And just like last time, when the meeting ended and I walked up to him, my slip in hand, he refused.
I wasn’t surprised. Gregory thrived on moments like these—moments when he could remind me he had the upper hand. Moments when he could wield his self-righteous sobriety over me and act as if signing a piece of paper meant he held my future in his stupid sweaty palm.
“You didn’t participate,” he said like he was speaking to a child. “You know the rules.”
Was he really going to do this to me again?
“Come on,” I argued. “I sat through the entire thing. Isn’t that enough participation?”
He folded his arms, looking at me like he was my disappointed father. “You know it’s not.”
Oh, the urge to snatch the pen right out of his hand and sign the damn thing myself was overwhelming. But I couldn’t. I needed him to do it. Needed to play by his stupid rules until Max got off my back and Marco stopped looking at me like I was a problem that constantly needed solving.
“Gregory,” I started, fighting to keep my tone even, “we both know this slip is bullshit anyway. Just sign it, and we can both move on with our lives.”
He frowned. “If I sign it without you putting in the effort, I’m doing you a disservice.”
“A disservice?” I echoed, disbelief creeping into my voice. “Please. Spare me the good-guy speech.”
He sighed, clearly exhausted from playing the savior. “Maybe next week, Valentina. If you share.”
“Greg,” I said sweetly, “didn’t you tell us that you cheated on your wife when you relapsed?”
His expression froze.
I smiled.
“I mean, really, how could she ever trust you again? After everything?” I sighed, shaking my head. “If I were her, I’d probably wonder if you were still doing it. If I could really believe anything you said. I mean, trust is such afragile thing after all ... ”
Greg stared at me, clearly regretting ever having opened his mouth. He probably thought his little confession last week madehim look noble—admitting to his faults, baring his soul to earn a few pats on the back and some half-hearted applause.
But now? It just made him vulnerable, and I knew exactly how to twist the knife.
He cleared his throat. “Valentina?—”
“It’s funny how accountability only goes one way around here. You can parade your mistakes like they’re badges of honor, but God forbid someone else chooses to handle things differently.”
I tapped my fingers against theunsigned slip.
He hesitated for only a second.
Finally, he took the paper and wrote his cheap, sloppy signature at the bottom, and I snatched it from him.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “Accountability really is key, Greg.”
I didn’t bother sparing him a second glance before turning on my heel and making my way outside.
I exhaled, watching my breath curl in front of me as I clutched the signed slip of paper in my hand. The last one.
That was all that mattered.
I should’ve felt accomplished by the signatures and the chips, but I didn’t. It was hard to feel accomplished when I hadn’t achieved them honestly. It was also hard to feel it with no one cheering me on but myself.
Strangely, a part of me felt annoyed by everything. Myself. Max. The entire situation that had left me backed into a corner, forced to play by rules that had never been built for someone like me.
Deserved or not, I shoved the paper deep into my bag. When I walked to the curb, I felt eyes on me.
My pulse kicked up, my heels clicking a little faster against the pavement, but I forced myself not to stop. Not to look. Not until I had no other choice.
