Chapter 37
MARCO
Iused the mug every morning.
Not that I’d admit to it—especially not to Valentina.
She’d never let me live it down. But the truth was, it had become one of my favorite things, if not my absolute favorite, which was ridiculous considering I didn’t even like coffee that much.
But the smug, bold letters staring up at me every morning—“World’s Best Lawyer”—had somehow turned from a joke into something I genuinely appreciated.
It had been about a week since my birthday. A week since the mug and the grilled cheese.
She’d been distracted lately anyway—something about medical bills. She’d been complaining about them the night before, pacing in front of the window with her phone pressed to her ear.
Apparently, her payments hadn’t gone through at the hospital. She’d spent an hour arguing with the billing department unable to figure out why the payments had stopped. She couldn’t understand the problem.
I could, of course. The payments had stopped because I’d taken care of them myself.
After our wedding, I’d quietly reached out to Jacob to find out where Valentina’s mother was being treated.
It hadn’t taken long to set things straight.
I’d handled the balance, arranged for ongoing care, made sure no more medical bills landed on Valentina’s doorstep again.
Not that I had any intention of telling her that. Valentina didn’t handle gratitude easily, and I didn’t want it. I wasn’t even sure why I’d done it, other than it felt right. Necessary. But I wasn’t about to let her know. It was better she kept thinking the hospital had made a clerical error.
That afternoon, my phone buzzed in the middle of a meeting. Valentina.
“Marco, can you pick up Lucia from school today?” she asked abruptly, barely letting me answer. “I’m stuck at the hospital with Isabel. More billing issues. I swear I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Of course,” I said simply. “I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you.” She breathed out in relief, hanging up quickly before I could even respond.
A half hour later, I found myself standing at the gates of Lucia’s elementary school, feeling exactly as out of place as I expected.
Other parents eyed me suspiciously, probably trying to figure out who the hell the overly serious guy in the suit was, waiting stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him.
I ignored their looks, scanning the crowd of kids for Lucia.
She finally appeared, backpack almost as big as she was, trudging toward me with a scowl. She stopped short when she realized who’d come to get her, glancing around in confusion.
“Where’s my mommy?” she demanded, squinting suspiciously at me. “Or my tía?
“Both stuck at the hospital,” I replied, shifting awkwardly under her glare. “They sent me instead.”
She sighed dramatically, clearly unimpressed. “But I need one of them here.”
“What for?”
“My teacher wants to talk to her. You won’t help.”
I frowned slightly, bending down to her level. “Try me. What happened?”
She hesitated, glancing at the ground. “This girl in my class, she messed up my drawing. With paint. On purpose.”
“What drawing?” I asked quietly.
“It was for Abuela,” Lucia muttered, looking down at her shoes.
I paused, studying her carefully. She looked genuinely upset—more than a messed-up drawing really warranted, at least from my perspective. But I knew better than most how something seemingly trivial could mean everything when it mattered personally.
Still, dealing with elementary-school drama wasn’t exactly my area of expertise. My professional life revolved around contracts, negotiations, and occasionally making grown men reconsider their poor choices, not sorting out arguments over ruined artwork.
Then again, how different could it really be?
“I’m not your tía,” I told her evenly, “but I handle conflicts for a living. I think I can manage this one.”
Lucia raised a skeptical eyebrow. I couldn’t blame her. To her, I was probably just some guy in a suit who argued about paperwork. Not exactly playground argument material.
“But don’t embarrass me, okay?”
I felt the corner of my mouth lift slightly despite myself. “Embarrassment isn’t usually part of my strategy.”
She looked back at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “It better not be.”
As I followed her into the building, I shook my head slightly, almost amused.
I’d stood in front of judges, juries, politicians, and men who’d probably ended lives with less thought than they’d given their breakfast order, and yet somehow, the skeptical gaze of a six-year-old who doubted my competence felt more daunting.
I blamed Valentina. This was exactly the sort of scenario I’d never have pictured myself in.
But here I was.
Maybe my judgment really was slipping. Or maybe Valentina was just rubbing off on me more than I’d realized.
The classrooms were smaller than I remembered. Everything in them too. Low ceilings, miniature desks, alphabet charts on the walls like everyone was pretending the world was still simple. It made me feel enormous. Out of place. As if someone had shoved me into a memory that didn’t belong to me.
Lucia led the way. I followed, stepping into a conversation I could already tell was going nowhere.
