I didn’t argue.What was the point? She always got what she wanted.
I took a seat behind my desk, flipping through a case file, trying to focus onliterally anythingbesides the way Valentina crossed her legs, the way she tapped her nails against the wood, the way she hummed quietly under her breath as if this weren’ta complete fucking waste of my time.
Then she reached for a stack of files.
I looked up. “Don’t touch that.”
She ignored me, flipping through them. “You’re so organized.”
“Put it back.”
Valentina reached across the desk, sliding a paperclip between her fingers, watching me. “You seem irritated.”
“I’m not irritated,” I said as I scratched my pen against the paper again. A signature here, a date there. Every deal, every contract, every liability—processed, signed, moved along.
And yet somehow, with Valentina standing across from me, watching me, I felt like I was signing something else entirely. Accepting risks I had no business accepting.
“When Cillian had this office, he had pictures on the desk. Lots of sticky notes too.”
I didn’t like when she spoke about him. I wasn’t sure why she was bringing him up.
“Good for him.”
“There’s nothing on your desk. No personality. No photos. Nothing to give me any clue as to what kind of man you are.”
“I’m a lawyer. You know that.”
“You’re aboringlawyer.”
I flipped to the next page, signing my name again.
Valentina exhaled dramatically. “No childhood trophies? No framed degrees? Not even a single sad little plant?”
“You want a ficus, Valentina? Would that make you feel better?”
“It’d make you seem less like a serial killer.”
I signed another document, ignoring her.
She moved closer to rest her hip on the edge of the desk. “I used to help my husband with this kind of thing—well, before he died anyway.”
I said nothing. I knew what she wanted—a reaction, some acknowledgment I was listening or that I gave a shit. But I wasn’t going to bite. Not today.
I kept my eyes fixed on the file in front of me, gripping the pen tighter. I was at the edge already, dangerously close to breaking whatever patience I had left. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was doing it anyway. Because that was who Valentina was. She pushed until she got what she wanted, consequences be damned.
I stayed quiet, forcing myself to focus on the file even though I couldn’t read a single damn word. Anything was better than acknowledging her and what she did to me.
“What’s your last name?” she asked suddenly.
I lifted my gaze to hers. “Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity. Cillian had a plate with his last name on it and everything,” she added, still prodding, pushing. “You don’t.”
“Grey.”
“Grey?” She arched a brow. “English last name. But your first name isn’t.” She studied me. “Was your mom or dad Hispanic?”
Valentina had a habit of asking questions she shouldn’t, and she didn’t realize she’d just asked the wrong one.
