Page 85 of Stolen Vows

“I can’t sleep.”

His head tilts, gaze sharpening. “And so you came to me.”

There’s something deeply, unfairly intimate about the way he says it. A challenge. A dare.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Is that okay?”

“I’m your husband.” He says it like it’s the only answer that matters.

I shake my head, laughing softly. “Can I come in?”

His smirk fades, replaced by something steadier. Something real. “It’s your house too, Francesca. You don’t need my permission.”

I step inside before I can rethink it. Graham’s office is controlled chaos.

Whiteboards filled with notes and arrows, organized in a way that seems erratic but, knowing him, is probably highly methodical. Multiple monitors glow, casting the space in an ambient blue light. The desk is neat, too neat considering the sheer amount of information he’s working through.

It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect. Not because of the space itself, but because it’s so him. Logical. Efficient. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

“Still working on that school thing?” I ask, looking at the whiteboard.

He sinks into his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Nah, fixed that already. I’m working on another.”

My gaze drifts over his whiteboard, skimming the scrawled words and branching arrows. I recognize some of the terminology, though most of it is lost on me. But then, something catches my eye. Glendale River School District written in big bold letters.

I frown slightly. “Is this your current client?”

“One of them. Want to see what I’m working on?” He sounds eager, like he’s barely holding himself back from showing me.

“Definitely.”

Graham grins, a boyish excitement lighting up his features. He spins his chair to face the monitors, gesturing for me to come closer. “C’mere, sunshine. I’ll show you.”

I pad over to his desk, bare feet sinking into the plush area rug. The glow of the screens illuminates his face as I approach, casting his features in sharp relief. He looks younger like this, the intensity that always simmers beneath his surface softened by genuine enthusiasm.

He points to lines of code on the central monitor, his finger tracing the pattern as he explains. “See this? It’s a hacker’s code,” he explains, glancing up at me. “They’ve infiltrated this school district’s network, holding it and their information for ransom. Student records, financial information, you name it. But there’s something interesting here. See this?” He points to a specific line of code, his brow furrowed in concentration. “See this string right here? It’s like a signature. Every hacker has their own style, their own calling card. And I’ve seen one similar to this before.”

I lean in closer, my hair brushing his shoulder as I squint at the screen. The lines of code are gibberish to me, but Graham seems to read them like a second language.

“Where have you seen it before?” I ask, genuinely curious. Watching him work, seeing the way his mind takes in and processes is fascinating.

He leans back in his chair, his eyes still locked on the monitors. “A few months ago, with another client. Different school district, but similar M.O. Hold the network hostage, demand payment in cryptocurrency.”

I frown, pieces starting to click into place. “So you think it’s the same hacker? They’re targeting school districts specifically?”

“Similar, but not the same.” He types rapidly, pulling up what looks like an email exchange. “The superintendent mentioned getting emails a few weeks before the attack. Phishing attempts, same as the other two school districts I’ve looked into in the last few months.”

“So there’s a pattern,” I murmur. “Could it be a copycat type of this? Does that happen?”

“It does. It’s why I started this.” He types in a few commands and pulls up what looks like a complicated spreadsheet. “A database so I can keep track of signatures and styles, clients and known or assumed hackers.”

“That’s so smart,” I murmur, my gaze sliding over his monitors. “Huh, that’s a weird coincidence.”

At my tone, Graham stills. “What is?”

I gesture to the screen. “North Cape and Glendale River. Those school districts are neighboring my hometown.” I tilt my head. “Strange, right?”

“Hm,” he hums under his breath.

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