Page 102 of Ruthless Claim

“There is no one else,” Emma says sharply and with authority. She says it the way you state a fact, not the way you offer comfort.

I shake my head. “You can’t know that, Em.”

“I can.” Her jaw is set. “I have known him my entire life. He has made choices that destroyed me and I still know who he is. He would not.” She looks at me hard. “Not with you. Not with the baby. Not after—” She stops and exhales through her nose. “He’s crazy for you, Valentina. Whatever this is, it’s not that.”

I want to argue, but another bigger part of me wants to believe her.

“Then what is it?” I ask her desperately, as if she knows Cillian’s inner mind.

Emma is quiet as she watches Seraphina.

The baby has a pissed off look on her face and Emma reaches into the stroller and lifts her out.

Seraphina makes a grumbly sound then goes quiet against Emma’s shoulder, her small fist closing in the fabric of Emma’s shirt.

I smile at her. The ridiculous hair. Leo’s exact hairline on a tiny furious face.

“She really does look exactly like her father,” I marvel.

“I know. It’s a kick in the teeth,” Emma sighs, rubbing Seraphina’s small back in slow circles.

Then she looks back at me. “Cillian takes things onto himself. He always has. When he’s scared of something he doesn’t talk about it. He just—puts himself in front of it and deals with it alone and tells everyone else it’s fine.” She presses her lips to her daughter’s temple, still lost in thought. “Whatever this is, I think he’s trying to keep you safe from it.”

“I don’t want to be kept away from things,” I snap. “I want him to actually⁠—”

“I know.” She cuts me off, but not unkindly. “Tell him that. Tonight. Don’t let him change the subject.”

My eyes cut to Seraphina, at the small scrunched face pressing into Emma’s shoulder, and I reach out one finger, stroking her tiny knuckles.

Her fist opens then closes around my fingertip tightly, as if she’s offering me comfort herself.

My throat constricts and my eyes water. I blink them away.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Tonight.”

“Good.” Emma shifts Seraphina slightly and expertly reaches for her coffee one-handed. She looks at me over the rim. “Eat something. You look gray.”

“I’m not gray,” I tell her.

“You are,” she says flatly and signals the waiter.

He comes home at nine fifteen.

I know the exact time because I’ve been staring at the clock on my phone and putting it face down and picking it up again for the last three hours.

I’m in the bedroom with a book I have not read a single page of.

My back is against the headboard, and when I hear the front door I put the book down and take a breath.

I’ve been rehearsing this since lunch.

I’m going to be calm.

I’m going to be direct.

I’m not going to let him deflect or manage me or give me the partial version and call it the whole thing.

I have been negotiating in rooms full of difficult men my entire life and I can absolutely handle one honest conversation with my husband.