Page 96 of Ruthless Claim

I put down my coffee with a dull thunk. “Absolutely—and I cannot stress this enough—not.”

Cillian frowned. “Why not? It’s a good name. It’s traditional.”

I gaped at him before pursing my lips and crossing my arms. “It’s a name for a man who owns seventeen cats and argues about local planning permission. Our child is not going to be a Fergus, Cillian.”

“There have been great Ferguses throughout history⁠—”

“Name one.”

A pause. “Fergus Mac Róich.”

My eyes nearly bulge out of my head. “That is a character from Irish mythology who was known primarily for having a sword that was compensating for something.” I picked my coffee back up before shooting him a sly smile. “Which, now that I think about it, might actually be appropriate given who the father is⁠—”

He kissed me to shut me up, and the name Fergus was never spoken aloud again.

I let myself have all of it and I stop bracing and I stop performing.

Two weeks. That’s what I get.

I come home early on a Monday.

Lunch with my mother runs short because she has a hair appointment she’d forgotten, which she remembers with twenty minutes’ notice.

She immediately begins gathering her things, a bit harried. My mother has never once in her life been late for anything she didn’t want to be late to.

“You’ll be alright getting home?” she asks, pausing with her coat half on, looking at me critically. It’s the same look she’s been giving me ever since I told her about the baby. It’s a look that’s assessing and warm at once, like she’s running a constant background check on my general okay-ness.

“I’m fine, Mamma,” I tell her. “Go. Your highlights will thank you.”

She raises one eyebrow at me, which lets me know she doesn’t appreciate my tone.

But that doesn’t faze me as she’s been giving me that look since I was a preteen.

She cups my face in both hands and kisses my forehead. I breathe in the scent of her perfume and the general comforting scent of my mother.

“Make sure you eat, Valentina. Something other than crackers and boxed macaroni and cheese.” She wrinkles her nose and I fight a smile. My mother has always been horrified by my love for white trash foods, and boxed macaroni and cheese—especially the ones with the squeezable, bright yellow cheese—is high on her disgust list.

“I’ll try,” I lie.

Her eyebrows are so high I’m honestly surprised. Mamma must not have gotten Botox recently. “Valentina Isabelle.”

Yikes, the middle name. I raise my hands defensively. “I’ll eat something substantial,” I promise.

She studies my face for a moment longer, as if she’s trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or not. Mamma sighs before patting my face gently.

“Call me tonight,” she says, already turning toward the door.

“I will.”

She leaves in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. I sit there for a moment in the suddenly quiet restaurant and I feel tired.

Profoundly, unreasonably tired.

The pregnancy app on my phone cheerfully describes this as fatigue in the same breezy tone it uses to describe everything, as if fatigue is a mild inconvenience and not my body staging a full-scale revolt against the concept of consciousness.

I consider the gallery.

I have three things I should deal with this afternoon, two emails I’ve been putting off, and a call with the artist for the monthly installation at four. I consider all of this for about five seconds before I text my driver and tell him to take me home.