“Valentina,” I tried again, but she wasn’t having it.
With a strength I didn’t realize she had, she shoved me backward hard enough to send me stumbling onto the couch. I landed awkwardly, heavily, and didn’t get back up. I just sat there watching as she paced like a caged animal.
“Lo mataste,” she continued. “You looked me in the eye every single day, and you never once said a word. I-Itrustedyou. For the first time in my life, Marco, I genuinely believed someone wasn’t going to betray me. But you—you’re the reason I’m even here! You’re the reason I needed saving in the first place.”
Her accusation landed harder than any blow, twisting something beneath my ribs. I’d prepared for anger over what I’d done to Cillian, but her anger wasn’t about him. It was about the lie.
“I made things right,” I finally said, forcing the words past my stubborn pride. “I did everything possible to correct it.”
Her laugh was bitter. “Oh! So this is your idea of charity.Perfect.You felt guilty, and marrying me was your act of redemption?”
I stared at her, my jaw tight. I was losing control—of the conversation, of her trust, of everything. “That’s not what this was, Valentina.”
“No?” she challenged. “Then explain it. Clearly. Without the damn logic. Without rationalizing every step. Tell. Me.Why.”
I hesitated. I’d spent years perfecting restraint, rationalizing every action. Feelings were never part of the equation. Feelings got you killed, compromised. But standing in front of Valentina, logic felt desperately inadequate.
“I had no idea you even existed when I took that job,” I admitted quietly. “Cillian was a name on a list. It wasn’t personal.”
She shook her head, refusing my reasoning. “But it became personal.Youmade it personal. You didn’t have to marry me, Marco. Why did you?”
“It wasn’t pity,” I answered again.
She narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, daring me silently. “Then what? Guilt?Obligation?”
I stayed quiet, watching her carefully, frustrated by my inability to speak. I’d always known exactly how to justify every action. But this time I didn’t.
“You’re going to have to do better,” she whispered. “Tell me why.”
I drew in a slow breath, fighting the urge to retreat. Damn her. She was relentless. The longer I stayed silent, the more her anger intensified and her eyes burned into mine, demanding answers I wasn’t prepared to give.
“You were right in front of me, Valentina,” I said carefully. “I saw exactly what I’d done to your life, and I thought ... if I stepped in, I could manage it. Make it right somehow.”
“You just said it wasn’t pity,” she snapped bitterly. “Sounds a hell of a lot like pity to me.”
“It wasn’t,” I countered, frustration seeping into my tone despite my best efforts.
“Thenwhy?” she pressed again. “You’ve explained logistics, convenience, rationalizations, but you haven’t once told me what it meant. WhatImeant. Why did you even care?”
I stayed quiet again, struggling with my own inability to offer clarity, to be vulnerable. She was demanding something I didn’t even know how to give. Because I’d never done it before. I’d never put words to any of it. Never admitted to wanting something I was terrified to lose. Especially not someone as unpredictable, volatile, and capable of walking away as Valentina. She’d already run once. She was practically famous for leaving before she could be left.
I finally stood from my seat, trying desperately to grab a hold of my thoughts. I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I couldn’t offer her any neat explanations or comforting half-truths.
“What do you want me to say?” I finally snapped, turning abruptly away from her. I couldn’t face those eyes anymore—eyes that saw straight through my every defense. “You want some easy answer? Something that’ll make sense of this mess? I don’t have one. I can’t justify what I did—not the way you want.”
Valentina didn’t understand—couldn’t possibly understand—how much of my life I’d spent avoiding conversations exactly like this. Feelings, explanations, honest words. They made me feel weak, vulnerable. Exposed in a way I’d never willingly allow. That was something I’d learned from childhood, from being passed around from home to home like an unwanted burden—even to my final foster home.
Real was complicated. Messy. It was always easier to pretend, to compartmentalize, to keep emotions locked away.
People left. They always left. I’d learned that lesson young, and I’d learned it well. It was ingrained. Instinctive. The few times I’d let someone in—actually let them in—it always ended the same way, with me standing alone, picking up the broken pieces, vowing never again.
“Was it entertaining at least? Was watching me spiral amusing for you?”
“No,” I admitted, shaking my head. “No, Valentina—never. Listen, I didn’t know it was you. Not at first. Not when it happened.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, dismissing my words.
“The first time I ever saw you was at Cillian’s funeral,” I interrupted, panicking,needingher to hear me. “I had no idea who you were until that moment. If I’d known?—”
