Page 57 of Stolen Vows

And I don’t fucking like that.

I push through my front door, toeing off my boots. My house is quiet, dim. I flick on a few lights, making my way toward the kitchen out of sheer habit. Water. I need water. Or maybe something stronger.

Because I know what I’m about to do.

I tell myself I’m just curious. That I just want to make sense of things. That it’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any otherclient.

Except Francesca isn’t a client. She’s so much more than that. Which somehow makes this worse. Or better.

I can’t fucking tell anymore. Seems to be a running theme when it comes to her. I don’t know what’s going to come out of her mouth half the time, which is both exhilarating and terrifying. It’s wild to think that a five-foot-five blonde ball of sunshine could ever be scary.

But it’s that good kind of fear, like standing on the edge of a cliff and feeling the swooping thrill in your stomach as you peer over the edge. It’s the fear that comes from the unknown, from the possibility, from wanting something so badly it terrifies you.

And god, do I want her.

In every possible way. I want to wake up to her smile and fall asleep with her tucked against my chest. I want to listen to her talk about books for hours, watch the way her eyes light up and her hands gesture wildly as she gets excited. I want to make her laugh, bring her coffee and walk Romeo.

And to get all of that, I need to know what I’m up against. What’s really going on.

I sigh, stretching my neck to either side as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a long swig. The cool liquid doing little to settle the restless energy thrumming through me. I set it on the counter with more force than necessary.

There are two choices here.

One: I respect her privacy, let it go, and pretend like she isn’t sitting at the center of my fucking chest like an unsolved equation, demanding to be worked out.

Or two: I open the folder on my computer.

I brace my palms on the edge of the counter, letting my head hang. Yeah. Who the fuck am I kidding?

I push off the counter and swipe my bottle of water. Then I’m moving, long strides carrying me to my office before I can second guess myself. The glow of my monitors greets me as I drop into my chair, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

I pull up Oracle & Sentinel, the programs I built years ago for these exact kinds of deep dives. My fingers fly over the keys, entering search parameters and filters, honing in on Francesca and Fiction & Folklore in the unlikely event there’s new information in the last two months.

My fingers flex over the keys, hesitation creeping in. I shouldn’t do this. Not like this. If she found out . . . would she look at me differently? Would she hate me for it?

A muscle in my jaw jumps. This isn’t just curiosity anymore. This is about her. About making sure she’s not being backed into a corner with no way out.

Francesca Ashburn.

It’s a relatively uncommon last name, which made the very basic search I did fruitful. It’s a name with weight. The kind that grows heavy with generations of money and influence. Not just old money.Deepmoney. The kind that’s been building for generations, weaving itself into the fabric of high society.

A few clicks, and the folder opens, data populating across my screen. It’s the same information that was there, but two months ago, I only skimmed a couple of basic documents.

Two keystrokes later, and I’m digging deeper than I ever have before. Property records, legal documents, financial holdings. It’s all there, laid out in neat rows and columns.

I lose myself in the search, my brows furrowing as I read through Miriam Astor’s will and estate documentation. In an interesting move, Miriam left several things to her niece, Francesca, instead of her husband. Or anyone else. Including the bookstore and the loft above it.

And then, buried in the fine print, I find it. An Ashburn addendum.

My eyes narrow as I read through the addendum, a sinking feeling settling in my gut with each line.

In the event that Miriam Astor has passed away before Francesca Ashburn (hereinafter referred to as “the Beneficiary”) reaches the Ashburn Clause milestone, defined as either (1) the Beneficiary’s thirtieth birthday or (2) the Beneficiary remaining legally married for a minimum of one year, then all assets, including the property located at 807 Main Street in Avalon Falls (the first story bookstore and loft apartment), shall be transferred to a trust, to be managed by the Beneficiary’s guardians (hereinafter referred to as “the Trustees”) until such time as the Beneficiary reaches the Ashburn Clause milestone.

The Trustees shall have full discretion over the assets in the trust, including but not limited to the right to sell, lease, or otherwise dispose of the property at 807 Main Street.

I skim over the rest, my mood plummeting with each line of legalese. It all amounts to the same thing: she’s fucked.

My computer pings, and I switch my attention to the monitor on my left. Oracle has returned with one new document since I last ran the search. I click it open, my eyes scanning the text.

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