Chapter 22 Valentina
VALENTINA
Ishould have thrown a fit. Should have screamed, argued, broken something expensive—preferably over Max’s head, just to make sure he got the point.
I should have done a lot of things.
But instead I’d said nothing, which was exactly why I was now standing at my own front door, silently letting Marco into my apartment as if it were just a regular day, not the first day of our incredibly dysfunctional marriage.
Marco stepped into my living room looking as out of place as if someone had taken a grayscale photo and slapped it into a full-color spread.
He didn’t belong here. Not with his perfectly pressed suit.
I dropped my keys into a bowl by the door and kicked off my heels. “Try not to look so uncomfortable, lawyer. You might break out in hives.”
Marco didn’t smile. Shocking, I know. Instead his eyes swept over my apartment, taking it in as if he’d never seen it before.
Which I guess made sense. Last time he was here, he’d been a little preoccupied—too busy copping a feel to notice my choice of interior design.
Honestly, I doubt he even realized the walls had color at all.
I shifted on my feet, suddenly noticing every flaw, every embarrassing little detail. The half-empty coffee cups scattered across the kitchen. The dying plant in the corner I’d sworn I’d keep alive this time. The unfolded laundry spilling out of my bedroom.
God, had it always been this bad, or did Marco Grey just make everything around him look ten times more chaotic? Probably both. He had that effect—the ability to walk into a room and silently judge every little thing without ever opening his mouth. Annoying, really.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I muttered, tugging absently at the edge of my dress as if it would somehow straighten up my apartment. Or my life. “Especially not you.”
Marco glanced over, one eyebrow raised slightly, looking annoyingly put together while standing in the middle of my living room.
I knew exactly what he was thinking: I was a mess.
A complete disaster. And even though I didn’t usually care, for some irritating reason, right now I did.
Maybe because he’d seen too much of me already—every reckless mistake, every impulsive choice.
He’d seen all my dirty laundry (literally), and it was starting to feel a little too personal.
I forced a breath, pretending I wasn’t rattled, that having Marco in my apartment wasn’t making me think about all the other ways he’d been close—too close—recently. His tie wrapped around my fingers, his lips pressed to mine, the quiet moment afterward when he’d walked away without a word.
I cleared my throat, determined not to think about that. Definitely not now.
“Where’s the spare bedroom?” he finally asked, breaking his silence.
“You’re staying in here.” I pointed to the couch. “Congratulations. It pulls out into a bed.”
“I’m not sleeping on a couch, Valentina. I wouldn’t even fit on that thing.”
I took a second to look at his size, then at the couch. Sure, it could pull out, but still, I wasn’t sure it would fit him.
“Well, I only have one bed, which is still broken, by the way.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “You’re still blaming me for that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said sarcastically, “did I hallucinate the part where you were there too?”
He dragged a hand down his face as if praying for patience he definitely didn’t have. “We didn’t even—”
“I’m well aware,” I interrupted, cheeks heating from embarrassment—or maybe frustration. Probably both. “But unless you want to actually finish breaking it this time, you can enjoy the couch.”
He paced a few restless steps away, only to turn back again immediately. He looked annoyed with me. “Why can’t we just do this at my place?”
“Well,” I said, shrugging, “I don’t really feel like moving.”
He looked at me like he couldn’t believe me. “Because you don’t feel like moving?”
“Right,” I admitted confidently.
“That’s your argument?”
“It’s a good argument.”
“It’s a lazy argument.”
“Same thing.” I smirked. “You’re the one who wanted to do this. Sucks for you.”
His eyes flashed. “I did this for you, Valentina. You think I wanted this? You think I’d willingly tie myself to someone as ungrateful as you?”
I tilted my head to study him closely. He could say whatever he wanted, but he kind of had, hadn’t he?
Because if he really hated the idea, if it really was such a massive inconvenience, he could’ve walked out ages ago.
And yet here he was, standing in my messy apartment, glaring at me like I was the reason for every terrible decision he’d ever made.
Which, to be fair, I probably was. But I didn’t need to be reminded of that every time I looked at him.
“I don’t think this is going to work. We’re already arguing,” I complained.
“It’s not about arguing,” he said tightly. “It’s about you refusing to compromise for five goddamn minutes.”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” I snapped.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“How do you expect me to compromise with you when you run from me?”
