Filthy Promises: Chapter 70

I’m still poring over the shipping consolidation documents when the first pain hits.

It’s different from the Braxton-Hicks contractions I’ve been experiencing for weeks. This is like the fist of God giving me the Heimlich maneuver. A tightening band of pressure that wraps around my entire abdomen, snatching away my breath and demanding my full attention.

“Whoa,” I whisper. I set my laptop aside and press a hand to my belly.

After a few agonizing seconds, the pain recedes, and I exhale slowly. Probably nothing. Dr. Levine said first babies usually take their time, and I’m only a few days past my due date. No need to panic over one measly contraction.

I check my phone. No messages from Vince. He’s been gone for almost an hour now, off to some mysterious “business meeting” that he clearly didn’t want to discuss. After our conversation about honesty and partnership last night, his secrecy stings more than I care to admit.

But progress is never linear. I have to remind myself of that. We’re building something to last, not something fast.

I return to my work—well, I try to—but my concentration is shot. I’ve gotten approximately nowhere when, twenty minutes later, another wave of pain crashes over me.

This one is stronger. God’s using both fists now, I guess. I grip the edge of the sofa, breathing through it like they taught us in the childbirth classes.

“Okay,” I mutter once it passes. “Maybe that’s slightly more than nothing.”

I reach for my phone and call Vince. It rings several times before going to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I think I might be in labor. Nothing urgent yet, but… call me when you get this, okay?”

I hang up and stare at the screen, willing it to light up with his name like I suddenly have powers of mind control. The house feels vast and empty around me. Where are the household staff? I realize I haven’t seen Marta or anyone else since earlier this morning. That’s odd.

Another contraction hits. This one makes me gasp out loud. They’re getting stronger, coming faster. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. First-time mothers usually labor for hours, sometimes days.

That’s what all the books said.

That’s what Dr. Levine promised.

I try Vince again. Straight to voicemail this time.

“Vince, please call me,” I whisper. “Something’s happening. The contractions are⁠—”

A vicious pang cuts me off mid-sentence, and I nearly drop the phone. Tears stud my eyes as I squeeze the couch and do my best to breathe.

When it passes, I end the call and check the time. The contractions are now just fifteen minutes apart.

This is moving too fast.

I need help.

I start combing through numbers in my contacts. Arkady doesn’t answer. Vasily doesn’t answer. Vince, when I try a third and fourth time, doesn’t answer.

Who else is there? Mom is at the hospital for a routine check-up and, when I cry out, nobody in the house calls back to me.

Before I can figure out a solution to Will Someone Be My Friend Please, another ripping rush of pain has me doubled over. My phone goes tumbling out of my hands, and I rest my forehead on the desk, gritting my teeth until the pain fades.

It’s only when I stoop down to retrieve my fallen phone that a potential answer to my dilemma shows up. An accidental swipe of the thumb has brought up a name I haven’t thought of in weeks.

Natalie.

My former best friend. The woman who reported my every secret to Vince for years. The ultimate betrayal.

But also, the only person outside this household who might actually answer my call.

My finger hovers over her name. I feel like I’m playing Eenie Meenie Miney Moe in my head. Should I…? Shouldn’t I…? She loves me…? She loves me not…?

I can feel my womb spasming as it prepares to clench again.

I make the call.

Riiiing.

Riiing.

Riii—

“Rowan?” A pause. Long, pensive, afraid. “I… I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”

“Nat,” I mumble. “I— I— Fuck, there’s too much to even explain. I need help. I’m in labor, and Vince isn’t here, and something’s wrong.”

“Oh my God.” Her tone shifts immediately from uncertain to decisive. That’s the Nat I know. The Nat I thought I knew, at least. “Where are you?”

“Vince’s estate. But I can’t reach anyone, and the contractions are coming too fast for a first baby, and⁠—”

“I’m on my way,” she interrupts. “What about your security? The staff?”

“I don’t know where anyone is,” I say. A chill runs down my spine as I realize how strange that is. There’s always someone around. Always. “Nat, I’m scared.”

“Stay on the phone with me,” she says firmly. “I’m getting in my car now. How far apart are the contractions?”

“About twelve minutes now, I think. But they’re really strong.”

