Chapter 42: Filthy Lies: Chapter 42

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.

By one person.

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?”

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.

“What? Oh. Uh, no. I got sidetracked.” I gesture vaguely at Sofiya.

He straightens, eyes searching my face. I feel flayed open beneath that penetrating gaze. “You’ve been crying.”

“Hormones.” I shrug. “False pregnancy, remember? My body’s confused.”

“Rowan.” Just my name, but it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken questions.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Vince stares at me with those blue eyes. He waits. Waits. And then… “Alright. I’m here if you need me.” He glances down at Sofi. “If either of you need me.”

I nod. “Yep. I know. Thanks.”

He looks at me a little longer. Then he sighs and retreats toward the hallway.

“Vince?” I call as he reaches the door.

He turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Do you…?”

The words die in my throat. What can I ask that wouldn’t reveal what I know?

Do you love me enough to take me with you when you go? Do you ever think about leaving us behind?

“Never mind,” I finish lamely.

He watches me for one last excruciating moment, then nods again and disappears into the hallway.

I sag against Sofiya’s crib, my knees threatening to buckle. A sob claws its way up my throat, but I press my fist against my mouth to trap it. My daughter doesn’t need to hear her mother falling apart.

I reach into the crib and adjust her blanket. “What are we going to do, Sofi?” I whisper, fingers gently stroking her dark hair. “What if Daddy decides he’s better off without us?”

She doesn’t answer, of course. But his secrets answer for him.

I glance at the door where Vince vanished—my husband, my salvation, my destruction. All wrapped in one devastatingly beautiful package.

When he looked at me just now, did he see the mother of his child?

Or did he see a complication?

Years ago, I thought catching Vince’s attention was the hardest thing in the world. Now, I realize keeping it might be even harder.

Trust, once broken, doesn’t heal cleanly. It scars. Warps. Creates weak points where pressure can be applied until everything shatters again.

And I am so, so tired of breaking.