Chapter 40 #2
It was hard to picture Marco as a kid. He was so composed now. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he’d learned young that control was the only thing he could count on.
“I think I’m like her,” I said quietly.
His gaze found mine again.
“I drank for a lot of reasons,” I admitted. “But mostly, I drank because it was easier than admitting I was failing. I thought if I stayed blurry, I wouldn’t have to feel anything.”
“You got out. You put yourself first. She never did.”
I guess he was right.
I mean, I had. That should matter, shouldn’t it?
That I’d stopped. That I’d clawed my way out of that pit and kept myself from falling back in.
That I’d kept showing up to meetings even when they’d felt like punishment.
Even when I’d sat there biting my tongue while Steve talked about “reclaiming joy” for the seventh week in a row.
I didn’t drink anymore. Not even when it was easy. Not even when it would feel like breathing again. When it would make the silence feel softer and the shame less harsh.
That had to mean something.
Right?
Sometimes I still didn’t feel proud. I felt like someone trying on borrowed clothes, faking it.
I’d wake up and brush my teeth and drink my coffee and go through the motions like a person who had their life together, but deep down, I was still waiting to be caught.
Like eventually, someone would call me out.
Tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hey, you don’t belong here.
You’re still the same screwup who used to fall asleep with wine in her hand and pretend she had everything under control. ”
But Marco didn’t look at me like that.
I was starting to believe him. Starting to believe I could be more than the mistakes I’d made. More than what I’d inherited. More than what I’d survived.
“You’re nothing like her,” he said.
And the part of me that always doubted—that always whispered, Maybe you are—quieted just a little.
Because I’d made choices she hadn’t. I’d said no to things she’d said yes to. I’d stepped away before it had swallowed me whole.
I looked over at Marco, who was still sitting quietly, his arm draped across the back of the couch like he wasn’t afraid of any of this—of my past, of my flaws, of the version of me that still hadn’t figured everything out.
I realized he didn’t need me to be perfect.
He didn’t even want that. He just wanted me honest.
Which was maybe the scariest part of all.
Because being honest meant admitting I wanted this. I wanted him. I wanted to believe I deserved something more than just surviving.
I let myself lean into him again, just a little, because if this version of me—the one who chose quiet over chaos, who didn’t run, who stayed—was real, then maybe I was finally becoming someone I could be proud of.
Maybe I already was.
On Saturday morning, I was halfway through the dishes when Marco came home and threw his keys on the counter.
“I’m going golfing tomorrow,” he announced.
I stared at him. “Golf,” I repeated dryly. “You?”
“Remy invited me. Apparently, it’s a family thing. Wants me there to make him look better.”
I laughed. “That’s smart. Even I’ve never seen you swing anything around besides your ego.”
Marco arched a brow. “Funny.”
“You, in plaid shorts and a polo shirt?” I teased.
“Are you done?”
“No, but continue.”
He ignored that. “I want you to come with me.”
I blinked. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t golf,” I said, scrambling for an excuse, my pulse quickening a bit.
“I’m not asking, Valentina.”
Of course he wasn’t.
“Do you even golf?”
“I grew up in Louisiana—what do you think?”
“Was that sarcastic?” I asked. I couldn’t really tell with him.
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Well, if not golf, what did you enjoy?”
“Football is popular. Used to make good money betting on winning teams.”
“Why am I not surprised that even as a kid you were hustling?”
“What about you? Ballet lessons? Or was it horseback riding?”
“Competitive complaining, mostly,” I said with a shrug.
“Did pretty well too, I’ll bet.”
I didn’t waste a second. “Still hold the title, actually.”
“I have no doubt.”
I smiled, biting down on a sliver of my lip as I looked up at him, feeling way too pleased with myself for making Marco almost-smile again.
Which was pathetic. Completely pathetic.
I really needed new hobbies—ones that didn’t involve chasing microscopic reactions from someone who barely emoted.
Maybe knitting. Or baking. Anything less emotionally taxing than whatever it was Marco and I were doing.
“Be ready at six.”
My smile dropped instantly. Wait—what? “Six?” I argued, a spike of genuine horror shooting through me. “Six in the morning?”
“Yes.”
God, was he serious? The man clearly had no respect for beauty sleep.
Or sanity. Or basic human decency. I’d barely survive waking up that early, let alone be functional enough to golf.
