I clenched my jaw.
“Did she like the new room?” I asked, ignoring the jab.
Valentina hesitated—just a beat. Her lower lip caught between her teeth for a second, an unconscious gesture that snagged my attention in a way I didn’t want.
“She was scared,” she admitted finally. “It’s big. It’s unfamiliar. It’s not her room.” Her voice hardened. “It’s not our home. It’s your house, Enrico—and you didn’t bother to find out if she’d feel safe here before you dragged us into it.”
“That’s why we’re talking,” I snapped, pushing down the discomfort her words triggered. “If she needs something, you tell me now. I don’t want her to feel displaced.”
“She needs the home you took from her,” Valentina fired back, anger rising again. “She needs the life you destroyed the second you decided to interfere.”
My patience wore thin.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low.
“She also needs the father you stole,” I said, resentment heavy. “Five years I’ll never get back.”
Valentina’s gaze flickered away for the briefest second.
Then she came back sharper.
“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you turned your back on us at the altar,” she said. “If there’s a villain here, Enrico—” Her voice dropped like a verdict. “It’s you.”
Silence settled again.
Neither of us willing to yield.
And yet, even through the hostility, my mind registered things that irritated me because they shouldn’t have mattered: the way her breath hitched when she was angry, the flush of color in her cheeks, the dangerous brightness in her eyes.
It was inconvenient.
It was a mistake.
“You can hate me all you want,” I said, forcing steadiness, “but you’re going to learn you don’t have a choice. The faster you accept it, the easier it will be for everyone—especially Clara.”
“Clara doesn’t need this farce,” Valentina said, pushing back from the table and standing abruptly. “And neither do I. Don’t expect me to cooperate just because you decided it.”
I stayed seated, watching her.
“Then prepare yourself,” I said coldly, a faint, dangerous smile touching my mouth. “Because I don’t give up easily. Not on Clara. Not on what’s mine.”
Her lips pressed together. Her breathing was fast.
And I hated how satisfying it was to see that my words still moved her—through anger if nothing else.
“I don’t know how I ever believed you loved me,” she said quietly, each syllable loaded with contempt—yet her gaze stayed on mine in a way that felt almost magnetic.
A cynical laugh escaped me.
“Apparently you’re good at believing lies,” I said. “Especially the ones you invent.”
“And you’re good at destroying the people you claim to love,” she shot back. “Especially when it means crushing them and humiliating them in front of the world.”
I stood before I planned to.
My patience had snapped—or something else had.
I crossed the space between us in slow, deliberate steps until I was close enough to feel heat coming off her skin.
