Page 122 of Filthy Lies

Arkady just winks. “Don’t be late.”

When he leaves, I unzip the garment bag with trembling fingers. Inside is a dress I never expected to see again—the green silk I wore to my first official dinner with Vince.

The dress that changed everything.

I slip it on. To my total shock, it still fits perfectly, even one real and one fake pregnancy later. My hands shake as I apply makeup, as I fasten the tracking necklace Vince gave me before Sofiya’s christening. I curl my hair into loose ringlets that cascade down my back, the color of cedar and Vince’s whiskey.

When I look at my reflection, she grins right back.

The roof access is normally restricted, part of Vince’s elaborate security protocols. But tonight, the door stands open, waiting for me.

I step through and freeze. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.

The space has been transformed. White lights twine around a pergola draped with sheer fabric that billows in the gentle evening breeze. A table for two sits at its center, covered in fine linen, crystal, and silver. Candles flicker in hurricane lanterns, creating pools of golden light against the encroaching darkness.

And Vince—God, Vince stands at the edge, silhouetted against the wooded skyline, a champagne bottle in one hand, looking like an angel in Tom Ford.

“What is all this?” I ask, moving toward him as if pulled by invisible strings.

He turns, and the look on his face steals what little breath I have left. Hunger. Pride. Something that might be love, if monsters like us could claim such an emotion.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the setup, “is an overdue celebration.”

As I draw closer, I notice more details—a chef discreetly preparing food at a makeshift station, a string quartet positioned in the corner, playing softly. The champagne is Dom Pérignon, glistening with condensation like miniscule diamonds.

He pops the champagne and fills two crystal flutes with golden liquid that catches the candlelight. “To my beautiful, dangerous wife,” he toasts. “The mother of my child. The architect of our empire.”

I clink my glass against his. “And to my terrifying, brilliant husband. The father of my daughter. The man who showed me darkness could be beautiful.”

We drink, the expensive champagne sharp and sweet on my tongue. Vince pulls out my chair and I sit, still awestruck at the transformation of our secure rooftop into this fantasyland.

The chef serves our first course—oysters on a bed of ice. “You’ve thought of everything,” I murmur, running my finger along the rim of my glass.

“I had help.” His eyes flick meaningfully toward the door, beyond which Anastasia and Daniil are playing with our daughter. “Our houseguests were surprisingly eager to assist.”

“They care about us.”

“They care aboutyou,” he corrects. “They tolerate me because I keep them alive.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true. You’ve given them sanctuary when their own families wanted them dead. That earns more than tolerance, Vince.”

He considers that as he tastes an oyster. “Perhaps. But I didn’t do it for them. I did it for you.”

I turn down my face so he can’t see my pleased blush. “Either way, we have allies now. Real ones.” Then I smile and lean forward, emboldened by the first sizzles of the champagne in my veins. “Question for you.”

“Uh-oh. That’s dangerous.”

“When was the last time you had friends? Not subordinates. Not people who fear you. Friends.”

He’s silent for a moment. He twists the stem of the champagne glass in his fingertips, rolling it back and forth, forth and back.

“Not since before my mother died,” he admits finally. “Maybe never.”

“And now?” I press.

“Now, I have you.” His hand captures mine across the table. “And that’s enough.”

The chef serves course after course, each one a memory of ours but elevated and reimagined—the risotto from the night I moved into his penthouse, the sea bass from our wedding reception, the chocolate soufflé from our last evening before Sofiya’s birth.

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