I left the room without looking back.
They’d wasted enough of my time, enough of my patience. Every second Sebastian spent locked up was another second closer to him deciding to light a match and burn everything to the ground out of pure spite. I’d worked with him long enough to know exactly how he handled grudges, and right now, I was on the wrong side of his.
CHAPTER 38
VALENTINA
There was a special place in hell reserved for whoever had designed the chairs in AA meetings. Honestly, you’d think hitting rock bottom—again and again and again—would earn you at least a padded seat, maybe even a nice cushion or a throw pillow. But no. Instead, here I was, sitting in the same stiff, plastic monstrosity every week, my ass going numb halfway through another painful hour of self-reflection and oversharing.
Effective? Probably.
Humane?Definitelynot.
My eyes wandered the room, passing slowly over the circle of familiar faces. I didn’t miss the two group leaders, Greg, whose marital confessions were more dramatic than a daytime soap, and Steve, who always had something painfully earnest to say, like he’d swallowed an AA pamphlet for breakfast every morning.
I used to judge them. Hell, who was I kidding? Istilljudged them, but it was mostly out of habit. Except lately, something had shifted. I’d found myself nodding along when Greg talked about being tired of hiding, or quietly understanding when Carrie broke down again. Something about these people feltalarmingly relatable, which scared the absolute shit out of me. Because if they were relatable, that meant I was relatable, and I wasn’t sure I liked that.
The girl beside me started her usual spiel about rock bottom. God, I hated that term. It implied there was some neat little finish line at the bottom, some well-defined moment where everything finally stopped getting worse. But if I’d learned anything, it was that rock bottom was more like quicksand. Just when you thought you’d found the lowest point, the ground gave way again and you sank a little deeper. It was the universe’s twisted joke, really.
The last time I’d sat here, Steve had called my drinking a “coping mechanism.” Honestly, I couldn’t stand that phrase. “Coping” implied intent, like I’d sat down with a neat pros and cons list and decided pinot grigio was my best option. Drinking wasn’t coping; it was pure, reckless avoidance. It was a blindfold, a distraction, a way to drown out every uncomfortable truth, every awkward family dinner, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering how the hell I’d gotten here.
Because, let’s face it, my life wasn’t exactly a success story. My mother was sick. My first husband was dead. My bank account was emptier than my emotional reserves, which was saying a lot. And staying sober meant actually facing all that. Acknowledging it. Dealing with it. Realizing that maybe, just maybe, my shitty decisions had something to do with it.
But the worst part wasn’t even the responsibility—it was the clarity. Sobriety made everything clear. It was in high definition too, like watching your life play out in 4K and realizing the main character was actually kind of an asshole.
The irony was, drinking had never been about how difficult my life had become. My life had always been difficult. Alcohol was just the perfect scapegoat, the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card. Didn’t want to deal with my dying marriage? Wine. Didn’twant to hear my mother’s disappointment? Vodka. Didn’t want to face the glaring fact I had zero clue how to function like a real adult? Tequila—straight, preferably.
But numbness was only ever temporary. Eventually, reality would slip back in, usually at 3:00 a.m. on a bathroom floor, mascara streaking down my face, staring at a blurry reflection and realizing there wasn’t enough booze in the world to erase my choices. Numbness wasn’t freedom—it was just delayed punishment.
When the circle’s attention shifted to me, I sat up straighter, plastering on my usual half-smirk.
“Hi, I’m Valentina, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Those words were routine now, rolling off my tongue easily. The first time I’d said them, they’d tasted bitter, humiliating. Now? They were almost comforting, in a twisted sort of way. At least here I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t a mess.
“If we’re being brutally honest—which, unfortunately, is kind of the point—I never drank because life was hard,” I continued with a dry voice. “I drank because it was easier than admitting I might actually be the problem.”
I paused, feeling every eye on me, and realized I was actually telling the truth. “Drinking was the perfect excuse. A way to avoid accountability. To pretend none of my mistakes were really mine. But now I don’t have that excuse, I have to figure out how the hell to function without it. Apparently, avoidance isn’t healthy.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly very aware of everyone staring at me. The silence stretched on until I finally cleared my throat, desperate to break the awkwardness.
“Well, now that I’ve officially admitted that, can I go?” I asked, forcing a sarcastic smile and glancing toward the door.
Steve laughed softly from his spot across the circle, shaking his head as if he found me amusing. “That’s completely up to you, Valentina.”
Always giving nonanswers, like some low-budget Yoda who preferred to leave things vague enough to sound profound.
I sighed dramatically, waving my paper slip at him. “Do I at least get my signature, or are you gonna hold it hostage until I unpack my childhood trauma?”
He chuckled again, nodding toward Greg. “Greg can sign off for you.”
Greg shot me an exaggerated eye roll but set his coffee down.
I followed him outside the circle to a corner table, grateful to escape the uncomfortable scrutiny of the others. Greg scribbled something illegible onto my slip, handing it back with a tired smirk. It felt weird, not having to hold anything over him anymore.
Blackmail was an ugly word, but it had worked wonders in keeping Greg quiet when I’d needed him to sign off on these meetings without actually attending. Now, though? Now we were both here willingly—no more threats, no more manipulation, just mutual acceptance of our disastrous lives.
“Hey,” I said, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “How are things? Did you finally tell your wife the truth, or are we still dodging accountability?”
