years old again, sneaking into the kitchen at night, quiet enough that no one would notice me, careful enough not to leave crumbs.
A small piece of comfort in the middle of a life that didn’t have much of it.
I loosened my tie slowly, still skeptical. This wasn’t exactly Valentina’s style. Valentina delivered sushi. She wasn’t the kind to cook, especially not something so specific—something I actually wanted.
I walked in further, seeing two plates already set out on the table, the sandwiches cut diagonally as if she cared about presentation. I glanced at her. She was pretending she hadn’t seen me come in, eyes focused on the pan in front of her.
“You cooked,” I said finally, suspicious.
She scoffed, flipping the sandwich onto another plate. “Barely counts as cooking. It’s melted cheese, Marco. Relax.”
I nodded slowly, still not convinced. “Didn’t realize you knew your way around a kitchen.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ve got maybe three meals in my culinary repertoire, and one of them involves cereal.”
I nearly smiled at that. It was too easy around her—too easy to slip up.
But still, it meant something. I knew it shouldn’t.
It was just a sandwich. But it was the fact she’d remembered—that she’d even noticed in the first place.
I couldn’t recall anyone else ever doing something like this for me, caring enough to notice something so mundane, so pointless.
Remy never had. Not that I’d expected him to. Not that I’d even wanted him to.
And Tommy . . .
Well, Tommy remembered things for his own reasons, not mine.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she complained.
I blinked. I hadn’t realized I was looking at her any particular way, but apparently, Valentina had. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure out what I want. Not everyone has an angle, Marco.”
I held her gaze, silently disagreeing. Everyone had an angle. That wasn’t paranoia—it was fact. I’d learned it young. Probably too young. Valentina may have convinced herself she was different, but she wasn’t. Not completely.
“Don’t they?” I asked.
“Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich.”
Right. Because Valentina De La Vega, now Grey, was known for her straightforward simplicity.
She continued. “Do you have to turn everything into a cross-examination?”
“It’s my nature.” I didn’t even try to deny it. It was my job to find angles, motivations, hidden truths. I was good at it.
“No wonder everyone hates lawyers.”
Something close to amusement tugged at me. “Do you?”
She hesitated. “Do I what?”
“Hate lawyers,” I clarified quietly.
She tilted her head, deciding whether honesty was safe here. It rarely was, for either of us. “Only when they’re you.”
The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. “Good thing you married me then.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not like I had a line of suitors beating down my door,” she said dryly. “Though I’m starting to regret turning down that guy with the boring stock portfolio who owned all those strip clubs in Jersey.”
“You always did have terrible judgment,” I said, shaking my head as I sat down slowly. “You joining me, or was your goodwill limited to cooking?”
“I suppose I could tolerate your company for a few minutes.”
“How generous.”
She slid into the chair across from me. “So grilled cheese, huh?” she asked after a minute, raising an eyebrow. “Any reason this particular meal gets special treatment?”
“Reminds me of simpler times,” I admitted.
She tilted her head, curious, doubtful. “Didn’t realize you had those.”
“What, simpler times? Or memories?”
“Both,” she said honestly, leaning forward. “You don’t exactly scream ‘sentimental type.’”
“Would you prefer if I screamed?” I asked dryly.
“It’d be an improvement.” She laughed under her breath. “But I guess even ruthless lawyers were kids once,” she said finally, a little softer now. “Did you have aspirations of courtroom drama even then?”
“My childhood ambitions were a bit more mundane,” I admitted reluctantly.
She smiled a bit, genuinely amused. “Let me guess. Astronaut? Firefighter?”
“No,” I said. “I wanted to be a chef, believe it or not.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You, a chef? Seriously?”
“Why’s that so surprising?”
She waved her hand vaguely, still smiling. “I don’t know. Cooking requires patience, passion . . .”
“Qualities you think I lack?”
She didn’t disagree, just gave me a look that said enough on its own. I couldn’t really argue. Patience wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
Passion, though—she knew better. I’d shown her enough times.
“You said it, not me.” Valentina smiled faintly, then her voice softened almost regretfully. “What happened to the dream?”
“Dreams don’t exactly survive in foster care.”
Her eyes softened. No pity though. Valentina knew better than that. It was one of the things I respected about her: she didn’t waste her sympathy.
“Well, on the bright side,” she said lightly, clearly trying to ease the tension she’d accidentally created, “you still ended up in a position to argue for a living.”
“Every kid’s dream.”
“Better dream than mine,” she muttered absently.
I looked at her, curious despite myself. “What was yours?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I wanted to be gold digger.”
“Excuse me?”
“From the moment I tried on my mom’s heels, I knew my destiny.” She stretched her arms over her head, dramatic as ever. “No taxes, no work, just yachts and cocktails and pretending to care about stock prices while my husband slowly withers under the weight of my spending.”
I gave her a long, slow blink, genuinely unsure if she was serious or not. Knowing Valentina, it was probably both. “Ambitious. And how’s that going for you?”
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes in playful accusation. “Well, considering my current husband is a grumpy, workaholic lawyer with zero yachts, I’d say it’s going terribly.”
I raised an eyebrow, amused despite myself. “Yet here you are, making grilled cheese for him.”
She shrugged lightly, suddenly interested in the crust of her sandwich. “Maybe I’m hoping to charm my way into your will.”
“Bold strategy, but I guess I am worth more dead than alive.”
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her lips. “Interesting. How much more?”
I took another slow bite, savoring the simplicity of the grilled cheese before answering calmly. “Enough to make it tempting, apparently.”