Page 130 of Ruthless Claim

Every part of me wants to—I don’t know. Several things that are not options. This woman has the audacity to invite herself over and is currently looking at me with eyes that are sorry-shaped but there’s no actual remorse behind them.

I want to rip her apart limb from limb, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I know several people and organizations that can make this woman disappear.

Finn is unfortunately collateral damage, but I can think of something to make sure he’s safely out of the way, too.

Then I think about my mother and how she handles people who are being rude.

Composure first, Valentina. If someone insists on embarrassing themselves, the least you can do is look gracious while they do it. Fists are crude things; words, placed carefully, can bring a whole room to its knees.

Kill them with kindness.

Well, I plan on doing so but with a lot of emphasis on kill.

“How generous of you,” I say warmly, “to finally tell Cillian about his alleged son after eight years.” I smile at her and I can tell I’ve thrown her off. “Pure maternal devotion, from beginning to end. Really, Claire, it’s deeply admirable.”

The warmth goes out of her eyes all at once and she doesn’t bother trying to hide it.

“I know this is hard,” she says, and her voice has gone thin and sharp, her cheeks reddening slightly. “Finding out your husband has a child with someone else.” She smirks at me, as if knowing this will hurt. “Especially now while you’re carrying his baby.” Her smirk widens. “That must be absolutely devastating—knowing you weren’t the one to give Cillian his first child. His first son.”

The odd ringing in my ears is back but I refuse to let this woman see that what she’s saying is affecting me.

But Claire takes my silence as proof that what she said hurts. She looks triumphant. “There’s something about that, isn’t there? The first one. A boy.” She runs her fingers over the arm of the chair casually. “That means something to men like Cillian. Men who come from families like his. Legacy, succession, all of that.” Her eyes don’t move off that. “I’m sure you know all about that considering you are a Santoro. Your baby will have a wonderful father. But Finn was first.”

A thousand insults and nasty retorts fly to my lips.

I could easily tell her that Finn may be first (and a huge emphasis on may because his paternity is still unclear) but at least my baby was conceived in wedlock and will be the undisputed heir to the Brennan family. Finn will always be the outsider looking in.

But I don’t say any of that.

Then Claire would know one hundred percent that she got under my skin and I don’t let anyone see when they’ve affected me.

She cannot think she’s winning.

And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Winning. Gaining the upper hand.

She’s telling me this because she can. She wants to get under my skin and she is going to watch it do exactly that.

It would be so easy to detonate right now. I have weeks of morning sickness and a month’s worth of my husband’s lies sitting in my chest. I want to read this fucking woman to filth. I want her to be fucking cowering beneath me.

But Gianna Santoro metaphorically appears before me, looking disappointed. Never let them see you bleed, tesoro, especially when you’re bleeding.

Dammit. Fine, Mamma.

You fucking win.

I fold my hands in my lap and re-center myself. Don’t kill her, Val.

It’s hard to get bloodstains off these couches and you’ll traumatize the boy.

“You know,” I say, with tremendous warmth, “I think what you’ve done is incredibly brave. Coming all this way and putting yourself out there like this, I mean.” I look at her with sincerity. “Not everyone would have the nerve.”

Claire’s eyes narrow slightly. I can almost see her thought process—where are you going with this, Valentina Brennan?

“I mean it,” I continue, still warm, still smiling, the one with nothing behind it except the decision to win. “Eight years is a long time. And you’ve managed so beautifully on your own. Really. It’s very”—I pause, like I’m searching for the right word—“impressive. Given everything.”

“Given everything?” Claire asks, furrowing her brow.

“Well.” I bow my head slightly, as if embarrassed. “The circumstances aren’t exactly—I mean, raising a child alone, the financial strain of that, the sacrifices…” I make a small sympathetic sound. “It’s a lot. Most people would have reached out sooner, honestly. Out of practicality if nothing else.” I look at her with tremendous compassion. “You must have really struggled.”