VALENTINA
I’d barely pushed the door open before Lucia bolted past me. Her sneakers slapped against the hardwood floors, probably tracking in dirt I’d have to clean up later.
“Lucia, don’t run in the?—”
Her short, sudden scream stopped me in my tracks. My heart lurched.
“Lucia?”
She turned, big brown eyes wide with alarm. “Tía! There’s a big, strange man in your apartment!”
Oh god.
My heart didn’t just skip—it full-on tripped over itself. My mind flashed to every true-crime documentary I’d ever watched, every terrible headline, every scary scenario imaginable, as I stepped past Lucia and quickly scanned the living room.
And then I saw him.
Marco.
He was standing in the middle of the living room with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dress pants. He looked at me like he hadn’t been gone for the past week.
I almost didn’t notice the flowers on the counter behind him. They were lilies. Expensive ones too, judging by how carefullythey were arranged, how perfectly clean the glass vase was. Marco hadn’t grabbed these from a gas-station bucket at the last second—that much was obvious.
Honestly, the idea of Marco even setting foot into a flower shop was almost laughable. The man didn’t do flowers. He barely did conversation. And yet here he was.
He looked the same. The color of his suit hadn’t changed, and his tie was still tight around his neck. His beard hair had grown in a bit though. It looked good on him, the subtle scruff. I wondered what it would feel like against my fingers. And then I hated myself for wondering.
Because hadn’t I told him to stay away?
Hadn’t I made it painfully clear I didn’t want to see him again? That I didn’t want to want him?
I could still hear myself:“Get out.”I’d said it. I’d meant it. And yet here he was, standing there like I hadn’t said it. Like maybe I hadn’t meant it enough.
Or worse, like he knew I’d said it and had showed up anyway.
The part that really messed me up? That night ... it hadn’t left me. Not even a little. Not the way he’d looked at me afterward, not the way he’d said what he said, not the way my chest had gone cold while my body was still warm from him. It had stuck. It clung. And now, even after days, even after the silence and the space and the stubborn, angry pride, I could still feel that heat under my skin as if it had never fully gone out.
Now he was here. In my apartment. Looking at me like I was supposed to just pick up the pieces and say,“Welcome back!”
So I didn’t say anything. Because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out. Anger, sarcasm,want.
I just stared at him.
The grip I had on Lucia finally loosened. “He’s not a stranger,cariño.”
Lucia looked at me, then back at Marco, skeptical. Six years old and already able to smell bullshit from a mile away. She was definitely Isabel’s daughter. I could almost hear her little brain wondering why a strange man who looked like he’d walked straight out of some fancy law show was suddenly standing in the middle of my living room.
“Then who is he?” she asked again, narrowing her eyes as though she’d caught me red-handed in a crime. “And why does he have flowers?”
I was suddenly realizing just how complicated I’d managed to make my own life. How was I even supposed to answer that question? What could I possibly say?
Well, Lucia, he’s just some guy I impulsively married for convenience and money, but don’t worry—it’s totally fine.
Would she even understand something like that? Probably. Knowing Lucia, she’d give me one of those disappointed looks that usually came from Isabel, shake her head, and think hertíawas officially a gold digger.
And honestly, she wouldn’t even be wrong. Not completely.
But the question was still there, glaring at me like Marco himself, waiting for an answer.
