21. Valentina
VALENTINA
Four days after the second DNA test, my mother and I are having breakfast at Maison Sainte-Claire, an exclusive, Michelin three-star restaurant that my mother has been coming to since she and my father married.
It’s a small, exclusive restaurant, the kind of place that doesn’t take walk-ins and has a three-year wait list unless you’re on the VIP list, which the Santoros are.
Although saying my mother and I are having breakfast is being generous. My mother is eating. I’m not.
She ordered me a croissant with preserves, but it remains untouched even though the scent of butter does smell delicious.
I’m on my third cup of tea.
My stomach keeps rolling, which can either be pregnancy or it might be the four days of waiting for these stupid fucking results.
“Eat something,” my mother says as she eats her single, soft-boiled egg with a cafe noir.
My mother has been eating the same breakfast for as long as I can remember and refuses to deviate it.
Maison Sainte-Claire does not usually serve this, but they will for Gianna Santoro.
“I’m trying,” I say, reaching forward and tearing the croissant apart.
Mamma frowns at the mess I’m making before giving me a look. I jerk my hands back, feeling scolded like a child. My eyes wander to the ground where my purse is, my phone laid on top of my bag so I can see if anything comes in.
“Stop checking your phone,” Mamma orders.
I flush. “I’m not—” but at the single eyebrow raise, I sigh. “Okay, fine. I was checking it.” My knee bounces under the table and I press my hand against my thigh to try and stop it.
Both possibilities keep cycling through my brain and neither of them are good.
If it comes back positive again, if Finn is Cillian’s and the first test was just right, then Claire stays.
Claire is permanent. Claire and her Finn’s waited eight years are a fixture in our lives forever and I have to figure out how to be okay with that.
How to let Cillian have a son with someone else and not let it eat me alive.
And if it comes back negative, then someone planned this.
Someone had access to a lab and enough money to make DNA say what they needed it to say.
My mother sips her coffee and cuts her egg into small, bite sized pieces. I watch her do so.
She’s perfectly calm, even though she knows all about Emma’s and my theory and that the second DNA test results should be in soon.
It hits me that Gianna Santoro has been in worse situations than this and survived.
But that thought doesn’t help me as much as it usually does.
My phone suddenly buzzes.
My knee jerks against the table, causing the delicate tea cup and Mamma’s coffee mug to slosh. Mamma hisses and grabs her drink, glaring at me. “Valentina Isabelle—”
But I ignore her because the name flashing on my phone is the one I’ve been waiting and dreading.
Cillian.
I pick it up. “The results are in?” I breathe, heart hammering in my throat.
“They’re in.” There’s no emotion in his voice. “Can you meet me at the lab in an hour?”
“I’ll be there,” I tell him. Hanging up, I look at my mother, my mouth suddenly dry.
Mamma’s hand comes across the table and gently squeezes mine, her cool, dry skin a welcome difference from my warm, clammy one. “You’ll handle it,” she says simply.
I don’t say anything back. Instead, I look at my torn up, sad croissant and eat three bites. Mamma will force me if I don’t.
My driver drops me off in front of the second clinic.
I stand on the sidewalk outside the building and take a deep breath.
This is it.
Either I’ll be proven right or I’ll look like the world’s most conspiratorial, jealous wife.
But I keep thinking back to Claire’s satisfied face when the first results came in. The small exhaled sound. The satisfied note to it.
Either she knew it was accurate because it was real, or she knew it was accurate because she’d make sure it would be.
I’ll find out soon enough. I take another deep breath and walk inside.
Cillian is already there, sitting in a chair in the reception area, and he looks worse than he did a few days ago.
He definitely hasn’t shaved in a while as he’s got more than the beginnings of a reddish beard adorning his jaw and cheeks.
There are dark smudges under his eyes and he just looks… tired.
He turns when I come in and the look of relief on his face makes my heart clench.
“Thank you for coming,” he says, crossing the room toward me. He makes a move to hug me then stops, as if realizing what he’s doing.
I flash him an awkward smile and tighten my grasp on my purse. “Of course I came.”
