Page 204 of Filthy Promises

“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, surprising myself. “When the baby comes, when you’re both healthy and strong, I’ll take you somewhere without light pollution. Somewhere you can really see the stars.”

Her eyes widen. “You’d do that?”

“I’d do a lot more than that, if you asked.”

Another silence falls, but it’s not awkward. Just thoughtful.

“We didn’t know each other at all, did we?” she asks finally. “Not really. Even after everything.”

“We’re learning now,” I reply. “That’s what matters.”

“Is it enough, though? To build a life on?”

The question is an uncertain thing hovering between, weightier and thornier than anything should be at three in the morning.

But it’s the right question. The necessary one.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I want it to be.”

“Me, too,” she whispers. “Me, too.”

We talk until dawn breaks, sharing pieces of ourselves that have nothing to do with the Akopovs or the Petrovs or any of thecomplications that brought us together. Just ordinary things. Childhood memories. Favorite foods. Books we’ve read. Dreams we’ve abandoned.

With each small revelation, I feel myself drawn closer to her, as if these shared confidences are forming a bridge between us, spanning the chasm I created with my lies.

“Favorite color?” she asks, her voice drowsy now as sleep begins to claim her.

“Green,” I answer without hesitation. “The exact shade of your eyes.”

She smiles, already half-asleep. “Smooth talker.”

“Only with you.” I brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” she murmurs.

“I swear.”

59

VINCE

“The Kuznetsovs are getting impatient,” my father announces without preamble as he strides into my office the next morning. “They expected a formal introduction to your wife by now.”

I don’t look up from the shipping manifests I’m reviewing. “Rowan is on bed rest. The Kuznetsovs can wait.”

He makes a dismissive sound as he settles into the chair across from my desk. “Bed rest doesn’t prevent visitors. Bring them here.”

Now, I do look up, fixing him with a cold stare. “No.”

“Vincent—”

“No,” I repeat firmly. “She nearly lost our child. She’s resting. I’m not parading her in front of our allies like some prize cow.”

My father’s expression darkens. “She is your wife now. The future mother of the Akopov heir. It’s time she begins to understand what that means.”

“She understands plenty.”

“Does she?” He leans forward. “Does she understand the alliances that must be maintained? Appearances don’t keep themselves, son.”

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