Page 129 of Filthy Promises

The man who kills people who get in his way. The man with a gun in his drawer, with a secretary bent over on his desk, with blood on his knuckles and violence in his eyes.

The man I’m hopelessly, stupidly in love with, despite knowing he’ll never love me back.

I slide to the floor, knees drawn up to my chest, and let the tears come.

What am I going to do? Keep it? End it? Tell him? Not tell him?

My hand drifts to my still-flat stomach. There’s a baby in there. A tiny collection of cells that’s half me, half Vince.

For a brief, insane moment, I picture what our child might look like. Dark hair with streaks of silver, maybe. Green eyes like mine.

The thought sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks.

Because any fantasy where Vince and I raise a child together is just that: a fantasy. A beautiful, impossible fantasy that will shatter the moment it meets reality.

Vince is going to marry someone from his world. That much is clear. She’ll have perfect hair and unimpeachable connections. The right background, the right bloodline.

Not his knocked-up assistant from Marketing.

Sure, he might offer financial support. He might even feel obligated to take care of me in some way—he’s proven that with Mom’s treatment.

But obligation isn’t love. It isn’t family. It isn’t forever.

And I want more than his dirty little obligation. I deserve more than that. This baby deserves more than that.

The thought stops me cold. This baby. My baby.Ourbaby.

I place both hands on my stomach now, a fierce protectiveness washing over me.

Whether I keep this baby or not, one thing is clear: I need to protect myself. I need to start building some distance between Vince and me. I need to prepare for the inevitable end of whatever this is between us.

Because every path I can see leads to heartbreak. Every single one.

And if heartbreak is coming no matter what, I’d rather face it on my terms.

Starting now.

“I can’t tonight,” I tell Vince over the phone later that day. “I’m not feeling well.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a stomach bug, I think. Nothing serious.”

The lie sits heavy on my tongue. Is it really a lie, though? Morning sickness is technically a stomach issue.

“I’ll send the car,” he says immediately. “You shouldn’t be alone if you’re ill.”

My heart squeezes painfully at his concern. This is what makes it so hard—these moments where he seems to genuinely care.

“No, really, I’m fine. I just need to sleep it off.”

“Rowan,” his voice drops lower, taking on that edge that usually makes my knees weak, “I haven’t seen you in days.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been hectic with Mom’s treatment starting, and now, this bug…”

Another pause. I can practically feel his suspicion through the phone.

“Fine.” His tone turns clipped, professional. “Feel better. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

---