Page 155 of Ruthless Claim

But she does know. That’s the problem. Valentina sees through me in ways that scare me.

“I know that you’re so desperate to be different from Connor that you’ll believe anything that gives you that opportunity,” she says. “Even if it means ignoring every instinct that says something is wrong.”

“My instincts say that boy is my son,” I shoot back, even though my instincts are actually screaming that something is off. I just can’t afford to listen to them. “My instincts say I owe it to him to try.”

“And what about what you owe me?” The question comes out in a small voice, and Valentina looks vulnerable. I feel my anger deflate slightly. “What about the promises we made to each other? What about our baby?”

Our baby. Right. She’s carrying my child and here I am, prioritizing a boy I’ve known for less than six weeks, over my own wife.

“I’m trying to do right by everyone,” I say, and for the first time, I hear how exhausted I sound. “I’m trying to be a father to Finn and a husband to you and keep this whole situation from exploding. You’re making it harder by refusing to accept reality.”

“Reality,” Valentina repeats, her lips twisting as if she’s tasted something sour. “You mean your version of reality. The one where you take everything Claire says at face value and ignore every red flag?”

“What red flags?” I demand, even though I could list them myself. “What exactly has she done that’s so suspicious? She contacted me privately. She agreed to the test. She’s been cooperative and understanding despite the fact that I abandoned her and our son⁠—”

“You didn’t abandon anyone! You didn’t know!” Valentina says fiercely.

“I didn’t know because I was careless!” The words burst out of me, all the self-loathing I’ve been carrying for a month spilling over. “I slept with her and I left and I never thought about her again. I was doing Connor’s dirty work, drinking too much, and hooking up with random women whose names I barely remembered. That’s on me, Valentina. That’s my failure.”

Valentina stares at me, and her expression softens, “So this is penance,” she says almost thoughtfully. “You’re punishing yourself.”

“I’m taking responsibility.”

“No.” She shakes her head, more hair falling out of her bun. “You’re letting guilt cloud your judgment. And you’re so determined to prove you’re not the man you were nine years ago that you’re sabotaging everything we’ve built.”

Maybe she’s right, that traitorous voice in my head whispers again. Maybe you’re being played and you’re too proud to admit it.

But admitting it means I’ve been wrong. It would mean I nearly destroyed my marriage over a lie. It would mean I’m exactly the kind of fool Connor always warned me not to be.

“I’m trying to do the right thing!” There’s no hiding the desperation in my voice. “I’m trying⁠—”

“The right thing is to verify the truth before you blow up our entire lives!” Her voice rises again. “The right thing is to consider that maybe, just maybe, someone is playing you. That this whole thing is too convenient, too perfectly timed, too⁠—”

“Too what?” I challenge, my pride making me cruel. “Too real? Too complicated? Too inconvenient for your perfect little life?”

The words are designed to hurt and they do. I see it in the way she takes a step back, as if I’ve physically struck her.

“Get out,” she says, quietly.

My chest tightens and I desperately wish I could take those words back. “No, Valentina, I’m sorry⁠—”

“Get out of my apartment.” Her voice is ice now, all the hurt locked away behind that Santoro mask I hate. “You want to play happy family with Claire and Finn? Fine. Go do it somewhere else.”

“That’s not what I⁠—”

“You think I’m being jealous and irrational?” Her voice shakes behind the mask. “You think I’m inventing problems because I can’t handle you having another child? Then there’s nothing more to discuss. Go be with your son. I’m sure Claire would be delighted to have you full time.” She sneers out Claire’s name as if it repulses her.

The image flashes in my mind—moving in with Claire, playing house, pretending we are a family. The thought makes my stomach turn. I didn’t want that. I want Valentina. This apartment. Our life together.

But I’ve already said too much. Gone too far.

“Don’t do this,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds defeated.

“You did this,” Valentina says, shaking her head looking at me pityingly. I hate it. “The moment you decided I was the problem instead of the situation. The moment you chose guilt over trust.”

“I’m not choosing anything over you⁠—”

“Yes, you are.” She walks to the door and opens it. “Every time you dismiss my concerns. Every time you treat my instincts like paranoia. You’re choosing to believe I’m the villain in this story. That I’m standing in the way of you doing the right thing.”