Page 70 of Stolen Vows

Graham Oliver Carter.

“Your middle name is Oliver?” I step between his legs, getting closer to the monitor.

A soft laugh hits my back, and I swear I can feel it like a soft caress.

“Click on the folder, Francesca.”

I move the mouse so it hovers over the folder, and before I can talk myself out of it, I click it.

My breath catches as the folder opens and hundreds of documents appear. Bank statements, property records, legal filings. It’s all there, laid out in neat digital rows. My eyes skim over the files, catching on certain words and phrases. Trust fund. Inheritance. Marriage clause. Property taxes. The Alley.

I swallow hard, my hand trembling slightly on the mouse. “What is all this?”

Graham’s voice is low, almost gentle, as he replies. “My digital footprint.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all. “But why are you showing me this? I thought—I thought you were going to show memyfiles. My footprint.”

Graham’s hand settles on my hip, his touch light but steadying. “This is about more than just your files, Francesca. It’s about trust. Transparency. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to get married, even just on paper, I need you to understand what you’d be signing up for. Who you’d be signing up for.”

I let out a shaky exhale, my mind reeling. Slowly, I lower myself onto his lap, perching on one muscular thigh. He makes a low sound in his throat, his hand flexing on my hip.

I turn my head to look at Graham, our faces only inches apart. His gaze is dark, intense, as it meets mine. My heart pounds against my ribs, desire and confusion warring within me.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

Graham’s hands settle on my hips, the warmth of his touch seeping through my cotton dress. He gently tugs me back until I’m perched on his lap, my back pressed against his solid chest.

“I wanted you to see mine first,” he murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. “So you’d understand.”

“Understand what?” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.

His thumb rubs soothing circles on my hip as he speaks. “If I’m asking you to trust me,” Graham says quietly, “then I should show you that trust first.”

I swallow hard, my heart racing at his words. At the implication behind them. “Graham, I . . .” I don’t know what to say. This feels like a gift but the dangerous kind. I swallow hard. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did.” His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it. Something deeper.

My gaze bounces around the screen. “And now what? You want me to go through your records and find your darkest secrets?”

“If that’s what you need. Or you could ask me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

I shake my head, something between disbelief and curiosity tugging at my ribs. “You’re really all-in on this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. Just certainty.

I stare at the screen, at the folders and documents representing the most private details of Graham’s life. My mind whirs, trying to process everything that’s happening. The marriage proposal, the revelations about my own tangled legal situation, and now this. Graham laying himself bare, offering me unfettered access to who he is beneath the surface.

It’s overwhelming, intimate in a way that makes my heart squeeze almost painfully in my chest. I shift on his lap, turning to face him fully. His hands fall to my hips, steadying me as I meet his gaze.

“Tell me what you get out of it,” I whisper.

Graham exhales through his nose, then reaches around me for a red folder on his desk. My stomach tightens.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just sets the folder in front of me, his fingers lingering on it for half a second before he pushes it toward me.

I stare at the red folder, my heart pounding. With trembling fingers, I flip it open. The first page is a legal document, the words “Irrevocable Trust” in bold at the top. My eyes skim the densely packed text, catching on certain phrases. Marriage clause, half the sum, stock portfolio, forfeiture of trust assets.

I look up at Graham, my brow furrowed in confusion. “What is this?”

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