Right. He’d made sure Sasha didn’t come back, but that didn’t mean Marco could get Max off my back. He was still forcing me to go to AA meetings. I was still drinking—not a lot, but enough to keep the shakes at bay. Just enough to pretend I was fine, to keep up appearances, to smile when people expected me to, and to show up where they told me I needed to be.
“Yes,” I finally said. “Thanks for that, by the way. I finally have my kitchen space back.”
He watched me blankly.
“Anyway.” I swallowed and looked down at the table—at the way my hands curled into fists before I forced them to relax. “I need to get my money, and I don’t know how.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “That’s not something I can help you with.”
I blinked, my heart sinking faster than I expected. It shouldn’t have stung like this, but it did. Maybe because somewhere deep down I’d convinced myself he’d fix it—like he had with Sasha, with Sebastian, with every other mess I’d dragged to his doorstep.
He was my fallback, my plan B when plan A inevitably went up in flames. Now even Marco was telling me no. The one person who could probably move mountains if he wanted, and suddenly, he couldn’t be bothered.
Of course not.
I felt the bitter smile curl my lips before I could stop it. I wasn’t sure why I was surprised. I had no reason to expect him to go out of his way again—not after he’d already done more than enough.
Maybe I’d pushed too far this time.
I reached into my bag, pushing past the lipstick and the crumpled old receipt, until I found what I was looking for. Asingle wrinkled dollar bill. I pulled it out and held it between two fingers, resting my elbow on the conference table.
“I know it’s not your usual rate,” I said, embarrassed, “but I could really use some help.”
Marco glanced at the bill, then at me.
He didn’t take the dollar.
“You came to the wrong place.”
“I think it’s exactly the right place,” I countered, tilting my head. “You’re a lawyer. I need legal advice.”
His finger tapped against the table once as if he were considering me. Then he tapped twice.
Reluctantly, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached forward and plucked the dollar from my hand, rolling it between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket.
“Does this mean you’ll help me?”
He nodded gently.
Thank god. “You’ve seen the clause, haven’t you?” I asked.
“I have.”
“So?”
“Legally, you’re entitled to the inheritance—underspecificconditions.”
I leaned back, crossing my arms, irritation bubbling under my skin.Conditions.I hated that word. It felt like the universe was constantly reminding me I only got what I wanted if I played by somebody else’s rules. My late husband, Max, even Marco.
“What are my options?” I finally asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
“You fulfill the terms, or you contest them. Those are your options.”
“Fulfilling the terms means marrying someone else,” I said flatly. “That’s not exactly an appealing prospect.”
He didn’t disagree, but he gave a small nod like he understood why I hated it. Marco may have thought I wasreckless, self-destructive even, but at least he understood how twisted this arrangement was.
“And contesting?” I prompted.