Two women stood at the front of the room, one looking exhausted, the other furious for no real reason.
The angry one turned when she saw us. Mid-forties, tight blazer, tight jaw.
She looked at me like she didn’t know what to do with me. Most people didn’t.
“Marco Grey,” I introduced myself as I offered my hand to shake. “Lucia’s mom and aunt are both unavailable today, so I hope I’ll suffice.”
“Mr. Grey, thank you for coming,” the teacher, Ms. Anderson, said quickly.
I knew that tone. I used it in court.
Lucia slipped her small hand into mine. It surprised me enough to make me glance down at her. She was holding on pretty tightly.
“This is Mrs. Turner,” the teacher went on, nodding toward the woman who was still glaring. “Her daughter, Megan, and Lucia had an incident.”
“Megan didn’t do anything,” Mrs. Turner snapped before anyone could explain further. “My daughter is being blamed for something she didn’t do.”
I didn’t say anything.
The teacher hesitated, then she gestured to one of the desks. “That’s the drawing.”
Lucia’s paper sat on the desk, smeared with thick blue paint.
Fingerprints. Messy. The kind of thing kids did when they knew they were getting away with it.
I looked at the drawing and then at the girl beside Mrs. Turner—Megan, presumably—who was fidgeting, hands behind her back like she didn’t know how obvious she was being.
“Can I see your hands, Megan?” I asked, my voice even.
Mrs. Turner tensed again. “Excuse me?”
“Well, there’s paint on Lucia’s drawing, and I’m guessing Megan hasn’t washed her hands recently.”
Megan’s mother hesitated, clearly about to protest, but the teacher gave her a pointed look and nudged Megan forward. Slowly, the girl raised her hands, showing off two palms stained bright blue. Lucia made a quiet, satisfied noise beside me.
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
Mrs. Turner deflated visibly, irritation fading into embarrassment. “Megan, is this true?”
Megan nodded slowly, guilt written all over her face.
Mrs. Turner sighed, running a hand over her forehead. “I’m sorry. She didn’t tell me.”
Ms. Anderson looked relieved. Lucia squeezed my hand again, clearly satisfied with the outcome, though she tried to look nonchalant about it.
“Maybe you can apologize to Lucia,” I suggested calmly, “and we can consider the matter resolved.”
Megan looked up at Lucia shyly. “Sorry I messed up your drawing.”
Lucia hesitated and then nodded back. “Okay.”
After that, everything wrapped up pretty quickly. Mrs. Turner made an awkward exit with Megan, who still looked embarrassed, eyes fixed on her shoes. Ms. Anderson thanked me again, obviously relieved things hadn’t escalated further. And Lucia, well, she was quiet.
As we walked out into the afternoon sun she matched her steps to mine, clearly lost in thought. It wasn’t awkward exactly, but I felt like there was something I should say. Small talk wasn’t exactly my specialty, especially not with a kid, but I gave it a shot anyway.
“For what it’s worth,” I said finally, glancing down at her, “I actually think the blue paint adds something.”
“Adds something?”
“A cool pop of color,” I clarified, shrugging slightly. “Might even make it stand out more. Your grandma might like it.”
She tilted her head skeptically. “It was supposed to be just yellow and pink.”
“Well, now it’s yellow, pink, and blue. Probably more valuable too since it’s got a good story.”
Lucia stayed quiet for another second or two, kicking gently at a rock on the sidewalk. Then, almost grudgingly, she nodded. “Maybe. Abuela likes colorful things.”
“Then I’d say it’s perfect.”
She glanced up at me again, considering. She didn’t smile—not fully—but she looked less annoyed at least. Coming from Lucia, I figured that counted as progress.
We walked a little further in silence, heading toward the car. She kept glancing at me sideways, clearly still assessing whether I could be trusted long-term. Couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t exactly practiced at earning the approval of six-year-olds.
I cleared my throat as we reached the curb, then I unlocked the car and opened the front passenger side. “Go ahead.”
She stared at me like I’d just suggested she drive. “I’m not old enough to sit in the front seat.”
I blinked. “Right. Of course.”
She sighed loudly, as if she’d already had this conversation before, probably with adults far more competent at this kind of thing. I closed the door, circled around, and opened the back one. She climbed in without saying anything and buckled up.
As we started driving, silence filled the car. I watched her carefully through the mirror. It was tilted up so I couldn’t see myself but could still see her.