Chapter 26 #3
I scoffed. “No. This is furniture. Where’s the stuff? Where’s the evidence you’re a real person? I mean, this is worse than your office. No family photos. No books, no souvenirs, no—hell, you don’t even have mail on the counter. It’s like you don’t actually exist outside of work.”
Marco leaned against the counter across from me, mirroring my stance. “Why does it matter?”
“I want to know how someone as uptight as you doesn’t even own a single framed degree.”
“And I want to know why someone like you is so obsessed with what’s on my walls.”
I smirked. “It’s just concerning, is all. Even serial killers keep souvenirs.”
His expression stayed flat. “You watch too many documentaries.”
He was right—I did—but that was beside the point. Just because I’d binge-watched too many late-night true-crime specials, fueled by cheap wine and questionable decisions, it didn’t make his complete lack of humanity any less weird.
“Seriously, what do you do for fun?”
“I work.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shocker. And when you’re not working?”
“I work.”
I scoffed. “You know, most people would call that unhealthy.”
“Most people don’t get paid to be better than everyone else.”
“There it is, that superiority complex. I was worried you’d left it at the courthouse.”
I didn’t wait for his response. I doubted he’d have one anyway.
“So let me guess,” I continued, unable to stop myself from prodding. “No hobbies? No childhood trophies? Not even one single, lonely ‘world’s best lawyer’ mug?”
“Would you like to get me one?”
I pretended to think it over. “Would you actually keep it in your cabinet?”
Marco’s lips twitched. Just slightly, as if smiling were physically painful. “No.”
Of course not.
I sighed, feeling my patience thinning. There had to be something off here.
Normal people—real people—had something personal.
A weirdly ugly family heirloom. A tacky souvenir they’d got from Disney World when they were twelve.
Even just a blanket tossed carelessly over a couch.
Something. Anything. But Marco didn’t even have a speck of dust.
“All right then. Where’s my room?”
He gestured to the hallway without so much as uncrossing his arms. “Down the hall.”
I nodded, pushing off the counter and moving past him toward the door.
When I opened it, though, I froze halfway inside.
The room was neat. Painfully neat. I breathed in slightly and knew immediately it was his room.
It smelled just like him: faint traces of expensive cologne, clean laundry, and something else annoyingly appealing.
I turned to him. “There’s only one bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“This building costs fifty grand just to step inside of it. You’re telling me you pay that much for one room?”
“Too many rooms make a place unsafe.”
“Unsafe,” I repeated slowly. “Right. Because God forbid you have a guest room. Someone might hide under the bed and sabotage your morning routine.”
“I just don’t need extra space.”
“No, but what you do need is therapy and maybe a fern.”
I could’ve called him a serial killer again, but I knew he’d just stand there blinking like, Oh well. There are worse things.
I stepped further into the room. The mattress was perfectly made, tucked in neatly.
The closet doors were shut—of course. The blinds were shut.
The vibe was shut. The whole place felt like no one lived here.
Not in the way people mean when they say “minimal,” in a way that made me question if he slept standing up in the corner and plugged himself in overnight.
“This place is bleak. There’s clean, and then there’s . . . whatever this is. This is, like, ‘I haven’t had a friend since 2009’ clean.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look like he was taking it personally. That was the worst part. He just stood there, still and unbothered, watching me pace around his bedroom as if I were trying to sniff out proof of life.
“So what—you don’t sleep? You just meditate over spreadsheets and file your feelings away alphabetically?”
“Something like that.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not a monk, Marco. You’re a man. Men have mess. Even the scary ones. Where’s your mess?”
He tilted his head. “You brought it.”
I stopped. Dead in my tracks. Slowly turned to him. “Funny,” I said, monotone.
I continued to look around the room, and then eventually the bathroom. It was the same, clean, except there was no mirror above the sink.
I turned back to him, leaning against the frame.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Why don’t you have mirrors?”
His head tilted slightly, and I got the sense I’d caught him genuinely off-guard. That was rare.
“Mirrors?”
“Yeah. You know, reflective surfaces. Kinda useful for things like shaving. Speaking of which, how do you do that?”
“I get by.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You choose not to have mirrors, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer, which meant yes.
Marco was hard to read. Even now, after spending more time around him, I couldn’t quite figure him out. That was frustrating. If I couldn’t figure him out, I couldn’t decide if he was dangerous. If I was right about him. If there were real skeletons in his closet.
And not the metaphorical kind.
“And you’re not going to tell me why not?”
Was it because he was vain? Was he insecure? What a waste of time that would be.
“What do you think, Valentina?”
I rolled my eyes, but I wasn’t actually annoyed. I was intrigued—which, arguably, was worse.
“I think you’re avoiding the question,” I said, tilting my head. “And for the record, that only makes it even more suspicious.”
“You think I’m hiding something?”
“I know it.”
I was learning from him. Him and his stupid lawyer responses.
“Stop trying to figure me out. You’re not going to find anything.”
I hummed. “That’s what a guilty person would say.”
That actually got a laugh out of him, but he didn’t give me an answer. Marco didn’t lie—not outright. He let people think what they wanted. He let silence do the talking, just like he was doing now.
Which meant if I wanted answers, I wasn’t getting them from his mouth.
“Well, if you ever get the sudden urge to self-reflect, let me know. I’ll buy you a mirror.”
He just stared at me again.
God, it was like talking to a wall. A very tall, very repressed wall.
“Is that all, Valentina?”
I tapped my chin. “One last thing. If I’m going to be stuck living here, I feel like we should at least go shopping.”
“For what?”
I gestured wildly around the room. “Decorations. Objects. Items that suggest a human being lives here.”
“No.”
“Come on. Just one plant?”
“No.”
“A painting?”
“No.”
I sighed. “You’re so fun.”
He pushed off the frame and walked past me like that was the end of the conversation.
And maybe it was. Maybe that was always how things went with Marco: I poked; he deflected. I pushed; he locked the door. But I still followed him back into the kitchen like I wasn’t done. Like I was still looking for something to hang onto in all that blank space.
Even if it was just a hook to hang my coat on. Or a mirror to remind me I was still here.
“Well,” I sighed, “how do sleeping arrangements work?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
“I thought you didn’t want to sleep on a couch.”
“Mine is far more comfortable than yours.” His eyes told me he was considering it, at least for half a second, but his voice betrayed him. “No. We should keep things separate.”
“Right,” I murmured. “Have a good night then.”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
And that was it before I turned and walked back to the bedroom. Alone.
I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Maybe just a pause—a sign that meant he hadn’t already decided how this would go. But Marco always knew how things would go. That was the whole point of him.
So I got into bed. I didn’t turn off the light right away. I just lay there for a while staring at the ceiling, thinking about how quiet this place was, how neat. How messy I felt in his space. How I was technically in it, but not really a part of it.
And maybe that was fine. Maybe that was the deal.
I didn’t need him to say anything. But it would’ve been nice if he had.