12. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
I change outfits four times before Eric picks me up.
The first dress is too formal. The second is too casual. The third makes me look like I’m trying too hard, which I am, but his mother doesn’t need to know that.
I settle on a simple sundress. Pale blue. Something that says “I’m a normal person who might be dating your son” rather than “I’m a desperate waitress being paid in legal fees to date your son.”
Eric’s eyes move over me when I open the motel door. He doesn’t comment. Just says, “Ready?”
No. Absolutely not.
“Yes.”
The drive to Nora’s house takes twenty minutes. I spend most of it staring out the window, rehearsing things to say. It’s so nice to meet you. Eric has told me so much about you. What a lovely home.
All lies. Eric has told me almost nothing. And I have no idea what her home looks like.
When we pull up, I’m surprised. It’s not a mansion. Not even close. A modest three-bedroom with a cracked driveway and roses climbing the front porch. The kind of house that looks lived-in.
“She refused to move,” Eric says, reading my face. “I’ve offered her penthouses. Beach houses. She wants her roses and her neighbors and the kitchen where she taught me to cook.”
There’s something in his voice. Something soft that doesn’t match the man who pins women against cars and orders them to eat.
The front door opens before we reach it.
Nora Bailey is small. Sharp-eyed. Her hair is dark, going silver, cropped close, and she’s wearing an apron dusted with flour. She looks nothing like what I expected from the mother of a billionaire.
“You’re late,” she says to Eric. Then her eyes land on me. They’re the same dark brown as his, and they miss nothing.
“Mom.”
“Come. The bread is almost ready and I refuse to let it burn because my son can’t read a clock.”
The house smells like fresh bread and lavender. Every surface holds photographs, knickknacks, evidence of a life fully lived. I feel like an intruder in someone’s memory.
Nora puts me to work immediately. No small talk. No polite circling. Just: “You know how to set a table?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me. I’m Nora.”
I find myself smiling despite everything.
Brunch is an interrogation disguised as a meal. Nora asks about my job (“waitressing builds character”), my family (“gone, but I had a good mother”).
She doesn’t ask about Sebastian. I wonder if Eric told her not to.
“Eric says you used to paint.”
I look up, startled. He must have told her more than I thought.
“A long time ago.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Life got loud. But you know, one day at a time.”
She nods like that answer is enough, then butters a piece of bread with care.
“One day at a time,” she repeats, buttering her bread. “That’s what people say when they’re surviving something. What are you surviving, Valentina?”
The question cuts through all my rehearsed answers.
“A lot,” I say quietly. “But I’m still here.”
Nora holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods, satisfied. “Good. That’s what matters.”
After brunch, I help her clean up while Eric takes a call outside. Standing at the sink together, shoulders almost touching, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
“He’s dense and bossy,” Nora says suddenly, scrubbing a plate. “Always has been. Gets it from his father, though he’d hate to hear that.” She glances at me. “But he’s never brought anyone here before. You are the first woman that he brings me. I guess you must be special.”
I don’t know what to say.
“That means something,” she continues. “I’m not sure what yet. But it means something.”
***
Eric
I watch them through the kitchen window while pretending to take a call.
My mother is laughing. Not the polite version she gives to strangers, but the real one. The one I haven’t heard in months.
And Valentina is laughing with her. Her whole face transforms when she laughs. Like the woman she was before someone broke her.
My mother catches me watching. Excuses herself to get something from the other room.
She finds me on the porch a minute later.
“That girl has been through war,” she says quietly. “I can see it in her eyes. The same look I had after your father left.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you dare break her, Eric. I mean it. She’s not one of your projects. She’s not something you fix and walk away from.”
“I’m not trying to fix her.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
I don’t have an answer. Not one I’m willing to say out loud.
My mother watches me for a long moment. Then she sighs, pats my cheek, and goes back inside.
When we leave, Valentina is quiet. Thoughtful. She doesn’t speak until we’re almost back at the restaurant.
“She’s nothing like I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone colder. Someone who raised a man who owns sixty-five restaurants.”
“She raised a man who had nothing and built sixty-five restaurants.”
Valentina is quiet again. I can feel her thinking.
We pull into the restaurant parking lot. I’m about to say something when I see a familiar figure by the service entrance.
Sophia.
She’s watching us. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed.
Valentina doesn’t notice. She’s already getting out of the car, lost in thought. She walks toward the entrance. Sophia’s gaze follows her with something cold and calculating.