Her jaw tightened. “I’m still here.”
“For now.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I said. Fast. Too fast. “I want to believe you won’t.”
And maybe that was the scariest thing of all. Not loving her. Not telling her I did. But hoping—for the first time in my life—someone might actually stay.
“Well, then I’ll show you,” she said, whispering gently in my ear like a promise. “And you’ll see in the morning I’m still in bed beside you.”
I stood there like a goddamn statue, trying not to lose my mind.
It wasn’t just what she was saying—it washowshe was saying it. With certainty, like she wasn’t asking permission or offering anything temporary. She already knew exactly what I needed and was ready to hand it over without strings, without force.
I’d never been good at gentleness. I’d never trusted it. It had always felt like bait, but this wasn’t that.
And then—fuck—her fingers brushed the hem of my shirt lazily. She knew what that kind of touch would do to someone like me. Someone starving for it.
She flattened her palm against my stomach, right over the fabric, and just held it there slowly. Somehow, this was worse than anything frantic. It was intimate in the way that undid every bone in my body.
What the hell was I supposed to do with that? With her hand on me like it belonged there? With her saying things like that?
So when she took a small step back—just enough to glance toward the bedroom like it wasn’t even a suggestion but an inevitability—I followed.
I didn’t say I loved her again. I didn’t make any declarations or ask if she was sure.
I just followed.
Because the truth was, she could’ve asked for anything in that moment, and I would’ve given it. Hell, she didn’t even need to ask. She already had all of it. Every guarded thought, every aching inch of my loyalty, and every broken piece I’d hidden for years.
I wanted to believe she’d still be there in the morning. That she’d still choose to stay when the lights came back on.
Because if she did?
Then maybe I’d finally stop waiting to be left. Maybe I’d finally stop needing to be alone just to survive. Maybe I’d finally let myself belong to someone.
And maybe that someone could be her.
CHAPTER 40
VALENTINA
Marco made me explain everything Sebastian had said. Every miserable detail. It wasn’t the highlight of my week. It probably wasn’t even the highlight of my Tuesday.
Apparently, the Americans were involved now. The Feds. But no—not because of me. I wasn’t that important, despite Sebastian’s knack for making everything sound personal. They’d been sniffing around Marco’s business long before I’d stumbled blindly into his world, which should’ve made me feel better but instead left me mildly insulted. Figured. I couldn’t even be scandalous without it being secondhand drama.
After the dust settled, things didn’t exactly change between Marco and me. Not dramatically anyway. He didn’t suddenly start whispering sweet nothings or bringing me flowers. (Thank God—if Marco started quoting poetry, I’d probably file for divorce myself.) He was still Marco. Frustratingly reserved, annoyingly composed, emotionally constipated. The man was allergic to vulnerability, but that was okay. I had enough for the both of us.
But something had shifted anyway—small, barely noticeable at first, but growing more obvious by the day.
He still irritated the hell out of me daily. Still gave me sarcastic replies to perfectly reasonable questions. He still woke up at obscene hours and made no apologies for being the stubborn, difficult man he was.
But I was noticing small things now. Tiny shifts I never would’ve paid attention to before. Like the way Marco didn’t just want to be near me—he made it painfully obvious he wanted to berightnext to me, all the time. He’d started asking me to go places with him—small things that didn’t even make sense really.
Like last week.
“Come to work with me,” he’d said, as if asking someone to tag along to a law office was normal.