He clenched his jaw. Hard. “I don’t run.”
“No?” I asked sweetly. “Because the last time I saw you, you went through the front door like your hair was on fire.”
“I had business.”
I scoffed. “Business. God forbid you put your work down for a second.”
“What exactly do you want from me, Valentina?” Marco finally asked, frustration bleeding into his voice.
My first impulse was to toss a sharp retort back at him—something mean and dismissive and exactly the opposite of honest. But the truth was, he looked genuinely frustrated.
Confused, even. Like he really didn’t get why I was pushing his buttons, why I kept pulling him closer even as I told him he was nothing but trouble.
Hell, maybe he really didn’t understand.
Truth was, I’d been thinking about how his hands had felt on my body, and I hadn’t stopped.
I was annoyed, confused, and worst of all, edged.
I was angry at how easy it was for him to turn away from me, how he could walk out the door without a second thought when I could barely catch my breath after just a look from him.
And yeah, maybe my anger was outing me. I’d practically begged for trouble by baiting Marco like some kind of horny masochist. But there’d always been something weirdly charged simmering between us. I was pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating that part.
Honestly, I was too tired, too bored, and way too deprived of decent sex to keep pretending otherwise. It’d been months. Months. A girl could only binge-watch so much reality TV before even Marco started looking like a tempting distraction.
Maybe I was losing it. Actually, scratch that—I’d definitely lost it. But in the months since Sebastian and I were forcibly benched from each other, apparently my libido hadn’t gotten the memo.
Still, I didn’t need to complicate things any more than I already had. Because that was exactly what sleeping with Marco would do. Complicate things. He was already a tangled knot of issues, and adding sex into the equation would turn it into an impossible mess.
I knew myself well enough to understand physical intimacy wouldn’t stay neatly confined. It never did. It’d bleed into emotions and expectations and vulnerabilities I wasn’t willing to face—especially not with someone with the emotional availability of a brick wall.
Besides, admitting I actually liked Marco, even just a little, would mean admitting he mattered, that he could hurt me. And I was way too proud—or maybe too scared—to hand him that kind of power
It was safer, smarter, and far easier to pretend whatever I was feeling was frustration. Safer to let him believe he was just another distraction, another temporary fix, nothing more.
Even if deep down I already knew better.
“You know what?” I finally said. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“This.” I finally sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair out of my face. “Sleep wherever you want. Couch, floor, bathtub. Hell, sleep on the fire escape. I don’t care.”
“You’ve got an attitude with me, Valentina,” he said, looking down at me as if he were waiting for me to realize it too. “I just spent my entire night doing you a favor, and this is what I get?”
That made my stomach twist. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t. He had shown up. He had helped. And it was easier to bite at him than to sit with that truth.
“If you wanted a thank you, you should’ve just said so.”
His jaw flexed. “I don’t need your gratitude.”
“It seems like you want it though,” I said, tilting my head and testing him like I was daring him to admit he cared even a little. Because if he cared, maybe I wasn’t the only one teetering on the edge here.
“If I wanted something from you, Valentina, I wouldn’t settle for a thank you.”
“So what do you want then?”
His jaw tightened, and for a split second I swore I saw hesitation flash in his eyes.
“I want you to stop picking fights with me.”
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. “You’d be bored out of your damn mind if I did.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘bored,’” he admitted. “That’d be an oversimplification.”
“Good. It’d be a shame if all this”—I swept a hand down my torso slowly—“went to waste on a man who’s probably still a virgin at thirty-two.”
He didn’t seem shocked by what I’d said. “You’ve got a filthy mouth.”
I fluttered my lashes. “You bring it out in me.”
“I bet it’s good for more than talking.”
I glanced at his mouth and then back up to his eyes. “Trust me, you’re not the first man to wonder.”
His stare went blank. “Like Greg?”
“You keeping track of my history, lawyer?”
“Hard not to,” he said. “You make it the city’s business.”
“Oh, do I?” I couldn’t help but smile. He was mean, sure, but it was because he was jealous. “Well, if you wanted to be on the list, all you had to do was ask.”
“I’m not interested in being a name you forget when the bottle’s empty.”
Ouch. “Who says I’d need a bottle to forget you?”