Page 113 of Ruthless Claim

I look at the set of his jaw. His ears. The way his hands are at his sides, fingers slightly curled, relaxed but ready.

I have been going through the photographs like I’m building a case for the past three meetings, collecting evidence, trying to reach a verdict I can live with before the test does it for me. I keep finding things that could be mine and things that couldn’t.

But it’s hard to be definitive because genetics are fucking complicated and I’m not objective.

When it gets too difficult, I go home.

Valentina is in her chair, reading a book, her legs are tucked under her. She looks up when I come in.

Her eyes go over my face, looking for any type of tell about the day I’ve had and where I’ve been.

I give her nothing. She looks back at her book.

I go to my study and shut the door.

This is almost over. When the results come back I’m going to sit down with Valentina and I’m going to tell her everything.

She’ll be rightfully furious, but I’ll have the full picture by then, and we’ll be able to deal with it together instead of me dropping something half-formed on a pregnant woman and stressing her out, which could hurt the baby.

That’s the plan.

That’s what I tell myself at least.

It’ll be okay. Once I know, I’ll tell her. We’ll handle it.

It’s a catastrophic miscalculation.

12

VALENTINA

It starts as a normal Wednesday.

Well, normal for me these days, which means I’m in leggings on the sofa eating crackers at three in the afternoon because the baby has decided that anything more adventurous than crackers is horrid. My back aches.

My hair is in a clip I put in this morning without checking a mirror.

I have a half-finished cup of ginger tea going cold on the side table and a gallery report open on my laptop that I have been staring at for forty minutes without reading.

Cillian left an hour ago.

Connor’s, he said. Fucking liar. And he had the balls to look me straight in the eyes as he said it. We’ve barely spoken since our fight.

I said okay and he left. I’ve been doing a very bad job of not thinking about it.

So. Normal Wednesday.

Then someone knocks on the door.

My first thought is Emma.

She likes to do this randomly whenever Mamma offers to babysit Seraphina, which is often, so she can have adult conversations.

I actually feel relief at the thought of it. Being alone with my own thoughts sucks.

I push myself off the sofa and pad to the door in my socks. I open it.

It’s…not Emma.