Chapter 28
VALENTINA
Marco lasted exactly one week before he packed a bag and left.
Not forever, obviously. He wasn’t running away from me—at least, I didn’t think so.
He had some “work thing” in DC, which sounded shady enough on its own.
I’d spent a solid hour after he left trying to guess what kind of crooked senator or shady lobbyist he was defending.
But I hadn’t asked, because he wouldn’t have told me anyway.
So, for the past few days, I’d been living every broke girl’s dream. I had Marco’s massive, painfully modern apartment to myself, a credit card without a limit, and absolutely zero supervision.
Had I gone a little crazy? Maybe.
Had I ordered sushi every night just because I could? Absolutely.
Had I browsed ridiculously expensive dresses online and left them in the cart, just to see how much I could theoretically spend without feeling guilty? You bet.
It should’ve been amazing. Honestly, it was amazing for about two days.
And then it got . . . boring.
There was only so much shopping you could do without actually needing anything; only so much sushi you could eat alone while pretending it wasn’t weird.
Because it was weird. The emptiness, the quiet, the sterile perfection of his apartment. It was starting to get to me.
And that annoyed me more than anything else.
Marco wasn’t even around, and somehow he was still managing to ruin my fun.
He hadn’t given me a timeframe. Hadn’t even said when—or honestly, if—he was coming back.
After a few more days of existing alone in his aggressively depressing apartment, I snapped. I couldn’t handle it anymore. Couldn’t stand another night staring at plain walls and pretending like this was home.
So I called Max, and within half an hour, Sasha showed up at my old apartment with a smirk and a moving truck.
Of course it had to be Sasha. He was Max and Mikhail’s favorite lackey: loyal as hell, quiet enough to be mysterious, with that annoyingly perfect hair that made him look like he belonged on a yacht instead of hauling my boxes across town.
The pretty one, with bright blue eyes and ash-brown hair, who handled things quietly in the background without ever complaining.
“Miss me already?” Sasha teased, leaning against the truck like he didn’t have anywhere better to be.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, rolling my eyes as I pointed to the first stack of boxes. “Grab those.”
Sasha moved my things without complaint, but I did catch the little amused glance he shot me every time he carried something out the door. He was probably wondering how Marco would react when he saw all this—my colorful throw pillows, framed prints, and shelves full of books.
And plants. So many plants. Green, living things that Marco would definitely hate, which made me like them even more.
Eventually, we arrived back at Marco’s apartment and started moving everything inside.
“Planning to make this permanent?” Sasha asked, nudging a potted monstera into place by the window.
“No,” I said quickly. Probably too quickly. “Just making it less . . . dead, you know?”
Sasha raised an eyebrow but wisely didn’t push. Instead he helped me unload the last few boxes, and suddenly, Marco’s place didn’t feel so much like a showroom. It felt like a place someone actually lived in. Like a place I could survive staying in without losing my mind.
But the biggest change? I put mirrors back up.
Marco had gotten rid of all of them. He’d never explained why, and honestly, I hadn’t pushed. For a while, avoiding mirrors had felt easier anyway. But lately, I’d started to miss my reflection. Applying makeup with my phone camera had lost its charm pretty quickly.
So I added a full-length mirror in the bedroom, one in the hall, and a smaller one in the bathroom. Baby steps toward normal.
I stood back, arms crossed, surveying my handiwork. Sasha watched me, amused, as always.
“He’s gonna kill you,” he said lightly, grinning.
I shrugged, smirking right back. “He’s welcome to try.”
He’d have to come back if he wanted to try. And maybe that was exactly what I wanted.
After hours of unpacking, Sasha eventually left. The apartment looked better with all my things scattered around, but even my favorite blanket couldn’t quite chase away that empty feeling in my chest.
And that was annoying.
I shouldn’t have missed him. That was the whole point of this arrangement, right?
No strings attached. But instead I was here on the couch, clutching the remote and flipping through shows I couldn’t care less about, annoyed the apartment still felt empty.
I’d spent hours unpacking boxes, filling every corner with my stuff—pictures, blankets, even those stupid overpriced candles he’d probably roll his eyes at—but none of it had worked.
God, I hated this. Hated that I was wondering about him at all.
