"You're insufferable."
"Maybe," he says softly, "but you still can't keep your eyes off me."
"Maybe I don't want to."
♥___________♥
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢
Playboy, arrogant, and egoistic-sounds like a typical jerk, right? But there's more to Marco th...
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The morning had been relatively quiet for once. I was halfway through my coffee, savoring the rare moment of calm when Marco stormed in. Without a word, he slammed a file onto my desk, the force rattling my cup.
"Eleanor did it," he declared.
I glanced at the file, then back up at him, unbothered. "Cool," I said flatly. "And your proof?"
He jabbed a finger at the folder. "Right there."
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Marco, last time I checked, I couldn't read closed files. Hate to disappoint you, but I'm not a superhero."
Marco huffed, his eyes narrowing at me like I was the one making this difficult. He snatched the file back and flipped it open, practically shoving it under my nose. "Look at this," he pointed to a series of photos, each one showing Mayor Romano with different women. "Romano wasn't exactly loyal. You saw Eleanor when she came in. She wasn't even remotely upset—why? Because she killed him. She was sick of being cheated on and got her revenge."
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "So your theory is that she found out about the affairs and snapped? Took matters into her own hands?"
Marco nodded, "Exactly. You didn't see the way she carried herself, calm, too calm. That wasn't grief. It was relief."
"Even if you are right—" I started, but he cut me off. This brat.
"Which I am."
"You need more proof than this, Marco," I said, trying to rein in my annoyance. "We can't just walk in and accuse a grieving widow based on a hunch and some photos. You need something solid, something that will hold up in court."
Marco didn't miss a beat. "Look, she was the one who called the police. She supposedly 'came home after midnight' and found him dead. It's too suspicious."
I raised an eyebrow. "People do find dead bodeis, you know. It's not exactly unheard of."
He shook his head, frustration in his voice. "But she wasn't even upset. She walked in here playing the perfect widow, but it felt rehearsed. Like she knew exactly what she was doing."
"And you think that makes her the killer?" I asked, crossing my arms.
Marco leaned forward. "I think it makes her someone who's hiding something."
"Hiding something doesn't mean she killed her husband," I said, "She might not have been upset," I said, keeping my voice steady, "but that could be because she knew about the affairs and didn't want to grieve a cheating whore."
Marco huffed, clearly not impressed. "You're giving her too much credit."
I shrugged, leaning back in my chair. "Maybe, but we can't jump to conclusions. People react differently to grief. Some shut down completely, others—" I paused, gesturing, "pretend they don't care."
