But then I looked at him, at the way he was standing there as still as stone, and I knew. He hadn’t been ordered. He’d chosen this.
“You feel sorry for me,mijo?” I asked, forcing the words past the knot in my throat.
His jaw clenched. He hated it when I called him that—when I refused to say his name—and that was theonlything I had control over in this moment.
“No.”
Liar.
I knew he did.
Maybe it was the way he’d stepped in without asking. Maybe it was the way hehadn’tlet me make my own mistakes. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me now, like hehadfigured me out. Like heknewwhy I was spiraling, why I was picking at him, why I was trying to sink my nails into something,anything, that would keep me from feeling this way.
Because Marco didn’t try to fix people. He let them burn, and I’dlikedthat about him. It was why I’d trusted him. And now? Now he’d ruined it.
I don’t know why I pushed him, why I leaned in, why I let my fingers trail down his suit like I was inviting something I didn’t actually want. Maybe because I wanted to see if there was anything beneath all that restraint.
He didn’t move, but I saw the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Saw the way his pulse ticked a little too fast at his neck.
“Good,” I whispered. “Because nothing turns me off faster than pity.”
I stepped back, turned on my heel, and pushed past him to the door.
I waited, but only for a second, to see if he’d stop me again.
He didn’t.
CHAPTER 21
MARCO
Valentina was a spoiled brat. Five-foot-two of pure chaos wrapped up by a smart mouth with enough attitude to grind my teeth into dust.
Gratitude? Forget it. The woman couldn’t manage a thank you if it were tattooed on the back of her hand. Hell, I was pretty sure she’d choke on the words before letting them slip out.
And self-preservation? Clearly not her strong suit. If she had any sense of it, she wouldn’t keep testing me, wouldn’t stare me down with that damn challenging look of hers, daring me to react. Like I was some sort of harmless house pet rather than a man barely holding onto his patience.
Spoiled. Ungrateful. Reckless. Pick a word—she checked every box.
But the worst part was that damn silky white dress she had on. Hair done, makeup perfect, looking like she’d actually tried. Like she'd stood in front of the mirror, checked herself from every angle, and put real effort into looking good for someone else. For Jonathan. Jonathan, for God’s sake.
It shouldn’t matter to me. I shouldn't care how she’d dressed for him, nor how much effort she’d wasted on someone who didn’t deserve it. It was none of my business.
Still, it bothered me. More than it should.
So did the smell of vodka on her lips. My foster mother had smelled exactly like that: vodka mixed with the peppermint gum she thought hid everything. She wasn’t a bad person. Not intentionally. But she was a bad mother.
I remembered nights waiting for her to come home from the bar, alone and small, watching headlights pass over the living room wall and wondering if any of them belonged to her. Sometimes she’d stumble in laughing softly at nothing and then collapse onto the couch. Other times she'd drift past me like I wasn't even there, murmuring nonsense about her own messed-up childhood, until she fell asleep holding an empty glass.
Valentina’s breath smelled exactly like those lonely nights. Like confusion, like waiting, like being eight years old and feeling invisible. The memory irritated me more than it should, made me feel small again. Powerless. Like no matter what I did, I'd always be that forgotten boy on that worn-out couch, hoping someone—anyone—would finally see me.
“This is the last of it,” Max said, sliding the papers forward. “Once you sign, the money gets released, and we all get to move on with our lives.”
Thank God. The quicker this was done, the quicker I could get some peace. No more babysitting, no more damage control, and definitely no more impulsive late-night rescues for a woman who barely managed an ounce of appreciation.
But then she paused, pen hovering. For once in her life, Valentina was actually hesitating.
I glanced up, following her gaze—not aimed at Max, but straight at me. Great. Of course. Now she’d decided she wanted my input.
