Page 233 of Filthy Promises

I’ve just declared war on my own father. The man who raised me, who taught me everything I know about power and survival.

But he threatened Rowan…

So, no.

Idon’tfucking regret it.

68

ROWAN

My fingers fly over the keyboard, piecing together the puzzle that’s been nagging at me for weeks. Spreadsheets, bank statements, acquisition reports—they all tell the same story now that I know what to look for.

It’s like seeing a Magic Eye picture suddenly snap into focus.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, rubbing my lower back as I lean away from my laptop.

At almost forty weeks pregnant, I shouldn’t be hunched over financial records at midnight. I should be sleeping, or at leasttryingto sleep through the gymnastics routine happening inside my uterus.

But something about the Costa Rica deal collapse didn’t sit right with me.

Vince has been different since that morning when he got the call. Tighter. More controlled. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore.

At first, I thought it was just pre-baby jitters. God knows I’ve had enough of those myself. But then I overheard him talking with Arkady about “containment strategies” and “damage control,” and my snooping instincts kicked in.

So I started digging.

The Costa Rica development wasn’t the first casualty. Not by a long shot.

I print out the reports I’ve compiled and organize them in a folder. The baby kicks furiously, as if sensing my agitation.

“I know, little one,” I whisper, rubbing my belly. “Grandpa’s been very naughty.”

The clock reads 1:38 A.M. when I finally hear Vince’s footsteps in the hallway. He’s been working late every night this week, coming to bed long after I’ve pretended to fall asleep.

Not tonight, though.

I straighten in my chair as the bedroom door opens.

“You’re still up,” he says in surprise. “Everything okay?”

“No,” I reply simply. “Everything is not okay.”

He’s instantly alert, crossing to me in three quick strides. “The baby?—”

“The baby’s fine,” I assure him. “Feel for yourself.”

He does, touching my belly softly until the telltale thump of our healthy little one reassures him. Then his eyes drift to the papers spread across the desk, and his expression goes dark once more.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

I don’t know why he bothers. I suspect he already knows.

“Evidence,” I say, handing him the folder. “Of your father’s systematic sabotage of our legitimization efforts.”

Vince’s face gives nothing away as he takes the folder and begins flipping through the pages. But I know him well enough now to see the tension in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw.

He knew.

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