Page 115 of Filthy Lies

I clutch the hastily gathered papers to my chest as if they might shield me from the bullet I’m about to take.

“Nothing.” The lie sits between us like a third person in the room. “Just looking for a pen.”

His eyes flick from my face to the folder in my death grip. His jaw ticks once, twice. The muscle there jumps like it’s trying to escape.

“A pen,” I repeat, as if saying it again will somehow make this stupid lie more believable. “Just had to, uh… write down a thought so I don’t forget. Something to tell Anastasia.”

It would be insane if he believes me. I’m clutching evidence of his betrayal to my chest, and he’s standing there practically naked. Yet somehow I’m the one who feels exposed.

There’s a moment—suspended, crystallized in time—where I think he’s going to call me on my bullshit.

Then his mouth curves into a smile. “Bottom drawer of my desk,” he says. “Blue fountain pens. Take whichever you like.”

Relief floods me—hot, liquid, shameful. “Thanks,” I mumble, shoving the papers back into his briefcase with trembling hands. “I’ll just… I’m going to check on Sofi.”

I flee before he can respond. The hallway stretches before me like one of the endless ones in a nightmare, and I half-expect to feel his hand on my shoulder at any moment, dragging me back to face what I’ve discovered.

It doesn’t come.

I make it to Sofiya’s nursery and lock the door behind me, leaning against it as if I could physically hold back the truth. My daughter sleeps in her crib, oblivious to the fact that her father has an escape hatch built for one.

Cayman Islands. Offshore accounts. Property deeds.

All in his name. Not mine. Not ours.His.

Then we build a different one. Whatever it takes.

His words echo in my head and take on a sinister new meaning. He wasn’t talking about building a new life with me. He was talking about the one he’s already engineered for himself.

If he decides we aren’t good enough to bring with him.

I slide down to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, and try to regulate my breathing before I hyperventilate and wake Sofiya. The panic claws at my throat. It hurts. God, it hurts.

This is what I get for hoping. For believing. For letting myself imagine a future where we’re happy, where we have another child, where we escape the darkness together.

Someone raps on the door.

“Rowan?” Vince’s voice filters through the wood, deceptively gentle. “Everything okay in there?”

I rise on shaky legs, smoothing my shirt, wiping my face. “Fine,” I call back. “Just checking on her.”

“Can I come in?”

No. Fuck no. Go back to planning your getaway that doesn’t include us.

“Of course.”

I unlock the door, stepping back as he enters. He’s dressed now—dark jeans, charcoal henley that hugs the muscled planes of his chest. His hair is still damp from the shower, silver strands catching the soft light from Sofiya’s night lamp.

He looks like a god. He always fucking does.

“She’s still sleeping,” I say unnecessarily. “Fever completely gone.”

Vince crosses to our daughter, his massive frame somehow delicate as he leans over her sleeping form. The tenderness in his gaze makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.

How can he look at her like that while planning to abandon her?

“Did you find your pen?” he asks without looking at me.

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