10. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
He slides a folder across the table.
I don’t open it. “What is this?”
“The name of the best divorce attorney in Houston. She’s already been retained. Paid in full. Whatever you need - documents, court appearances, negotiations - it’s handled.”
The words don’t register at first. Then they do, and something hot flares in my chest.
“How could you? I told you I don’t want your money.”
“It’s not a gift. It’s an investment.”
“In what? My gratitude? My guilt?”
“In justice.” He leans back, watching me. “Your husband is the kind of man I despise. The kind who takes everything from a woman and calls it his due. I’ve seen it before. I won’t watch it happen again.”
“Why do you even care?”
The question hangs between us. He’s quiet for a long moment.
“My mother,” he finally says. “She went through something similar. Twenty-four years ago. My father wasn’t a good man. He cheated and took everything. He left her with nothing but a ten-year-old kid and a mountain of debt.”
I didn’t expect that. My anger falters.
“I watched her rebuild from nothing,” he continues. “Watched her work three jobs so I could eat. Watched her cry when she thought I was asleep.” He pauses. “She’s sick now. The doctors say maybe a year. Maybe less.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s spent the last decade worrying about me.
Afraid I’ll end up alone. Cold. Married to my work.
” A ghost of a smile. “She’s not wrong. But her last wish is to see me with someone real before she goes.
Not the socialites and gold-diggers she’s watched parade through my life. Someone who actually sees me.”
I understand now. The folder. The dinner. The look in his eyes.
“You want me to pretend to be that someone.”
“I’m not asking you to marry me. Just dinners. Public appearances. Meet my mother. Let her believe I’m capable of something human before she dies.”
The audacity of it should make me furious. A business deal dressed up as romance. A transaction with his dying mother as collateral. But I think about my empty bank account. The legal papers on my motel bed. Sebastian’s smug voice on the phone telling me I have three weeks.
“The lawyer,” I say slowly. “That’s all I accept. Nothing else. No raises. No special treatment at work. No gifts. And we keep this discreet. I don’t want my coworkers talking.”
“Fine.”
“The fake dating is exactly that. Fake. Dinners I approve of. Appearances I agree to in advance. I meet your mother. That’s it.”
“Fine.”
“No sex.” I hold his gaze. “No overnight stays. And if you ever - ever - treat me like something you own, I’m done. Immediately. No arguments.”
He watches me like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“You drive a hard bargain,” he says.
“That’s why you’ll say yes.” I don’t blink. “You like that I don’t need you enough to beg.”
Something shifts in his expression. Darker. Hungrier.
“Deal,” he says quietly.
We don’t shake hands. We just look at each other across the table, the contract unwritten but binding.
I pick up the wine for the first time. Take a long sip.
“So,” I say. “When do I meet your mother?”