Page 106 of Filthy Lies

A mother knows when the monsters retreat.

After forty-eight hours of hell, Sofiya’s fever breaks like a wave crashing against the shore—violent at first, then gradually receding until only a subtle warmth remains.

The doctors confirm for the umpteenth time what I already knew: that it was just a virus, nothing sinister. Definitely nothing engineered by our growing list of enemies. No poison, no attack. Just the ordinary, run-of-the-mill suffering that comes with being human.

Ordinary. What a fucking concept.

I watch Vince touch his lips to our daughter’s forehead one last time before he leaves for Costa Rica. His eyes are still haunted by doubt. Even with proof in hand, he can’t bring himself to believe that sometimes, bad things simply happen without malice behind them.

“I’ll call when I land,” he says without meeting my eyes.

“Take as long as you need.” I don’t mean for it to sound dismissive, but it does. “The situation there sounds complicated.”

“Three days. Four at most.” His hand lingers on the doorframe. “Full security detail remains in place. Don’t leave the compound without?—”

“Without an armed escort, emergency protocols, and my tracking necklace.” I finish his sentence with a tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I know the drill, Vince.”

His jaw twitches. “This isn’t a game, Rowan.”

“Trust me,” I say with a grimace. “I’m painfully aware.”

After he’s gone, the compound feels emptier, but I breathe easier. Without Vince’s suffocating paranoia coating every surface, the air feels less heavy.

I tuck Sofiya into her crib for her nap. I can’t stop myself from checking again and again, but every time I do, her forehead remains mercifully cool beneath my palm.

I should sleep, too. God knows I need it after the hospital nightmare.

But as I stand to leave, an unexpected wave of nausea hits me like a sucker punch. I barely make it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

When I stand on shaky legs and rinse my mouth, a thought forms, unwelcome and intrusive.

Didn’t I experience this exact same nausea before? About, oh… ten months ago?

I stare at my reflection, counting backwards. My period is late. Not alarming on its own—stress does weird things to a woman’s body, and it’s the understatement of the year to say I’ve been stressed. But combined with the nausea…

“No,” I whisper to my ghost-white reflection. “Not now.”

But my body has already made the decision without consulting me.

Cut to a few panic-stricken minutes later. I’m staring at a pregnancy test I stole from the back of my bathroom cabinet. Two perfectly pink lines stare back at me, clinical and unambiguous.

Pregnant.

Again.

I slide down the bathroom wall until I hit the cold marble floor, test still clutched in my hand. Tears burn behind my eyes, but they’re not tears of joy.

Not this time.

The timing is fucked. We’re surrounded on all sides—Solovyov’s men attacking our shipments, Barkov lurking in the wings, Andrei still under house arrest but never truly contained, and Grigor Petrov lurking at the cemetery and his letters full of promises.

All I can think is that I’m an awful person no matter which way you slice it.

What kind of mother willingly brings another child into this?

What kind of mother even hesitates at the miracle growing inside her?

I’m as horrified as I am elated. Two conflicting emotions butting heads inside me. I press my palm against my still-flat stomach, trying to connect with the life that might be forming there.

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