Which meant, at some point, Marco had filled out paperwork and actively put Remy’s name on a form. He’d handed over trust, responsibility, whatever. He’d thought, “If something happens to me, call Remy.” That mattered. That meant something. It meant Remy was important. And if Remy mattered to Marco, then Marco was capable of caring—really caring—about someone after all.
The realization stung more than I liked.
Because Marco didn’t trust me with that. He barely trusted me to pick my own shoes or to wash dishes correctly, let alone to handle an emergency. And yet somewhere out there, Remy had earned Marco’s trust without even seeming to try.
It bothered me. Deeply. And suddenly, I was wondering if maybe I hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe Marco had been laying out pieces of himself all along and I’d just been too busy guarding my own messy feelings to notice.
I frowned, processing this new puzzle piece of Marco’s life. Of course Marco wouldn’t have bothered to tell me Remywas practically family. That would imply trust, vulnerability, openness—three things Marco was pathologically allergic to.
Remy seemed the same way, actually. Maybe that was why they got along—if you could even call it that. I wasn’t sure if trading tense silences and irritated looks counted as brotherly affection. But what did I know? My idea of family bonding involved passive-aggressive dinner parties and tense phone calls that ended in guilt trips and slammed receivers.
“Anyway,” Tommy said, interrupting my mental spiral and shifting toward the door, “tell Marco happy birthday. Or don’t. Either way, make it irritating for the tough bastard.”
“Oh, I intend to,” I said dryly. “Thanks for stopping by and ruining my ignorance.”
“My pleasure,” he said with a slight grin, pulling open the door. “Take care.”
“You too.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with Pauly D paused mid-scream on my TV and a sinking feeling Marco Grey was rapidly doing something to my chest. Was it irritation? Indigestion? Anxiety? Definitely anxiety. It had to be.
Whatever it was, I refused to call it by its name. Anxiety would have to do for now.
It took me less than five minutes to change and fly out the door, though I spent four of those five minutes mentally berating myself for caring so much. Seriously, what kind of self-respecting grown woman sprinted across the city because someone hadn’t bothered to mention it was their birthday?
Me, apparently.
The entire subway ride I rehearsed the perfect cutting speech I planned on giving Marco, complete with sarcastic remarks and enough passive aggression to put even my mother to shame. I practiced it on repeat, each internal run-through getting pettier and more satisfying.
Honestly, how could someone be so frustratingly private? I’d shared everything short of my social security number with him, and I couldn’t even pin down something as basic as his birthday without an entire investigative report. It was maddening. Either Marco had trust issues on par with an undercover spy, or he genuinely thought birthdays were beneath him, like carbs or Netflix.
By the time the subway doors hissed open near Marco’s building, I had my argument perfected, complete with dramatic pauses and snarky comebacks.
And then I saw Max.
Great. Because this whole mess needed another complication.
His attention landed on me the second I walked in, and immediately, I knew what was coming. His expression shifted from mild boredom to something else—curiosity, irritation, possibly mild disappointment that I hadn’t vanished from the face of the planet yet.
“Mrs. Grey,” he drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I sighed dramatically, shifting the awkwardly shaped package in my arms. “Oh, spare me. I’m not here for you.”
Max gave me a look, lips twitching like he might laugh. I wished he would—it would make it easier to hate him. But whatever amusement he felt quickly vanished as he took a slow step toward me, his gaze dropping suspiciously to the package.
“Let me guess,” he said dryly. “Another distraction?”
I rolled my eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t roll straight out of my head and onto the polished lobby floor.“If, by ‘distraction,’ you mean ‘wife bringing something to her husband,’ then sure.”
Max hummed softly, shaking his head like I was some tiresome child who couldn’t behave herself in public. I briefly considered throwing the package at him, but I figured the front-desk security guy wouldn’t appreciate cleaning it up.
“I need Marco focused,” Max said, his voice slipping into that authoritative tone that set my teeth on edge.
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
“I’m serious, Valentina.” His voice dipped lower. “He’s exactly where I need him right now.”
“Right,” I drawled, leaning into sarcasm, because it was safer than acknowledging how much that irritated me. “Chained to his desk, making sure your precious empire doesn’t crumble?”
