Page 127 of Ruthless Claim

“You don’t know how this looks,” she snaps. “You don’t get to tell me how this looks.”

“I was trying to protect you⁠—”

“You were trying to control the situation.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but then again it doesn’t need to. Every word cuts me deeply. “There is a difference, and you know there’s a difference. But yet, you chose the thing that was easier for you and are still trying to dress it up as something you did for me.” She shakes her head in disbelief.

I don’t say anything because she’s right. Every version of this in my head is wrong. Every argument I could make sounds like another excuse.

“You need to leave,” she says.

I blink, desperate. “What⁠—”

“I need you to leave the apartment.”

I glance toward the kitchen. “I’ll ask them to⁠—”

“Not them,” she responds, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “You.”

It lands like a punch and I suddenly can’t breathe. “You want me to⁠—”

“I want you to leave.” Her voice is still steady and it’s more frightening than screaming ever could. “I can’t look at you right now. I need you to go.”

Panic claws at me. I’m losing my wife and I can’t figure out a way to get her back. “Valentina, just let me explain⁠—”

“You’ve had a month to explain.” The word month cracks the veneer for a second and I can see the raw, awful hurt I put there, the betrayal and despair. Her eyes are bright for a moment before she takes a deep breath and I can see her pull herself back into perfect composure. “You had thirty chances. Every morning, every evening, every time I asked what was wrong and you looked at me and said nothing. You even told me I was just tired. Meanwhile, you were lying to me this whole time. There is nothing you can explain right now that I want to hear.”

I swallow, my throat burning. “I love you,” I manage, ragged and desperate. “I love you and I love this baby. I know I made a terrible call⁠—”

“Get out.” Her voice wavers on the last word, like she can’t believe she’s saying it, but her eyes are cold. She moves to the door, hand on the frame, and the look of betrayal and exhaustion of her face will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I know I’ve lost. Nothing I say or do will matter. The only thing left is to leave.

I walk toward the door, but then I stop. “I’ll fix this,” I vow, my voice breaking.

She looks at me with such cool indifference, I nearly break down right there.

I step out and the door swings shut behind me. The lock clicks and it’s like a physical punch to my chest.

I press my back against the hallway wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor.

My forearms rest on my knees, and my head tilts back, staring at the bland ceiling. My chest heaves.

My mind races through the calculations I’ve made—rational ones, careful ones, “protective” ones—every time I convinced myself I was waiting for the right moment.

I didn’t fix it. I let it become the problem. I let Claire sit in my apartment for who knows how long with my pregnant wife.

I let Valentina handle it alone.

I put her in this position.

I pull out my phone, desperate to try and fix this. I could spill everything I should have said a month ago.

Not tonight. Nothing I say tonight is what she needs.

What she needs tonight is for me to stay on the other side of this door and mean it when I said I’ll fix it, which means figuring out how to actually do that rather than standing in a hallway trying to talk my way back in.

I get up and straighten my jacket.

I press my hand to the door for a second in a silent apology, a physical marker of my failure.