Page 128 of Ruthless Claim

Then I go.

15

VALENTINA

The door closes behind Cillian and I stand there with my hand still on the frame. I listen to his footsteps and then the elevator and then nothing.

Just quiet.

I slowly breathe once through my nose and exhale, utilizing a technique my therapist told me about when I would start to get panic attacks.

The point is to not melt down in my own hallway, especially when I have outsiders still in my home.

Once I’m convinced I’m not going to fall apart, I square my shoulders and pivot. Time to take care of my other issues.

Heading back down the hall, I see Claire and Finn standing in the kitchen doorway looking at me.

Finn is clutching a bottle of water in his hands.

He looks at me silently with those careful brown eyes. How odd. This child has been sitting in my apartment for two hours now, watching every adult in his orbit fall apart in some direction and he hasn’t made a sound.

What the hell has this child seen?

Claire nods toward the door. “Is Cillian returning?” she boldly asks.

I won’t give her the satisfaction of telling her that I kicked him out. “Let’s sit down.”

We sit down.

Claire tells Finn he can have the tablet again and he grabs it like she’s thrown him a lifeline.

He puts his headphones back in before he’s even fully settled, and honestly good for him. I would also like to not be in this room right now.

I look at Claire.

Something is different.

I can’t immediately put my finger on it. It’s not one thing, it’s a collection of small things—the way she’s sitting, the angle of her chin, the fact that she’s not working as hard as she was before Cillian showed up.

Before, everything she did was careful and meek.

She looked at me like she was conscious of every word coming out of her mouth. Now she’s looking at me like she got what she came for and she’s comfortable with it.

Like the show was for Cillian and I’m just what’s left over.

It makes my stomach turn.

Or maybe that’s the pregnancy.

I can’t tell right now.

My nausea and my dread have merged into one undifferentiated awful feeling that has been sitting in my chest since she knocked on my door and hasn’t moved.

She catches me looking at her and her smile is small and polite.

Something about it makes my skin crawl.

“Tell me more,” I finally say, trying to get rid of the feeling with conversation. I need to go over her story again—something sounds off but I just don’t know what. “About Belfast. About you and Cillian.” I keep my voice easy and breezy so she doesn’t know how I’m truly feeling. “I feel like I’m missing some of it.”