Page 157 of Ruthless Claim

I just don’t know if thinking will be enough to save what I just broke.

20

CILLIAN

I spend three days in another hotel room, eating room service I don’t taste, and running Connor’s jobs on autopilot while my phone sits on the nightstand.

Every time it buzzes I think it’s Valentina.

It’s never Valentina.

She’d called me blind.

Said I wanted to believe Claire out of some twisted need to prove I wasn’t Connor’s creature.

The words have burrowed under my skin and set up residence there because I can’t do anything except sit with the possibility that my wife—who is smarter than me in ways I’ll never quite admitted out loud—might be right.

Am I being manipulated? Or is Valentina lashing out because she can’t handle the reality that his life is more complicated than she’d been forced to sign up for?

I don’t know.

So I do the only thing that makes sense: I meet with Claire and I watch.

The first crack appears during a meeting at a park near the Upper East Side.

Finn is on the swings. Claire is beside me on a bench, close enough that I’m aware of the warmth of her, and she’s telling me about Finn’s school.

“The district is fine,” she says, “but fine isn’t good enough, you know? He’s a smart kid. He deserves better.” She shakes her head, and there’s a softness in it, a practiced weariness. “It’s just hard. Everything in this city costs so much. Rent, food, supplies. I’ve been working two jobs just to keep us above water.”

Somehow, Claire always makes sure to mention money. But I hear it differently this time—not as the confession of a struggling woman but as the opening line of an ask.

“I’m planning to set up a trust for Finn’s education,” I tell her, and I watch her face while I say it.

Her eyes light up. Just for a second, there and gone, but I see it. Relief and something else underneath the relief. Satisfaction.

“That’s wonderful,” she breathes, and her hand closes around my arm. Her fingers trace down my forearm slowly, and it is not how you touch someone’s arm in a casual conversation. “You’re a good man, Cillian. I knew you would be.”

I remove her hand from my arm. “I’m married, Claire.”

“Right.” She pulls back, laughing softly, ducking her head, her cheeks pink. “I’m sorry. I just—it’s been so long since anyone helped carry this. It gets overwhelming sometimes.”

She looks at me with those big dark eyes and I want to believe she means it, but my suspicion is starting to spike. Is this real? Or is she playing a role? The way the vulnerability switches on and off like a light feels wrong.

“Mum!” Finn runs over to us, breathless from running from the swings. He’s panting, his brown eyes sparkling from the exertion. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Not today, sweetheart.” Claire’s voice softens as she looks at her—our—son sympathetically. “We can’t really afford⁠—”

“I’ll buy it,” I say before I can stop myself.

Finn whoops with delight. Claire smiles at me over his head. “You’re so generous.”

Generous. What an odd word to use for a father buying his son ice cream.

We walk to the ice cream cart and Finn falls into step beside me, looking up at me with childlike curiosity.

“Are you really rich?” he asks. “Mum says you have a lot of money.”

“Finn!” Claire’s voice snaps with an edge I haven’t heard before. “That’s not polite.”