Page 115 of Ruthless Claim

I can hear my mother’s voice clear as a bell, like a recording she planted in my head at age six: you never show them any emotion. Not one thing. You put it away and you deal with it later, but not here, not in front of them.

I have never been more grateful for Gianna Santoro’s parenting in my entire life.

I focus my gaze back on Claire.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice is light and even. “Who did you say you were?”

She blinks. She was expecting a reaction, and she doesn’t know what to do now that I haven’t done what she expected. Good.

“Claire Murphy,” she explains again, her eyes darting around. “Cillian and I knew each other in Belfast about nine years ago.” She straightens slightly, committing to it. “Finn is his son. I’ve been trying to reach Cillian for the past few days but he hasn’t—I thought if I came in person—” She stops and shifts her weight, as if realizing what a terrible mistake that was. “I’m sorry to come without warning. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought Cillian told you about us.”

Belfast. Nine years ago.

This has nothing to do with me. This is not the thing I was lying awake at three in the morning afraid of. This is an entirely different catastrophe, which is not comforting. That is not comforting at all.

I have no beef with Claire right now. She’s not my issue. No, my issue is with my husband.

Cillian has known about this woman for however long and has not said one word to me.

The balcony calls.

The hours he’s gone. The Connor excuse he rolls out every time, like he thinks I’m a fucking idiot.

He has known about Claire Murphy and her son all this time.

He has stood in our kitchen, looked me in the eye and said nothing, and I have been losing my mind making up stories in my head, building every possible worst version, and the real version was this. This woman in my hallway with a child.

My eyes cut to Finn.

He looks up at the same moment, meeting mine.

His gaze is watchful, taking me in, trying to figure out what he’s walked into. He has a serious face for a kid his age. Something in the set of it —

I look away.

I’m going to look at that later too, along with everything else I’m putting away for later.

Right now I have a very specific job.

I step back from the door.

“Come in,” I say. “We should talk.”

It pains me to say this, to invite this woman into my house, but I say it anyway. I hold the door and I wait.

Claire Murphy looks at me for a moment—still trying to read me and still finding nothing—then she moves forward into my apartment with her son.

I close the door behind them.

I stand with my hand on the door for two seconds.

My back is to the room.

He fucking knew. He has known all this time. He knew about this woman. He knew about this child. He said nothing.

I take my hand off the door and turn around.

Claire is in the middle of the living room, trying and failing to hide her shock at the size of the penthouse.