Golf. Who even did that voluntarily? Rich people, apparently—and Marco, who was annoyingly composed about everything.
Especially at inhuman hours of the morning.
I peeked at him again, narrowing my eyes slightly. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
I made a face. “Why do I put up with you again?”
I saw the corner of his mouth lift in amusement. “Because putting up with me means you get money. And a lot of it.”
Well, okay. That was true, technically, but he didn’t have to say it quite so plainly. Marco had this frustrating habit of speaking truths that made me feel shallow—even when, let’s be honest, I probably deserved it. But that didn’t mean I had to admit it. Or enjoy it.
“Six o’clock.”
“Do I at least get breakfast?”
He waited, humoring me. “Did you want breakfast?”
“French toast sounds nice.”
He looked at me as if I’d said something suspicious. Who was suspicious of French toast?
“Did you want anything else, Valentina? Did you want a damn foot rub? Room service? A fluffy robe?”
I bit back a grin, pretending to consider. “Well, now that you mention it, a foot rub does sound pretty tempting.”
He stared at me, weighing up whether murder was worth it. It probably was. He hated when I didn’t read into his rhetorical sarcasm.
“Anything else?”
“Hmm.” I tapped my chin dramatically, dragging it out. “You know those little chocolates they leave on pillows at fancy hotels? Throw in some of those. And maybe a pony. I always wanted one as a kid. I feel like you owe me that much for 6:00 a.m.”
“If I’d known you’d be this high-maintenance, I’d have negotiated better terms.”
I rolled my eyes. “Better terms, or at the very least, save yourself from this marriage.”
“You don’t belong with any other man.”
“No?” I wondered. “You seem certain.”
“I am. You’d chew them up and spit them right out.”
“Does that make you brave or stupid?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need to learn how to stop turning the questions back onto me.”
“Six o’clock, Valentina,” he reminded me one more time before he disappeared down the hall.
It was clear he didn’t want to give me an answer. I could already guess which one he’d tell me. It was probably stupid. Definitely stupid, considering he knew exactly what kind of chaos he’d willingly signed up for—and he’d still stuck around.
Six in the morning.
If this wasn’t proof Marco hated me, I wasn’t sure what was.
Except . . . there’d been French toast. Marco Grey—attorney, made man, resident pain in my ass—had made me breakfast. Sure, he’d burned the edges, scowled at the stove, and glared at me when I offered suggestions, but secretly?
Those burnt edges were the best thing I’d tasted in months.
He’d even sprung for real maple syrup—the expensive stuff from Vermont.
He didn’t ask if I liked them. He just stood by, pretending not to watch as I drowned them in syrup.
After breakfast, I left to get ready. Ten minutes in, and I heard the knocks. I capped my lipstick and opened the door.
I blinked.
Marco was standing there in a black outfit, blood trailing down his jaw.
“You cut yourself.”
His eyes fell as if he’d forgotten. “Yeah.”
I arched a brow, glancing at what he was holding: a razor and a can of shaving cream.
I looked back up at him. “And?”
He held them up a little, as if that were all the explanation I needed.
“You need my help,” I said, deadpan.
Marco didn’t confirm or deny.
I stared at him for a long second, then I leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve survived this long without me.”
He exhaled, his jaw tightening just slightly. “And I’d like to leave sometime.”
A smirk tugged at my lips, but I didn’t push. Not when he was standing there like that, looking both perfectly composed and just slightly . . . off. Like the cut on his jaw was irritating him more than it should.
I pushed off the doorframe and grabbed the razor from his hand, stepping into the bathroom. “You know,” I started, “you’d be able to do this on your own if you had a mirror in the house.”
I’d barely gotten the words out before his hands had found my waist, lifting me onto the bathroom counter. I let out a sharp breath, bracing myself.
“Jesus, Grey, ever heard of asking first?”
He ignored me, flicking the light on as he set the shaving cream down. His voice was smoother than it should be. “Just hurry up, Valentina.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking the can of shaving cream before spraying a bit onto my palm.
Honestly, the urge to nick him just slightly—enough to wipe that perfectly unbothered expression from his face—was tempting.
But Marco’s revenge would probably be swift, quiet, and entirely unfair. I decided it wasn’t worth it.
This time.