15. Valentina #2
I could easily tell her that Finn may be first (and a huge emphasis on may because his paternity is still unclear) but at least my baby was conceived in wedlock and will be the undisputed heir to the Brennan family. Finn will always be the outsider looking in.
But I don’t say any of that.
Then Claire would know one hundred percent that she got under my skin and I don’t let anyone see when they’ve affected me.
She cannot think she’s winning.
And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Winning. Gaining the upper hand.
She’s telling me this because she can. She wants to get under my skin and she is going to watch it do exactly that.
It would be so easy to detonate right now. I have weeks of morning sickness and a month’s worth of my husband’s lies sitting in my chest. I want to read this fucking woman to filth. I want her to be fucking cowering beneath me.
But Gianna Santoro metaphorically appears before me, looking disappointed. Never let them see you bleed, tesoro, especially when you’re bleeding.
Dammit. Fine, Mamma.
You fucking win.
I fold my hands in my lap and re-center myself. Don’t kill her, Val.
It’s hard to get bloodstains off these couches and you’ll traumatize the boy.
“You know,” I say, with tremendous warmth, “I think what you’ve done is incredibly brave. Coming all this way and putting yourself out there like this, I mean.” I look at her with sincerity. “Not everyone would have the nerve.”
Claire’s eyes narrow slightly. I can almost see her thought process—where are you going with this, Valentina Brennan?
“I mean it,” I continue, still warm, still smiling, the one with nothing behind it except the decision to win. “Eight years is a long time. And you’ve managed so beautifully on your own. Really. It’s very”—I pause, like I’m searching for the right word—“impressive. Given everything.”
“Given everything?” Claire asks, furrowing her brow.
“Well.” I bow my head slightly, as if embarrassed.
“The circumstances aren’t exactly—I mean, raising a child alone, the financial strain of that, the sacrifices…
” I make a small sympathetic sound. “It’s a lot.
Most people would have reached out sooner, honestly.
Out of practicality if nothing else.” I look at her with tremendous compassion. “You must have really struggled.”
Her face tightens and her lips purse, as if she sucked on an especially sour lemon. “We managed fine,” she bites out.
Aha. Bingo. I’ve pissed her off.
“Of course you did,” I say soothingly. “Of course. And now Finn will have access to real stability. A proper foundation. That’s what matters, isn’t it?
Whatever’s best for Finn.” I look at him.
Bless him, he’s still lost in his game, foot tucked under him.
“I know we just talked about the courts, but when paternity is formally established through the courts”—I watch her jaw do something at through the courts and I enjoy it very much—“custody arrangements will need to be sorted properly. And the courts will naturally look at what each parent can provide.” I gesture at the apartment around us and the grandeur.
“Given the disparity in circumstances, full custody to Cillian would be the natural outcome, don’t you think? ” I look at her with genuine concern.
We talked, or I threatened her, about this earlier, but I want to make it crystal clear to this bitch that money does matter. “That would actually take so much pressure off you. You’ve been carrying this alone for so long.”
Claire stares at me. The softness is gone.
The careful sympathetic single mother has fully left the building and what is sitting on my sofa now is a woman who is furious and not bothering to hide it.
If looks could kill, I would probably be six feet under right now.
“Finn is not going anywhere,” she says, and her voice is flat and cold, nothing like anything she’s used in this room before. “He lives with me. He’s always lived with me. You think I came all this way to hand him over to some—”
She stops herself, her mouth snapping shut and her cheeks flaming red.
But it wasn’t quite fast enough.
“To some?” I prompt pleasantly, unable to help the smirk from spreading across my face.
Her jaw works and her face turns redder. “I just want what’s best for my son,” she says firmly, trying to wrangle her expression into something that’s not telling me exactly what she thinks of me. Which is every four letter impolite word she can think of.
“So do I,” I say. “Which is why I’ll arrange for my driver to take you both to the Plaza tonight. All expenses paid.” I stand up, smoothing my pants down. It’s time for them to leave. “I insist.”
She stares at me, thrown by my sentence. “We don’t need—it makes more sense for us to stay here. So Finn can start getting comfortable, start to—”
“My home is not a hotel, Ms. Murphy,” I say, still warm, still smiling.
But my eyes are probably telling her: get the fuck out.
“I think appropriate boundaries are important for everyone right now. Especially for Finn.” I look at him again, feeling suddenly sorry for this boy.
Even if Cillian isn’t his father, this poor child doesn’t deserve this.
“He deserves somewhere peaceful tonight. Not all of this.” I circle my hand around.
She knows it.
She also knows I’ve won. I can see it in her face as she struggles to decide if she should push back. I also see the slump in her shoulders as she realizes she shouldn’t.
“That’s…that’s very thoughtful of you,” she says through gritted teeth.
It’s the most insincere sentence I’ve ever heard, but I smile at her anyway as if she just gave me the greatest compliment.
“Of course,” I tell her cheerfully and pick up my phone to call downstairs.
Within twenty minutes, Claire and Finn have left and I follow them to the door.
After some insincere goodbyes, I close the door and stand there.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I press my back against the door, staring at the ceiling. I start the coping mechanism my therapist taught me—five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear. The ceiling. The lamp.
The cold mug on the coffee table. The dent in the sofa cushion where Finn sat. The window.
Four things you can touch.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the door behind me.
The door. My sweater. My—
I can’t do it. I can’t focus on any of it. My brain won’t stay where I’m putting it. Every time I try to distract myself, it slides straight back to Cillian’s face, to it was special, some things you never forget, to Finn was first.
Don’t cry.
Three things I can hear. The elevator down the hall. The city below. The—
I slide down the door.
I don’t mean to. My legs just stop doing their job and I’m on the floor with my back against the door and my knees pulled up. I press both hands over my mouth and I breathe and I breathe and I do not cry and I do not cry and I do not—
A sound comes out of me.
I don’t recognize it as mine at first. It comes from somewhere I don’t usually let anything come from, then the dam breaks and I’m crying for real.
The worst part is I can’t stop it.
Heavy sobs shake my chest as I curl up against the door and wail.
I can’t be alone right now, but who do I call? Cillian isn’t allowed here, my mother is out of the question and—
Emma.
I reach for my phone. My hands are shaking badly enough that I drop it once. I find Emma’s name and press call.
It rings twice.