16. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
They find me on a Thursday.
My blood goes cold.
Sebastian sees me first. His face splits into that smile I used to love. The one I now recognize as cruelty dressed up as charm.
“Valentina,” he calls, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. “There she is. Still waitressing, I see. How the mighty have fallen.”
I force myself to walk toward them. Set down the waters with steady hands.
“What are you doing here?”
“Having lunch. Last I checked, this was a public restaurant.” Gloria picks up her menu with a sniff. “Though I must say, I expected better service at an establishment like this.”
“The house salad,” Vicky finally lifts her eyes. She’s wearing my old earrings. The ones I thought I lost. “Dressing on the side. And make sure it’s fresh this time. The last place we went to served me wilted lettuce.”
My jaw aches from clenching.
“I’ll put that in.”
“Wait.” Sebastian grabs my wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop me. “No greeting for your husband? That’s rude, Val. I taught you better manners than that.”
“Let go of me.”
“Or what? You’ll slap me too? I heard about that video. Very classy.”
Gloria laughs, soft and delighted. “Some women just can’t handle being replaced.”
I yank my wrist free. Turn to walk away.
“Oh, Valentina.” Sebastian’s voice follows me. “Vicky has something she wants to show you.”
I shouldn’t turn around. I know I shouldn’t.
I turn around.
Vicky is holding up a wine glass. Full. Red.
“Oops,” she says.
And pours it down the front of my uniform.
The wine hits my skin like a slap and keeps going, staining through my bra, dripping onto my pants, onto the floor, onto every last scrap of dignity I had left.
The restaurant goes quiet. Every eye turns toward us. The wine soaks through my shirt, cold and spreading, staining everything it touches.
“Oh dear,” Gloria says flatly. “How clumsy. You should probably clean that up.”
Sebastian is laughing. Actually laughing, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re pathetic,” I say, quiet but clear. Clear enough for the nearest tables. “All three of you. Sitting here in clothes I paid for, in a life you stole, and you still can’t stop looking down to make sure I’m smaller. Congratu-”
“Is there a problem here?”
Eric’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
I didn’t see him come in. Didn’t hear him. But he’s suddenly at the edge of the table, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. His face is carved from something colder than anger.
Sebastian’s laughter dies. “Who the hell are you?”
“Eric Bailey.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “I own this restaurant.” His eyes move over Sebastian with the kind of contempt usually reserved for insects. “And you are?”
“Her husband.”
“Ah.” Eric steps closer. His hand finds the small of my back. “The one who cheated on her for six months and then stole her house? That husband?”
Sebastian’s face goes white.
“I don’t know what she told you, but-”
“She didn’t tell me anything. I investigated.
It’s what I do when someone I care about is being harassed.
” Eric’s arm slides around my waist. Possessive.
Protective. “Valentina is with me now. And the next time you or anyone at this table speaks to her with anything less than complete respect, you’ll be dealing with my lawyers.
I believe you’ve already met Patricia Vance? ”
The name lands like a bomb. Gloria’s composure cracks. Vicky looks suddenly uncertain.
Sebastian stands abruptly. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes. It is.” Eric’s voice is quiet. Final. “Get out of my restaurant. Now.”
They leave. All three of them. I watch them go through a haze of wine and adrenaline and something I can’t name.
The restaurant slowly returns to normal. Conversations resume. Plates clink.
Eric’s hand never leaves my waist. He guides me straight through the kitchen, past staring faces, into the back hallway, then into the small office. Door shuts. Lock clicks.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say when we’re alone.
“He doesn’t get to look at you like that anymore.”
“Eric, I-”
“He doesn’t get to touch you.” He’s caging me in without touching me, hands braced on the door on either side of my head, eyes black, breathing controlled only by force.
“He doesn’t get to laugh at you. He doesn’t get to pour fucking wine on you and call it an accident.
Not while I’m standing. Not ever again.”
I fist his shirt and shove him back into the wall and kiss him like I’m trying to crawl inside his skin.
He responds instantly. Hands pulling me closer. Mouth opening under mine. The kiss turns feral, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the taste of wine from my ruined shirt.
His hand shoves under my ruined top. Hot palm over my bra. Fingers yank the cup down and then he’s cupping me bare, thumb dragging hard over my nipple until my knees buckle.
I moan into his mouth. His other hand grips my ass and hauls me up so I can feel exactly how hard he is.
“Valentina-” My name is a warning and a prayer.
I bite his lip. He curses and squeezes harder, rolling my nipple between his fingers, and the jolt goes straight between my legs.
“Rules,” I gasp, tearing my mouth away. Forehead against his. Both of us shaking.
His hand is still under my shirt. Still holding my bare breast like it belongs to him.
“Fuck the rules.”
“Not yet.”
I step away. He lets me go, but his eyes are black and his chest is heaving and his hand is still raised like he doesn’t know what to do without me in it.
“Not yet,” I repeat.
But my voice cracks.
And the way he looks at me says he heard the lie inside it.
I leave before I climb him again.
I make it to the staff bathroom, lock the door, and brace my hands on the sink. Wine-stained. Lips swollen. Nipple still tight from his fingers. Thighs clenched around nothing.
We both know it’s only a matter of time.