“Okay. First babies usually take their time, so we⁠—”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying!” I snap, fear making me irrational. “But this doesn’t feel like ‘taking its time.’”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Row, listen to me. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but I need you to trust me. Can you make it to the bedroom? Somewhere comfortable?”

I struggle to my feet, one hand supporting my enormous belly. “I’ll try.”

Moving is harder than I expected. Each step feels precarious. My body is no longer my own—it’s a vehicle, a very uncertain tool for a very messy job. I make it halfway to the stairs when I hear something that stops me cold.

A car engine. Then another. Coming up the long driveway to the estate.

“Someone’s here,” I tell Natalie with blind hope. “Maybe it’s Vince…?”

“Don’t hang up,” she says. “Not until you’re sure it’s him.”

I waddle to the nearest window and peer out. Three black SUVs are approaching the house—not Vince’s usual vehicles. As they draw closer, I can see the men inside.

Strangers, with hard faces and the unmistakable bulges of weapons beneath their jackets.

My heart drops like a stone.

“Nat,” I whisper, backing away from the window, “it’s not Vince. I don’t recognize these men.”

“Fuck,” she hisses. “Rowan, listen to me. Is there a safe room? Somewhere secure you can lock yourself in?”

My mind races through what Vince has told me about the house’s security features. “Yes. Vince’s office. There’s a panic room.”

“Go there. Now.”

I start moving as fast as my pregnant body will allow, but another contraction strikes, doubling me over against the wall. A guttural moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.

“Row?” Natalie sounds frantic. “What’s happening?”

“Contraction,” I manage through gritted teeth. “A bad one.”

“Just breathe through it. Google Maps says I’m thirty-four minutes away. Less if I break some speed limits, which I absolutely intend to do.”

The contraction subsides, and I push myself away from the wall, continuing my slow crawl toward Vince’s office.

Outside, I hear car doors slamming.

Voices.

Footsteps on the gravel driveway.

“They’re coming,” I whisper. “Natalie, they’re coming inside.”

I’m going to die in this fucking hallway.

Pain tears through me again, this blinding tidal wave that obliterates thought and reason. It’s a contraction so powerful I swear I can feel my child’s fingers clawing at my cervix, desperate to escape the prison of my womb.

“Rowan? Rowan!” Natalie’s voice sounds tinny and distant through the phone that’s slipping from my sweaty grip.

I can’t answer her. Can’t do anything but slide down the wall until I’m a crumpled heap on the marble floor. The contraction ebbs just enough for me to catch my breath, to remember the panic room is only fifteen feet away. Just around the corner. So close. If I crawl, maybe⁠—

The front door crashes open downstairs. Heavy footsteps. Male voices barking orders in Russian.

Another contraction builds, a freight train barreling down on me. I bite my lip until I taste copper, swallowing the scream that wants to tear from my throat. If they hear me⁠—

The panic room door is visible now. Ten feet away. Eight. Six.

My fingers slip on the hardwood as I pull myself forward, belly dragging heavy beneath me.

Five feet.

Four.

The security keypad glows green, waiting for the code.

I reach up, punching in the numbers with shaking fingers. 7-2-1⁠—

The next contraction hits me like a wrecking ball, and my vision whites out. A low animal sound escapes me before I can stop it. My muscles lock, my entire body caught in the vise grip of labor.

I can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

Can barely think through the inferno raging inside me.

When the pain finally releases its claws, I lunge for the keypad again. Just four more numbers⁠—

Footsteps on the stairs, moving fast.

—three more numbers⁠—

Voices drawing closer.

—two more⁠—

The contraction that hits me now is apocalyptic. My spine cracks in two like a glowstick, my head slamming back against the wall. The scream I’ve been desperately holding back erupts, a savage, feral sound that echoes down the hallway.

And in the wake of that scream comes silence. The footsteps have stopped.

Then they start again—faster now, racing toward me.

I drag myself up, fingers fumbling with the keypad. One more number. Just one⁠—

A shadow falls across me. I look up, heart thundering in my chest, hoping against hope to see Vince’s face, his silver-streaked beard, those fierce blue eyes that have become my whole world.

But it’s not Vince.

It’s not Vince at all.