Page 47 of Ruthless Claim

“Yeah, okay.” She sounds unconvinced. “He calls you in with less than two hours’ notice and no context and you drive across town to wait in his lobby, and you call it a meeting?” She takes her glasses off. “What did he want?”

I tell her. Connor’s concerns about optics, the dinner Friday, what he needs from us.

She’s quiet for a moment, which with Valentina is not a good sign.

“No,” she says.

I sigh. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then why are you surprised that I’m saying it?” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “I didn’t agree to this. I agreed to the marriage, which was not my idea. I agreed to appear as your wife at appropriate functions.” She sits up, dark eyes flashing. “I didn’t agree to perform for Connor Brennan on demand because he’s worried about optics.”

Why does everything have to be a fucking argument? “It’s not just Connor’s optics.”

“Then whose optics is it?”

“Our families’. The alliance. It matters for both⁠—”

“I know what it matters for,” she says sharply. “I grew up in this world too. I understand exactly what happens if the alliance looks unstable. What I’m asking you is whether you came home and delivered his instructions because you thought it was necessary or because he told you to and you do what he tells you.”

I look at her, unclear of what she’s getting at.

“Because there’s a difference,” she continues, “and I’d like to know which one this is.”

The way she’s looking at me is as if I’m being x-rayed by her.

She’s sitting in her chair with her reading glasses in one hand and her chin slightly up, watching me with her dark eyes.

“Both,” I say, because she’ll know if I lie.

She looks at me for a moment. “At least that’s honest,” she grumbles. It’s clear she’s thinking about something and from the scowl on her lips, she’s come to a conclusion she’s not thrilled about. “Fine. I’ll go.”

I can’t help the surprise I feel. It’s that easy? “Just like that?”

She throws me a withering glare. “Don’t push it.” She puts her glasses back on. “I said I’ll go. I’ll be charming, the alliance will look real, and everyone will go home satisfied.” She holds up a finger to me. “But I’m wearing what I want and I’m talking about what I want and nobody manages me.” She’s already looking back at her screen. “And you owe me for this.”

This is as collaborative as Valentina will get and I’m grateful—but also wary. “What do you want?” I ask, knowing it’ll either be expensive or demeaning.

“I’ll decide later.” She waves a hand at me without looking up. “Go away, I have work.”

I mean to go but I’m rooted in place, just staring at her.

“I can feel you staring, Brennan.”

“I’m going.”

“You’ve been going for thirty seconds,” comes her dry response.

I go.

The night before the dinner we’re in the kitchen.

I’m making a salad and she’s at the island with wine.

We’ve been having the argument for about ten minutes about if she needs to know anything about the people she’s going to meet, and she has been systematically dismissing every name I’ve given her.

“Brigid,” I say. “My aunt. Connor’s older sister. She’s been⁠—”

“In your life since your parents died,” Valentina sighs, taking a sip of her pinot noir. “I know. Emma told me.”