Page 136 of Stolen Vows

Her brows pull together. “Graham?—”

“I mean it, Francesca.” I drop my forehead to hers, my grip firm at the nape of her neck. “I’ll take care of what I need to here, and then I’m coming. I won’t leave you without backup.”

Her breath catches. And for a split second, her resolve wavers. She closes her eyes and exhales slowly before stepping back. “Okay,” she says softly. She doesn’t fight me on it.

I watch her for a long moment, committing every detail to memory. The determined set of her jaw, the fire burning in her hazel eyes, the way her hair falls around her face in soft, golden waves. She’s a force of nature, my wife. Strong and fierce and loyal to a fault.

And she fuckingloves me.

Shelovesme.

The knowledge wraps around my heart, settles deep in my bones. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

I cup her face in my hands, bringing our lips together in the softest kiss we’ve ever shared. It’s tender and powerful, like the wing of a butterfly. Her lips part against mine, and I take advantage, sweeping my tongue inside to lay claim to my wife.

48

FRANCESCA

The streetsof Winthrop Harbor haven’t changed. Same stately houses, same perfectly manicured lawns, same old-money elegance pressed into every inch like a museum exhibit frozen in time.

But I have changed.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I drive through my old neighborhood, stomach twisting with nerves. I don’t belong here anymore. The town, the expectations, the gilded cages disguised as privileges—I walked away. No, I ran away. Every single chance I could.

I told myself I would never come back. That it would take the apocalypse to get me back home, but it turns out it only took one phone call from my sister.

Florence’s house looms ahead, tucked behind wrought-iron gates and trimmed hedges sculpted into neat little boxes. It looks just like our childhood home. Pristine, curated, devoid of warmth.

No sign of her husband’s sleek, overpriced sports car. No security guards standing at attention. That should feel like a relief. But it doesn’t.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the tension clamped around my spine.

“Just get Florence out. That’s the priority. Everything else can wait. The details, the fallout, the inevitable reckoning with my mother. It can all wait,” I murmur to myself. I almost reach toward the passenger seat, a reflex to sink my fingers into Romeo’s fluffy fur when I’m feeling anxious. But this is a rental car, and he’s not here. I asked Graham to watch him, since driving back home would take me four times as long as flying.

I kill the engine and sit in silence, my pulse a steady drum against my ribs. I don’t want to be here. Not in this house. Not in this town. Not anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of my mother.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Catherine Ashburn doesn’t need to be in the room to make her presence known. She’s a shadow, her voice an echo in my head. My father’s disinterest always cut me, but my mother’s words? They bled me dry.

If she knew I was here, she’d be waiting. Calculating. Already three moves ahead.

My fingers twitch over my phone, my gut screaming at me to call Graham even as my pride holds me back. I told him I didn’t need him to save me, and I meant it. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear him.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead and command,Focus, Francesca.But my brain won’t cooperate. Instead, it replays our last conversation like a tape on loop. The unexpected dust-up—it wasnotan argument. The frustration. The heat of the moment when I—God.I can’t believe I yelled I love you at him like that.

Of all the ways I imagined telling him for the first time, shouting it mid-argument wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t planning on saying it. It just came out, like a truth I had no control over. And yet, it wasn’t a surprise. Not really.

I think I’ve known for a while, if I’m being honest with myself. The realization crept up on me slowly, taking root in quiet moments and stolen glances. In the way his hands cradle my face, in the gruff timbre of his voice when he calls me sunshine. In the steadiness of his presence, an anchor in the chaos.

Graham Carter carved out a space in my heart when I wasn’t looking. And now, well . . . now I can’t imagine my life without him in it.

And sitting in this car, staring at my sister’s house like it might swallow me whole, I finally let myself think about what I ignored before I left. How off he was acting. At the time, I was wrapped up in my own panic and anxiety, focused on getting to Florence. I thought he was just being Graham. Overprotective, maybe a little stubborn, possessive in that quiet, alluring way of his.

But now I’m not so sure. He wouldn’t let me bring my laptop or tablet. Said he needed to check them for malware or something. And he double-checked my phone before I left. I should have asked more questions. Should have pushed.

And now, I’m worried that I left him when he needed me.

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