We don’t close the distance. There’s still too much in the way. But we’re both in the same room and I don’t want to kill him, so that’s something.
We sit down in the waiting room chairs. It’s awkward as hell. I fold my hands in my lap. My leg wants to bounce from anxiety, but I cross my ankles to prevent that. My stomach is roiling and I regret those three bites of croissant. I breathe through my nose slowly, willing the feeling to go away.
“How are you feeling?” Cillian asks, without looking at me.
“Okay,” I lie. “You?”
A dark chuckle escapes him. “You mean you can’t tell? I look like shit, Valentina.”
I can’t argue with that so I clamp my lips shut and will the receptionist to call us back.
Thankfully, the door opens and our names are called.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I get up and follow Cillian to the back of the clinic to a room where the genetic counselor is.
This time, the counselor is a woman and she’s older.
Maybe early sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and tightly braided salt-and-pepper hair.
After some nice pleasantries, the counselor types a few things in her computer before she turns to us again, her demeanor no-nonsense. My mouth grows dry and sweat starts to bead at my temples. Fuck, she’s going to say that Cillian really is Finn’s father…
“I’ve reviewed the samples multiple times,” she says, tapping her finger against the desk. She’s agitated, I realize. “Both samples were tested independently by two technicians. There was a full chain of custody.” She pauses and looks at us over her glasses. “The results are conclusive.”
Cillian stiffens, his face paling. I’m going to throw up.
She turns the screen.
Probability of Paternity: 0%
Cillian Brennan is excluded as the biological father of Finn Murphy.
The counselor’s mouth is still moving, but the words don’t reach me.
They flatten into something distant and muffled, like I’m hearing them through thick glass or underwater.
There’s a faint ringing in my ears again that I can’t place.
The room feels too bright all of a sudden, the air too still.
I’m looking at the screen.
Zero.
Not low. Not unlikely. Not a margin of error.
Zero.
For a second I think I’ve misread it.
Am I just not seeing another 1 and 0 to make it 100? I blink, making sure I’m not going blind. But I’m not.
The number stays the same: 0.
Finn isn’t Cillian’s.
I was right.
The thought hits fast and sharp. There’s a flicker of something dangerously close to satisfaction. I knew it, I knew I wasn’t crazy, and dammit, it feels good to know I’ve been right all along.
I knew it.
Then, just as quickly, it turns and I feel sick.
The satisfaction curdles before it can settle, replaced by something heavier.
My stomach drops so hard my body almost follows it and my fingers tighten in my lap, pressing into my palms like I can anchor myself there.
Claire knew too. She lied.
But Claire didn’t orchestrate this. No, I may not buy the whole “I’m a poor street urchin who needs funding for her son,” but Claire does not have the funding or resources to fake DNA results.
Someone had fabricated the first test results. Someone is trying to ruin us. Ruin Cillian.
Someone wanted the first outcome.
Beside me, I can see that Cillian isn’t moving. “Are you sure?” he rasps.
He sounds…I can’t definitively name how he sounds. But he sounds like he’s either in pain or in shock.
“Absolutely.” The counselor’s eyes don’t move from Cillian’s. “There is no biological relationship between you and the child. The first results you received were either fraudulent or the samples were tampered with.”
Cillian’s jaw tightens. “Thank you.”
That’s all. No argument. No disbelief. Just “thank you.”
We leave the clinic in silence. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and the outside world hits like a volume knob turned too high. The chilly wind that still carries the bite of winter pretending to be spring slaps me in the face.
My hands shake and I shove them into my coat pockets so Cillian doesn’t see it.
Someone planted this.
Beside me, Cillian walks without speaking. His shoulders are rigid and his face is so impassive it scares me slightly.
“What now?” I ask because I realize I don’t know what to do next.
Cillian has a thousand-yard stare on his face and I don’t think he even hears me. I open my mouth to ask him again, but his eyes snap to mine. What I see nearly makes me step back.
Rage. Pure, icy rage fills those blue eyes.
“Now we confront Claire,” he says tightly. “With both test results. And we find out who paid her to do this.”