Before I knew what I was doing, I tossed the remote aside and grabbed my phone. Marco’s name glared back at me from my contacts, taunting me. I hesitated, thumbs hovering, then typed quickly, hitting send before I could lose my nerve.
Me
Your apartment is boring without you here.
My stomach knotted instantly. I wondered if I’d regret this. But too late now. My pride was already halfway across the country, apparently.
Seconds ticked by. My screen stayed dark.
Perfect.
I closed my eyes, pressing the phone against my forehead and wondering why I never learned—
Then it vibrated in my hand, nearly making me drop it.
Marco
That’s because you’re finally alone with your own company.
Me
No, I think it’s because I don’t have anyone bossing me around anymore.
Marco
You usually hate that.
Me
What can I say? You’re growing on me.
I waited a moment before adding
Me
Like mold.
Marco
We wouldn’t want that.
Me
Wouldn’t we?
Marco
Valentina.
Me
Marco.
Marco
It’s late. Did you need something, or are you just bored?
Me
Why can’t it be both?
Marco
Because if you’re bored, you’ll start trouble.
Me
Is that your professional opinion?
Marco
Personal experience.
Me
And yet you left me here all alone. That’s risky, lawyer.
Marco
Are you fishing for compliments or just trying to keep me awake?
Me
Whichever works.
Marco
Go to bed.
Me
Make me.
Marco
You wouldn’t like how I’d do that.
Me
Try me.
(Typing . . .)
(Typing . . .)
(Typing . . .)
Marco
Good night, Valentina.
I stared at the phone for another minute, smiling like an idiot. Marco, ever the gentleman, even when he was pretending not to be.
Damn him.
The past few days had been quiet—or at least as quiet as things ever got in my life.
I’d spent most of the time pretending I had my shit together. You know, like one of those girls who meditates at sunrise, drinks matcha lattes, and definitely does not think about tequila for breakfast.
I even went to see my mom.
I brought her a mango.
Not a gift, really. More like an offering. A peace treaty.
I knew she’d like it. She’d always liked fruit that made a mess—dripped down your wrists, left your fingers sticky, made you sit still long enough to finish it.
It was soft, just ripe enough, and the smell filled the whole room.
Sweet and overwhelming, like those summer afternoons when we’d sit barefoot on the patio eating them.
Back then, the world was simpler. It wasn’t perfect—never was—but something about those messy mangoes always made things feel okay.
The tangy scent used to linger on our fingers for hours, hiding the subtle hint of bleach and laundry detergent that clung to Mama’s hands from scrubbing other people’s homes.
She was sitting up in the hospital bed when I came in, wrapped in two blankets even though it wasn’t cold. Her hair was thinner than the last time I’d seen her. Her skin looked paper-thin. Still beautiful, in that way only mothers are—something you don’t notice until you’re afraid to lose it.
“Hola, mami,” I said softly.
She smiled. Tired, but it still reached her eyes. “Vale,” she murmured gently. “Mira no más, you brought me sunshine.”
I held up the mango. “Close enough.”
She laughed—just once. Then she coughed. I hated how small it sounded.
I pulled the chair close and peeled another mango in slow strips with a dull plastic knife. She watched me quietly, like she always did. Like she knew how many versions of me there had been over the years and was just glad one of them had showed up today.
“They say the radiation makes you tired,” she said, adjusting her blanket. “But I think the boredom is worse. All day, nothing. Just this room. The buzzing machine. People walking in like I’m not even here.”
“You’re not missing much out there,” I said, trying to make her feel better. “Well, besides the fact Lucia wants a duck now. Not a toy. A real one.”
“Dios mío.” She smiled again. “That girl is trouble.”
“She’s your granddaughter. What did you expect?”
She reached for the mango slice I offered and took a bite, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
I just watched her. Trying not to think about all the times I could’ve been here and wasn’t. All the phone calls I’d ignored. The visits I’d skipped. The excuses I’d made.
I used to tell myself it was because I didn’t want her to see me like that—lost, reckless, drinking my way through bad decisions and worse men.
But the truth?
I didn’t want to see her like this.
Not fragile. Not stuck to a machine. Not dying in slow motion while I figured out how to be a person. It took everything I had to keep my smile on and my tears hidden.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, too quiet.
“Better,” she admitted. “They say the treatment is working.”
And just like that, I felt my throat tighten.