14. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The attorney’s office is all glass and quiet money. I sit in the waiting room with my hands locked together so I won’t fidget, still feeling last night on my skin like a brand, his mouth, his hands under my shirt, the way I climbed into his lap and then ran.
“Mrs. Montero?”
The attorney is a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and a handshake that could crush bone. Her name is Patricia Vance, and according to Eric, she’s the best divorce lawyer in Houston.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say.
“Thank you for being on time. You’d be amazed how many people aren’t.” She gestures to a chair. “Sit. Let’s talk about your husband. I’ll try keeping it short.”
She does. No long speeches. No stacks of paper shoved in my face. Just one clear sentence that lands like a key turning in a lock:
“You have more leverage than he wants you to believe,” she says, flipping through the folder. “He made mistakes. Sloppy ones. The kind men make when they assume their wives won’t fight back.”
Something in my chest loosens. Just a little.
“What happens now?”
“I handle the ugly parts. You show up when it matters.” She looks at me over her glasses. “Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
That’s it. Five minutes. Maybe seven. I walk out into the Houston sun and the city looks sharper, like someone wiped the film off the glass. For the first time in months I am not completely alone in the fight. The relief is so sudden I have to stop on the sidewalk and breathe through it.
Eric is waiting by his car in the parking garage.
The second I see him the parking lot comes rushing back - my mouth on his, his hand on my bare breast.
He opens the passenger door. Eyes moving over my face like he’s checking for damage.
“How did it go?” he asks while opening the door for me.
“Good. She’s terrifying.” I keep my voice even. “I liked her.”
“That’s why I hired her.”
I slide in. He shuts the door, walks around, gets behind the wheel. The garage is dim. Private. The air between us feels too small for two people who were grinding on each other less than twenty-four hours ago and then pretending it didn’t happen.
He pulls out into traffic. Doesn’t ask for a report. Doesn’t fill the silence with empty questions. Just drives, one hand on the wheel, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back.
I stare straight ahead and try not to look at his mouth.
“You’re quiet,” he says eventually.
“I’m thinking.”
I cross my arms so I won’t do something stupid.
“You look better. Not better-better. But better than before.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not holding your breath anymore.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. But he’s right. Somewhere between the attorney’s office and this car, I started breathing again.
“Good,” he says. “Now breathe.”
I still can’t believe how a stranger’s office made me feel safer than my own marriage ever did. And the man who paid for it is sitting two feet away looking at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m something worth looking at.
His knuckles brush mine on the console. Barely there. A ghost of a touch. I don’t pull away fast enough. Neither does he. For three full seconds we just… stay. Skin against skin. The memory of last night roaring between us like a third person in the car.
Then he moves his hand back to the wheel.
“Valentina.”
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m always thinking it.” His voice drops. Rough. Honest. “That’s the problem.”
I look out the window because looking at him feels like climbing back into his lap. My thighs press together without permission. I can still feel how hard he was underneath me. I can still hear myself whimper.
Rules.
Not yet.
I dig my nails into my palm.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“The arrangement. The rules. All of it.”
“I know.”
“Stop being so calm about it.”
“Would you rather I pull over and finish what you started against my car?”
The air leaves my lungs.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Eyes on the road. Hands steady. Like he didn’t just set the whole vehicle on fire.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “Breathe, Valentina.”
I do. Barely.
We don’t speak again until he stops in front of the motel. I reach for the handle. His voice stops me.
“When the day comes - when you have to walk into that room and look at them - you don’t do it alone. Not unless you tell me to stay away.”
I finally turn my head. He’s already watching me. No smirk. No push. Just heat and something heavier underneath it.
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I’m not offering to be your bodyguard.” A pause. “I’m offering to be there.”
My throat tightens. I hate how much I want that. I hate how safe the words sound coming from the same mouth that was on my throat last night.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do that.”
I get out before I do something irreversible. Like lean across the console and kiss him until the rules catch fire.
That night my phone lights up.
Unknown number. The attorney’s office.
Preliminary hearing scheduled. He’ll be there. His mother too, most likely. Are you ready to look them in the eye?
I stare at the message for a long time.
Am I ready?
Another text comes through. This one from Eric.
When it happens, you won’t walk in alone. Not unless you want to.
I don’t respond. But I save his message.
I lock the phone, roll onto my side, and press my face into the pillow.
Sleep doesn’t come easy.
But when it does, I dream of his hands under my shirt and a door I haven’t opened yet and for the first time in a long time, the fear isn’t the only thing waiting on the other side.