Greg laughed softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, I came clean. Turns out being honest isn’t actually lethal.”
I raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. “Amazing.Congratulations on officially upgrading from ‘piece of shit’ to ‘recovering piece of shit.’”
“Thanks, Valentina. Always a pleasure.”
“Obviously.” I took my signed paper back, waving it as I stepped toward the exit. “See you next week. Try not to relapse.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he called after me.
The second I stepped outside, I realized two things.
One: It was way colder than it was when I’d walked in an hour ago.
Two: My purse still had no cigarettes in it.
Truly rewarding.
I dug through my bag again, hoping for a miracle—a forgotten cigarette, some ancient pack of gum—hell, even a lint-covered candy. Something to distract myself from the restless itch that always crept up after these meetings.
But no. Of course not.
All I had was the gum wrapper I kept forgetting to throw away, a lipstick I’d bought while drunk (a shade called Midnight Mauve—when did I ever wear mauve anyway?), and the usual assortment of receipts from purchases I probably shouldn’t have made. Sobriety hadn’t magically transformed me into a neat, responsible adult, clearly.
Then I smelled it. Cigarette smoke.
When I turned, I saw him.
Sebastian Callahan.
He was leaning casually against his black sedan, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal those familiar tattoos, dark ink wrapping around his forearms.
I took him in for a second, genuinely annoyed by how good he still looked. His dark hair was still perfectly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day, pretending to be stressed when nothing ever really bothered him. He had a little scruff on his jaw, and then there was that damn smirk—the kind that promised trouble and made me like it.
Sebastian had always been easy. Easy on the eyes, easy to talk to, and easy to fall into bed with. We’d worked together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces that fit just right, only to realize the puzzle itself was entirely fucked. The problem wasn’t him. It had never really been him. He was exactly what headvertised himself as: uncomplicated, charming, and mildly toxic. The problem had always been me—how I gravitated toward uncomplicated toxicity every damn time.
But now, standing here in front of him after everything that had happened—after Marco—he just felt ... different. Or maybe it was me who’d changed. Maybe sobriety had actually given me some clarity, even if it had come with aheftydose of discomfort.
Sebastian had filled the emptiness when I’d needed it. He’d been the perfect temporary fix, the smoke in my lungs, the burn in my throat. But I wasn’t empty anymore. I wasn’t hollow.
Marco had done that.
Marco had been my choice. Not my default, not my easy escape, but my choice. For the first time in my life, I wanted someone—genuinely wanted him—not just to distract myself or numb some pain, but because of who he was. Because being with him mattered in a terrifyingly real way I’d never experienced before.
I sighed, pulling my bag back onto my shoulder. “I swear to god, Sebastian, I’m this close to getting a restraining order. You really can’t take a hint.”
He chuckled, unbothered as always. “Oh, come on. You and I both know if I weren’t here, you’d miss the attention.”
“Your ego really knows no bounds, doesn’t it?” I shot back, but there wasn’t any real anger in it. Because despite everything—despite the danger and the mistakes and the chaos—I’d never hated Sebastian. It wasn’t personal. Our problems had always been tangled up in other people’s messes: Max’s control; Romanos versus Callahans.
He watched me carefully. “You look different.”
“Yeah, well, sobriety will do that to a person. You should give it a try.”
He grinned. “I prefer my vices.”
“I bet you do,” I muttered, eyeing his cigarette pointedly, though I didn’t bother to ask for one. A small victory, maybe. Or just stubborn pride. Asking him for a smoke felt too familiar, too much like stepping back into the role of old Valentina. Reckless, careless, stupid Valentina who hadn’t learned a single lesson from the past few months.
“I gotta say, I never thought I’d see the day Valentina De La Vega shunned alcohol. Sobriety suits you.”
