Page 126 of Ruthless Claim

It presses down, makes the room smaller, my skin crawl, my pulse hammer. It’s the kind of fury that waits, observes, then rips everything apart with surgical precision.

She looks at me like I’m a stranger she’s decided not to waste energy on.

That’s worse than the fury.

“Cillian.” Her voice is calm, ice running through steel, the same tone she used on the phone. “Your guest was just telling me about Finn.” She tilts her head just slightly. “Your son. The one you’ve known about for—” She pauses, tapping her chin thoughtfully as if this is just a normal conversation, but her murderous eyes say otherwise. “How long has it been? Four weeks?”

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, my palms damp, every nerve screaming. Every instinct I have tells me to run, to fix this, to vanish before the next second—but she doesn’t need me to move. She’s already won this moment.

I swallow heavily, my throat dry. I need to explain what’s going on. I have to make this better. “Valentina⁠—”

“No.” The vehemence in that word stops me in my tracks. “Don’t say my name like that.”

I look at Claire. Her back is straight. Her lips press together for a fraction of a second, then curl just enough into a small smile that says I know what I did, and I don’t care how it affects you.

Her eyes are calm, almost distant, but the faint narrowing at the corners hints at something more sinister.

She tilts her chin slightly upward, a tiny gesture of defiance, and for a second, the whole room feels like it’s weighted with the choice she made and the fallout she’s tossed onto everyone else’s shoulders.

“I was going to tell you,” I tell my wife desperately, focusing only on her. “After the test. I was waiting until I had the results, then I was going to⁠—”

Valentina scoffs. “You were going to tell me after the test.”

I nod frantically, heart hammering. “Yes. I didn’t want to worry you with something that might turn out to be⁠—”

“I want you to hear yourself,” Valentina hisses, interrupting me. “About worrying me. I want to hear you say it again.”

I stop, realizing how fucking stupid that train of thought even was.

White hot anger moves across her face before she stamps it back down. When she speaks her voice is perfectly even. “You have been lying to my face for a month. While I am pregnant. While I have been losing my mind trying to figure out what was wrong, what I did, whether you were—” She stops and her jaw shifts. “You watched me do that every day. And you said nothing.”

She’s right. I fucked up so badly and I don’t even know how to make this right. “I know,” I tell her, my stomach in knots.

“You know,” she mocks. “And yet, you did it anyway.”

I feel my throat tighten and my chest burns. Every muscle in me wants to leap forward, grab Claire, shake her, scream, how could you do this? But I can’t.

My hands clench at my sides.

My pulse hammers. The room feels smaller, hotter, heavier, every second stretching, every breath weighted with fury and panic.

Finn has put the tablet face down on his lap. He’s staring at the floor, perfectly still, as if he knows he must shrink when adults are having a bad conversation. This isn’t the first time he’s seen this. It should bother me, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

“Could we—” I look at Claire, with eyes that promise death. “Could you give us a minute?”

Claire’s eyes flick to Valentina’s and my wife looks back at her challengingly.

“Finn, sweetheart,” Claire says, standing and holding out her hand. “Let’s get some water.”

He slides off the sofa silently and takes her hand. They disappear, and suddenly I’m alone with Valentina.

She stands from the armrest.

God, she looks furious. Every line of her body radiates it. Goddammit, how long has Claire been here to poison my wife against me? Valentina looks at me with a gaze so hateful it feels like the air itself seems to bend away from her. And underneath it all, I see what I put there. I put that look on her face.

“So,” my wife says dangerously, her eyes glinting. “That’s the type of woman you fuck for eight weeks?”

“Valentina,” I say, voice tight, every word trembling. “I am sorry. I know how this looks⁠—”