Page 114 of Filthy Lies

“I mean it.” His forehead presses against mine. “I’ve made promises to you before that I’ve broken. I’ve lied to protect you,controlled you to keep you safe. But this—” His hand drops to my still-flat stomach, rests there with reverent gentleness. “This promise I’ll keep.”

Something in his certainty makes me ache with both longing and fear. We’ve been here before—grand declarations, solemn vows. But the world keeps dragging us back into darkness despite our best efforts to honor what we say.

“You can’t know that,” I murmur against his lips. “You can’t promise we’ll be safe, that our children will be safe. Not in this life.”

“Then we build a different one.” His kiss tastes like desperation and determination in equal measure. “Whatever it takes.”

I want to believe him. God, I want it so badly I can taste it—sharp and sweet on my tongue like blood and honey.

But experience has taught me the price of hope.

“Show me,” I challenge, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Not words, Vince. Show me this different life is possible before we bring another child into this one.”

His eyes darken to midnight, something dangerous and thrilling burning hot behind them.

“Watch me.”

42

ROWAN

Vince goes to shower off the airplane germs, leaving his briefcase resting against the bedpost. I sit there for a while. It’s nice to hear the hum of the hot water, the soft sighs that mean he’s home again. I missed him more than I realized, I think.

Show me this different life is possible before we bring another child into this one.

My own words haunt me as I stare at his briefcase. The black leather is worn at the corners, a physical manifestation of the man who carries it—polished, expensive, but fraying at the edges where no one is supposed to notice.

I shouldn’t do it.

But when has that ever stopped me?

The sound of water continues to mask my movements as I pop open the gold latches. Inside, everything is meticulously organized, each document in its proper place.

I rifle through papers, not sure what I’m looking for until I find it. A folder labeled“Cayman Islands,”tucked behind contracts and shipment manifests.

Something cold slithers down my spine as I pull it out, heart thumping against my ribs like it’s trying to escape before the rest of me discovers what it already knows.

The first page is a bank statement. Seven figures.

All in Vince’s name.

The second is a property deed. Beachfront. Also solely in his name.

My hands tremble as I flip through document after document—offshore accounts, investments, property holdings—a ghost life built in secret, ready to be inhabited at a moment’s notice.

Byoneperson.

Not three.

“What the fuck?” I whisper to the empty room.

Footsteps. The shower’s stopped. I scramble to replace the folder exactly as I found it, but my shaking hands betray me. Papers slide across the floor in every direction.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam along with my freshly-showered husband. His towel rides sinfully low on those cut hips, water droplets tracking down his chest like they’re worshipping at the altar of Vincent Akopov.

I want to hate how beautiful he is. How easily his body distracts from the ugliness in my hands.

“Rowan?” His voice has that dangerous edge that means I’ve been caught. “What are you doing?”

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