Page 137 of Stolen Vows

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, pulling my phone from my bag. My fingers move on instinct.

Me: I’m at Florence’s house.

I hesitate for a half-second before dropping a pin and sending it to him.

Me: If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, you know where to find me.

His response comes through instantly.

Graham: The clock started when you left. If you’re not home in ten hours, I’m coming for you. Not a second longer, wife.

A slow, steady warmth unfurls in my stomach. I don’t think that math adds up, but I’m not going to argue.

Me: I’m counting on it.

The certainty of his words, the promise in them, wraps around me like armor. It’s still new, this feeling of having someone in my corner. Someone who sees me, all of me, and chooses me anyway. It’s thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, the vulnerability of it. The power he holds, whether he realizes it or not.

I’ve spent most of my life looking over my shoulder, expecting no one to catch me if I fall. It’s a hard habit to break, the instinct to guard myself, to keep everyone at arm’s length.

But Graham isn’t everyone. He’s my husband. My partner in the truest sense of the word. And I meant what I said, I love him.

Completely. Irrevocably. In a way that shakes me to my core.

With a steadying breath, I tuck my phone back into my bag and climb out of the car. The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I make my way up the long, winding drive. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m walking through quicksand. The perfectly manicured lawn mocks me, the cheerful beds of annuals lining the path a jarring contrast to the dread coiling in my stomach.

Florence should already be at the door. Should be peeking through the curtains, waiting for me, maybe throwing open the door the second I knock.

But there’s nothing but silence.

By the time I reach the front door, my heart is racing, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and raise my hand to knock.

The door swings open before my knuckles make contact. A woman stands in the doorway. I don’t recognize her. Older, dressed in the crisp uniform of a housekeeper, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She doesn’t make eye contact, just steps aside, motioning me in.

Every instinct inside me screamsturn around.To walk right back down the driveway, get in my car, and leave.

But I can’t. Not when Florence needs me. Not when I promised her I would come.

I step over the threshold, the click of my sneakers echoing on the marble floor. The foyer is grand, ostentatious, a sweeping double staircase curving up to the second floor. Everything gleams, polished to a high shine. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place.

It reminds me of my parents’ house. Cold and soulless. A mausoleum masquerading as a home.

“Miss Florence is waiting for you in her office.” She gestures to the hallway on the left, not quite meeting my eyes.

Unease prickles along my spine as I follow her direction. Something feels off, a whisper of wrongness threading through the air. The house is too still, too silent. Like it's holding its breath.

My fingers flex at my sides as I pass the grand staircase, my body already bracing for impact.

Just get Florence and go.I repeat the words like a mantra, letting them ground me as I step through the archway leading down another hallway.

I step into the office, my gaze immediately seeking out my sister. But it’s not Florence who greets me.

Catherine Kennedy Carrington Ashburn perches on the edge of her desk, expression sharp and chignon sharper. A triumphant smile curls her red-painted lips.

“There she is, my favorite disappointment.”

A long-suffering sigh wrenches through the thick air. “Come now, darling. It’s a little late for the dramatics, don’t you think?” my father drawls.

I turn on my heel and school my features, refusing to let an ounce of shock bleed into my expression. Of all the things I expected to see, this was not one of them.

---