Curious about her intentions, I leaned forward slightly in my chair, watching how she stopped right in front of Max’s desk with her arms crossed. He was busy reviewing something on his computer—probably some of the fine print I’d sent him a few hours ago. When he saw her, he looked up lazily.
“Are you serious?” she yelled, her voice carrying through the office like a crack of thunder. “You had me followed?”
As she finally spoke up to him, I noticed a few unfamiliar words thrown into the middle of her sentences—Spanish, maybe.
Max leaned back further. “I have Callahan followed. I took the precautions I thought were necessary,” he said calmly. “Because of that, now I know you’re still entangled with him. You broke our agreement.”
She slammed the palm of her hand clean against the wooden desk and shouted, “I’m not tangled up with anyone!”
“Really?” he wondered. “Because Sebastian Callahan was seen leaving your apartment. Does that sound untangled to you?”
I didn’t know how deep their involvement ran. I’d done my best to stay away from that family after the job went down, but they seemed to pop up everywhere I turned.
I shouldn’t have cared—not after all the lines I’d already crossed. Hell, Valentina’s business was her own. Who she saw, who she let into her apartment—none of that should’ve mattered to me. But it did, and I hated that it did. Maybe it was the Callahan name and everything it brought up. Reminders of things I’d rather forget. Or maybe it was just Valentina herself.
She opened her mouth then closed it again, obviously caught and desperate for an out. But even from across the room I could see the fire in her eyes, the pride that wouldn’t let her back down so easily.
“That isnoneof your business,” she argued. “What I do in my own home?—”
Max wasn’t shocked by her rebuttal or her attitude. “It’s entirely my business,” he demanded. “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve also been informed you bought wine at the cornerstore last week. That chip you so proudly handed over? It means nothing now.”
Her face flushed, the anger in her eyes burning hotter. “I didn’t drink it?—”
She was lying. It was obvious in the way her voice cracked and her eyes darted down for a second before snapping back up with anger.
I’d seen this story before. Plenty of times. Valentina wasn’t special. She was no different from every other drunk who stumbled around pretending they had control, promising sobriety like it meant something. The chip was meaningless, just another trophy people like her waved around to fool everyone into believing they’d changed. A few days dry, and suddenly, they thought they’d accomplished something. Pathetic.
But this wasn’t just about Valentina. This judgment had roots—deep ones, tangled up in memories I’d rather leave buried. Memories of my first foster mother, a woman who swore over and over she’d changed; a woman who promised a house full of love and fresh starts. Who collected chips like they were gold medals, lining them up proudly on her dresser as though she’d done something special by putting down a bottle for a day or two.
In reality, she was a damn mess who forgot to feed us, forgot we existed, forgot everything but the cheap bottles she kept hidden at the back of the pantry.
I remembered her clearly—her soft voice singing to herself, sweet enough that sometimes, as a kid, I almost believed her promises. Almost. But she always broke them, without fail. Because that was what alcoholics did. They lied—to everyone else, sure, but mostly to themselves.
Valentina wasn’t any different. The men she chose, the alcohol she couldn’t stay away from—it was the same pattern. People like her claimed they wanted out, swore they werevictims of circumstance, but at the end of the day, they chose the bottle every single time.
Maybe Max thought his threats would work, make her straighten up, but they wouldn’t. People like Valentina, like my foster mother, they didn’t change because they felt guilty or afraid. They didn’t even change when they lost everything. Hell, sometimes they didn’t change at all.
I shouldn’t have cared either way, but watching her now, trying to hide behind her lies, made my chest burn with quiet anger. Anger at her for being exactly like every other drunk I’d ever met. Anger at myself for being stupid enough to have thought, even for a second, she might be different.
I leaned back in my chair and waited for her to disappoint everyone else the way she’d already disappointed herself.
“It doesn’t matter,” Max said, cutting her off again. “That chip? The one you desperately fought for? It’s progressional.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You get one hundred thousand dollars for eachadditionalthirty days you’re clean,” he explained. “Not every on-and-off month. What’s the point of rewarding you for the bare minimum? And now you’ve messed up, you’re going to have to start over.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond, but with the burn in her stare, it looked like she wanted to throw something particularly heavy at him.
Max continued. “And since you clearly can’t do this on your own, I’ll have someone stay with you to hold you accountable.”
“No.” She didn’t stutter. “You can’t do that.”
“I can,” Max said. “And I will.”
There it was—the unmovable object that was Max.
“What do you expect, Max? What the hell am I supposed to do?” she complained. “Live with some stranger? Someone youpicked to babysit me because you think I can’t handle my own life?”
