I’d spent enough time around men like Cillian and Max to know what good representation cost. And Marco? He was up there. The kind of guy who could charge five figures just to read your emails. The kind of guy who didn’t just get people out of trouble—he made sure their names never eventouchedtrouble to begin with.
I knew that, and I knew he wasn’t my lawyer, but I also knew, for whatever reason, it worked for me, the whole“damsel in distress”thing. He liked pretending he wasn’t affected. Like he didn’t give a damn.
I could tell he did. It was subtle, buried under all the arrogance, but it was there.
I was about to tell the receptionist to forget it, that I’d changed my mind, when a familiar figure stepped out from the archway.
Marco.
His brow lifted slightly as he gave the receptionist a glare and then looked back at me.
The memory of his palm pressed against the backs of my thighs made my skin flush hot beneath my sweater. It pissed me off that I couldn’t just dismiss it. Instead, it sat there, clinging to the corners of my thoughts, distracting me more than it should’ve. And now he was standing there looking just as annoyed as always.
How could someone look so perfectly put together and yet still manage to seem perpetually irritated? It was like being pissed off was his natural state. Or maybe that was just whenever I was around.
I met his stare head-on, lifting my chin slightly. It was easier than admitting how much my heart rate had kicked up the moment he stepped into the room, or how much I was noticing the fit of his suit. How good he looked in dark colors. How annoyingly handsome his stupid face was when he scowled at me, even from across the lobby.
Damn it.I wasn’t supposed to notice things like that. Not about Marco.
But I did. And now I was here, standing in his territory, about to ask for his help—again. If humiliation had a paragon, I was quickly becoming it.
He moved toward me, and suddenly, the lobby felt smaller, like there wasn’t enough air. He stopped a few feet away, slipping one hand casually into the pocket of his slacks. My eyes followed the movement.
“Valentina.” His voice was flat, guarded.He looked concerned. Not worried—not exactly. Wary, maybe, like he had to prepare himself to deal with me.
Finally, I asked, “Are you busy?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was. But I needed him on my good side, so I refrained from an eye roll and chose to bat my lashes instead as I asked, “Can you spare some time for me?”
He was already annoyed. I could tell. I was throwing off his day, interrupting whatever he had to deal with.
I saw the moment he caved—the way his jaw ticked slightly and his shoulders dropped just enough to let me know I wasn’t about to get thrown back onto the street.
I’d expected him to fight me on it. Instead he turned and told me to follow him.
He led me down a busy hallway, away from everyone and everything. He was taking me to the kind of room where conversations happened in private.
He held the door open for me, and I slipped past him, looking around the boring office. No windows. A long, polished table. Not even a single piece of art framed on the wall.
His eyes fell down the length of my body. “Take a seat.”
I didn’t move right away.
This was a mistake.
Maybe.
But I was already here. I wasn’t sure how I kept finding myself in places like this—in places I shouldn’t be, saying things I shouldn’t say, and asking for help I hadn’t planned on needing.
It wasn’t too late to leave, was it? I could still turn this all around, thank him for his time, maybe even make a cruel joke at my own expense.
But I didn’t, because the truth was ...
“I need your help.”
His body stiffened. “I’ve already helped you, Valentina. More than once.”
