Page 41 of Stolen Vows

She lingers for a second, her lips parting like she might say something else. Then, softly, “Next time, Graham.”

I step through the door, letting it swing shut behind me. And I don’t look back even though I want to. But knowing there’s something between us doesn’t mean I know what the fuck to do about it.

Ten minutes later, I push through the front door, stepping into the shared apartment between me and Beau. The familiar scent of cleaner and lemon-scented dish soap lingers in the air, and I find him at the kitchen sink, sleeves pushed up as he scrubs the basin with an unnecessary amount of aggression.

“Ah, so you found the cleaning chart, I see,” I mutter, slipping my keys into my front pocket.

Beau glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Figured if I’m stuck cleaning, I might as well give it my all.”

I huff. “You’re stuck cleaning because it’s your turn.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His gaze flicks over me, his smirk widening. “So. How’d it go?”

I arch a brow. “How’d what go?”

Beau snorts. “Your non-girlfriend cake delivery. Did Cora pull through for you or what?”

A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t have to think about why. It’s the look on Francesca’s face when she took her first bite. The way her eyes lit up, how she hummed in approval, how she told me I was thoughtful.

Fucking hell.

Beau’s eyes widen, and he jerks upright, pointing at me. “Holy shit. Hold on. Where’s my phone?” He pats his pockets. “I need to document this for history. Graham Carter is smiling.”

I roll my eyes, scoffing as I push off the counter. “Everyone knows I smile.”

“Yeah? When? Name one time.”

I flip him off over my shoulder as I walk toward my apartment. “This morning. When I realized it was your turn to clean.”

Beau groans, muttering curses under his breath as I push open the door to my apartment. I step inside and lock it behind me.

Time to get to work.

I step into my office, the glow of my monitors filling the dark room, and something coils tight in my chest.

I pull up the program, my fingers hovering over the keys.

For years, I’ve been piecing together an impossible puzzle. Searching for a woman I was never supposed to find again. And now?

She’s here. Close enough that if I’m patient, if I play my cards right, I won’t need a fucking algorithm to learn about her.

But I ran the program earlier, and now, the results flicker across the screen. I roll my shoulders back, cracking my neck. My cursor hovers over the folder I saved earlier, Francesca’s name glaring back at me in bold, black text.

I know I shouldn’t look, but the logical part of my brain disagrees.

I don’t need everything. Just the broad strokes. Just enough to make sense of who she is. Simple shit like her last name.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I click the folder open.

Francesca Ashburn.

Her name stares back at me from the screen, bold black letters against the white background. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs as I exhale slowly, the air hissing through my teeth.

Ashburn. The name rings bells I can’t place yet, but that’s secondary. After all this time, all the searching and wondering, I finally have a full name to put to the face that’s lingered for ten long years.

It’s such a simple thing, really. Two words. Sixteen letters. Five syllables. And yet, seeing them there, knowing they belong to her, feels bigger than just a name on a screen.

A flood of information populates my monitor, neatly categorized. Financial records, property ownership, legal documents, linked accounts, addresses.

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