Page 66 of Filthy Lies

“And what will you tell him?”

She stands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans. “That I need time to think. But…” She pauses. “I think I already know what I’m going to do.”

“Which is?”

“Love him anyway.” She shrugs, a gesture so casual it seems out of place on her elegant frame. “What other choice is there, really? A life without him would be colorless.”

I walk her to the door. But she lingers there for a moment.

“Thank you,” she says at the threshold. “For not turning me away. For being honest.”

“Anytime.” I mean it, to both her surprise and mine.

“I hope—” She hesitates. “I hope we can see more of each other. You and Vincent, me and Daniel. Despite everything.”

“I’d like that.”

After she leaves, I return to the nursery. Sofiya is still sleeping soundly. I stand there watching her, thinking about what just happened.

She asked if I regretted loving Vincent. In answering her, I’d been more honest than I expected to be. Because there are moments—fleeting, terrible moments—when I do question the path I’ve taken.

What kind of mother raises her child in a world of armed guards and blood feuds?

What kind of wife stands by a man capable of such violence?

What kind of woman am I to have chosen this life?

But then I remember the hospital room where Vince held Sofiya for the first time, his hands trembling, his eyes full of wonder and terror.

Vince isn’t perfect. Our life together isn’t perfect. But it’s ours. We’ve fought for it, bled for it, nearly died for it.

It’sours.

I lean down and leave a gentle kiss on Sofiya’s forehead.

“Your daddy will be home soon,” I whisper. “And whatever happens, little one, we’ll face it as a family.”

My daughter smiles in her sleep.

26

ROWAN

“For the last time, we are not using white fucking roses.” Vince’s voice carries through the entire east wing.

I roll my eyes at Sofiya, who’s perfectly content on her playmat, cooing at the ceiling mobile. “Your daddy’s a bit of a diva about flowers,” I whisper. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

Christening preparations have turned my normally unflappable husband into a man obsessed with details. The ceremony is three days away, and Vince has opinions about everything—the guest list, the security protocols, the refreshments, and apparently, the floral arrangements.

“Calla lilies,” he insists to someone on the phone. “They’re elegant, distinctive, and nobody fucking dies at christenings with calla lilies.”

I scoop up Sofiya and head toward his study. When I peek inside, Vince is pacing, phone to his ear, his free hand gesturing sharply as if the florist can see him.

“No, not ivory. Pure white. And make sure—” He spots me and his expression softens. “Just handle it. I’ll call you back.”

He hangs up and crosses to us, pressing a kiss to Sofiya’s head before dropping one on my lips.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

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