Page 130 of Filthy Promises

He hangs up before I can respond.

I sink onto my couch, phone still clutched in my hand. This is the right thing to do. I know it is. Creating distance now will make it easier when everything inevitably falls apart.

But knowing it’s right doesn’t make it any less painful.

The next few days at work are tense. Vince watches me constantly, those ice-blue eyes following my every move.

I keep my distance. Professional. Efficient.

No lingering touches. No heated glances.

My body betrays me in a thousand different ways—nausea that sends me running to the bathroom multiple times a day, exhaustion that makes my eyes droop by mid-afternoon, breasts so tender that even the brush of my blouse is almost unbearable.

If Vince notices (and of course he does; he notices everything), he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches. Waits.

Like he knows I’m hiding something.

“You look pale,” he observes on the third day of my new strategy of “fake it ‘til you make it.” He’s standing in my doorway, hands in his pockets, deceptively casual. “Still not feeling well?”

“Just tired,” I reply, not looking up from my computer screen. “Lots going on.”

He moves into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click makes me tense.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I reluctantly raise my eyes to his.

“What’s going on, Rowan?” he asks, his voice gentler than I expected. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. We both know that’s not true.”

For a moment, I nearly crack. The words press against my lips:I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m scared. What are we going to do?

“It’s my mom,” I say instead. “The treatment is hard on her. I’m worried.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Mom’s treatment is brutal, leaving her exhausted and sick. But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Vince studies me, doubt written clearly across his face. “Is that all?” he presses.

I nod, looking away. “That’s all.”

He moves closer, rounding my desk until he stands directly in front of me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up to his.

“As you wish,” he says, retreating behind that mask of indifference he wears so well. “When you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on, you know where to find me.”

He turns and stalks out of my office, leaving me alone with my secrets and my fears.

I press my hand to my still-flat stomach, tears burning behind my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to. Vince? Our unborn child? Myself?

Maybe all of us.

I’m emptying my stomach into the toilet at work when I hear the bathroom door open.

“Row? Are you okay in there?” Natalie’s concerned voice echoes off the tiles.

“Fine,” I call weakly, flushing the evidence of my morning sickness away. “Just a bug.”

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