Page 183 of Ruthless Claim

“A child,” Claire exclaims, horrified.

Cillian is truly uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“She told you that you and I had a child together.”

“Yes.”

“And you—” She stops herself, realizing she didn’t need to ask that question because it’s clear that yes, Cillian did believe the woman posing as her that they had a child together.

“I have a son,” she says instead, her voice climbing slightly. "His name is Finn.” My eyes widen in shock and Cillian looks like he’s about to be sick. “But he’s three. He looks exactly like my husband Declan who I’ve been married to for six years, and if you told Declan any of this he would—” She breaks off. “Is there any chance this is some kind of misunderstanding? That maybe she’s someone else you⁠—”

“There isn’t,” Cillian says firmly, shutting down that line of thought.

“Right.” Claire lets out a long exhale. “Right, okay.” From the rustling in the background, she sat down heavily. “So someone stole my name. My middle name that I used to avoid giving my real one to someone I’d just met, and this person claimed you and I had a child together?”

“That’s the sum of it, yes.”

Claire mutters something unintelligible. “I don’t—I don’t understand. We only—we only saw each other a few times that summer. How would they know who I am? Why would they steal my identity?”

That the million dollar question. It’s about as answerless as “what is the meaning of life?”

“Claire,” Cillian says, and to his credit his voice is remarkably even, “do you need anything from us? Do you want us to⁠—”

“I want you to make sure she stops using my name,” Claire says firmly. “I have a life here. A good life. I have Declan and Finn and I really, truly cannot have any part of whatever this is following me home.” She pauses again and this time, her voice is softer. “I’m sorry it happened to you. I really am. But I cannot stress enough how much I would like to never think about that summer and that pub again.”

“Understood,” Cillian says because he too would like to never think about that summer and that pub ever again. “Thank you for your time.”

“Please don’t call again.”

My husband smiles sardonically. “I won’t.”

She hangs up.

We sit there in silence for a moment, digesting all the information we just learned.

“She gave you a fake name,” I say, my voice a little too bright, “because you made her uncomfortable.”

Cillian flashes me a filthy look. “Valentina,” he warns.

“How uncomfortable, exactly, on a scale of ten, did you make her?” I ask, unable to help myself.

Cillian throws his hands up in the air. “That’s what you seriously want to know?” he demands, looking peevish.

But underneath that irritation, I can see how disappointed he is.

He’d been hoping this woman would have something we could go on, and instead we got a mortified housewife in Cork who gave him a fake name because he seemed a bit intense at a bar nearly a decade ago.

My amusement fades.

“Hey,” I say quietly, reaching for him.

He shakes his head slightly and pockets his phone a bit roughly. “Still fucking nothing.”

“Still nothing,” I agree.

We sit with that for a moment.

“She was right though.” A small smirk plays at my lips. “You do have a certain⁠—”