Page 97 of Ruthless Claim

The back seat is warm and smells like leather, and I rest my head against the window, watching the city go by in the grey light. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open before we’ve even hit Fifth Avenue.

My body has very clear opinions about what I should be doing and those opinions are lying down immediately, preferably forever.

I’ve been negotiating with it since I found out I’m pregnant and I’m constantly losing.

My eyes close somewhere around 65th Street and I jolt awake at 72nd with that lurching panicked feeling of someone who didn’t mean to fall asleep and isn’t sure how much time has passed.

I straighten up, smooth my coat, and look out the window.

I never used to be a person who fell asleep in cars in the middle of the afternoon, but this baby has other plans for me.

The building comes into view and the driver slows to a stop. “We’ve arrived, Mrs. Brennan,” my driver calls.

Mrs. Brennan. I’m still not used to my name change. Will I ever stop thinking of myself as Valentina Santoro? Magic 8 ball says unclear. I thank my driver, gather my things, and wait for him to open my door.

The whole way up to the penthouse, I sag against the wall, fighting the urge to close my eyes.

I can’t wait to crawl into bed and sleep for a few hours.

Growing this baby takes a lot out of me.

No one else told me that the exhaustion would be this bone deep. I’m going to have words with Emma next time I see her.

All I want is to take off these shoes and get horizontal and stay there until tomorrow.

The elevator opens and I drag myself into the foyer. I’m already calculating the number of steps to the bedroom and whether I can justify not taking my makeup off first when I hear Cillian’s voice from behind the study door.

I don’t even register it really, just file it as Cillian, work, fine, and keep moving toward the bedroom.

I hear him come out into the hall as I’m halfway to our room. I turn, already opening my mouth to tell him I’m taking a fat nap, but then I see his face.

He stops in the doorway when he sees me.

His eyes catch on me and hold and brows lift a fraction.

His mouth stills and for a split second his whole face tightens so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

Then it’s gone. His expression smooths out and he leans against the doorframe, easy, like nothing about this surprises him.

But I saw it, and my stomach has already registered it before my brain has caught up.

“You’re home early,” my husband remarks in his normal voice.

“Mamma had an appointment.” I keep my voice easy. “Good call? Everything okay?”

“Work.” He pushes off the doorframe and heads to the kitchen. “It’s nothing important.”

I follow him, watching as he crosses to the fridge and gets a water. He drinks it with his back slightly toward me. He checks his phone, then he sets it face down on the counter.

I look at the phone. Then at him.

He never puts his phone face down.

“How was lunch?” he asks.

“Fine. Short.” I keep watching him. I can’t stop watching him.

“Good.” He opens the fridge again and stands there for a second looking into it before he closes it.