Page 167 of Ruthless Claim

She ordered me a croissant with preserves, but it remains untouched even though the scent of butter does smell delicious.

I’m on my third cup of tea.

My stomach keeps rolling, which can either be pregnancy or it might be the four days of waiting for these stupid fucking results.

“Eat something,” my mother says as she eats her single, soft-boiled egg with a cafe noir.

My mother has been eating the same breakfast for as long as I can remember and refuses to deviate it.

Maison Sainte-Claire does not usually serve this, but they will for Gianna Santoro.

“I’m trying,” I say, reaching forward and tearing the croissant apart.

Mamma frowns at the mess I’m making before giving me a look. I jerk my hands back, feeling scolded like a child. My eyes wander to the ground where my purse is, my phone laid on top of my bag so I can see if anything comes in.

“Stop checking your phone,” Mamma orders.

I flush. “I’m not—” but at the single eyebrow raise, I sigh. “Okay, fine. I was checking it.” My knee bounces under the table and I press my hand against my thigh to try and stop it.

Both possibilities keep cycling through my brain and neither of them are good. If it comes back positive again, if Finn is Cillian’s and the first test was just right, then Claire stays. Claire is permanent. Claire and her Finn’s waited eight years are a fixture in our lives forever and I have to figure out how to be okay with that. How to let Cillian have a son with someone else and not let it eat me alive.

And if it comes back negative, then someone planned this.

Someone had access to a lab and enough money to make DNA say what they needed it to say.

My mother sips her coffee and cuts her egg into small, bite sized pieces. I watch her do so.

She’s perfectly calm, even though she knows all about Emma’s and my theory and that the second DNA test results should be in soon.

It hits me that Gianna Santoro has been in worse situations than this and survived.

But that thought doesn’t help me as much as it usually does.

My phone suddenly buzzes.

My knee jerks against the table, causing the delicate tea cup and Mamma’s coffee mug to slosh. Mamma hisses and grabs her drink, glaring at me. “Valentina Isabelle⁠—”

But I ignore her because the name flashing on my phone is the one I’ve been waiting and dreading.

Cillian.

I pick it up. “The results are in?” I breathe, heart hammering in my throat.

“They’re in.” There’s no emotion in his voice. “Can you meet me at the lab in an hour?”

“I’ll be there,” I tell him. Hanging up, I look at my mother, my mouth suddenly dry.

Mamma’s hand comes across the table and gently squeezes mine, her cool, dry skin a welcome difference from my warm, clammy one. “You’ll handle it,” she says simply.

I don’t say anything back. Instead, I look at my torn up, sad croissant and eat three bites. Mamma will force me if I don’t.

My driver drops me off in front of the second clinic.

I stand on the sidewalk outside the building and take a deep breath.

This is it.

Either I’ll be proven right or I’ll look like the world’s most conspiratorial, jealous wife.