Page 42 of Ruthless Claim

“It’s mature,” I insist. “We’re adults. We handled it like adults.”

“Mmm.” She sounds unconvinced. “And why exactly can’t it happen again?”

I flash her a look. “Where would you like me to start?”

“Wherever the list begins.”

“We hate each other,” I start, using my fingers to make my points. “The marriage is supposed to be in name only. Getting physically involved complicates an already complicated situation. I refuse—refuse—to develop feelings for a man who was handed to me like a transaction because it’s convenient for our families.” I pause. “Also he’s an infuriating jackass.”

“That’s a lot of reasons,” Emma says.

“I have more.”

“I’m sure you do.” She looks at me steadily. “Can I say something?”

I sigh. “Not like I can stop you.”

“You’re protesting very hard,” she tells me, with a gentleness that takes the edge off it, “for someone who already agreed it was over and moved on. That’s all I’ll say.”

I study her, her green eyes warm as she watches me back.

“I’m not you,” I say quietly. “I know how your story went, Emma, and it’s—” I struggle for the words. “I love it. I love what you and Leo have. But I’m not built the way you are. I don’t—it’s not easy for me to let someone in. And I’m certainly not going to start with a man I was handed like a bill to be paid.”

Emma’s expression softens. “I know,” she says, simply. And she doesn’t push further, which I’m grateful for.

Our food arrives and we spend the rest of our time chatting.

We talk about the baby.

They have a name picked out but aren’t saying what it is, the assholes.

We talk about her mother visiting.

We talk about the gallery.

We let Cillian sit in the middle of the table, unaddressed like the centerpiece neither of us ordered.

When we hug goodbye outside, she holds on a moment.

“You’re allowed to want things, Val,” she says against my shoulder. “Even things that are inconvenient.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I hug her tighter before I pull back. “I’ll call you this week,” I tell her before I get into my car. Then I spend the whole drive not thinking about what she said.

I time my return deliberately. It’s past ten by the time my car pulls up to the building.

I purposefully agreed to a late dinner with my college friend Bethany and ran it long on purpose.

I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t the apartment for as long as possible, and I calculated a seventy percent chance Cillian is already in his study or asleep.

The elevator opens onto the penthouse foyer and I see that the lights are on in the living room.

Fuck.

He’s in the armchair by the window.

It’s his armchair because he claimed it by virtue of always being in it.

I have never challenged this because picking my battles is something I’ve gotten better at.