Page 102 of Filthy Promises

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ROWAN

The next night, I find myself waiting in the backseat of another one of Vince’s stupid, expensive cars, my fingers obsessively smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress.

This time, it’s black. Not red like for Katerina. Not green like for Irina.

Black. Like I’m in mourning.

Shit, maybe I am.

Vince sits across from me, scrolling through emails on his phone, acting like everything is normal. “We’ll be meeting Anastasia at Le Bernardin,” he says without looking up. “I expect this will be the most tedious one yet.”

“And why is that?” I ask, hating how my voice still breathes a little faster whenever he speaks directly to me.

“Because she’s my father’s top choice.” He finally looks at me. Tonight, his ice-blue eyes have the flat sheen of glaciers. They reveal absolutely nothing. “The perfect alliance. Her fathercontrols half the docks. Mine controls the other half. A merger made in heaven.”

My stomach gurgles. “Sounds romantic.”

His lips quirk into that almost-smile that makes my thighs clench. “Jealous, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Of course not,” I lie. “I’m just your assistant, remember? Here to make sure things run smoothly.”

“Is that all you are?”

I look out the window rather than answer. The city lights blur past, each one a bright, burning reminder of how far out of my league Vince Akopov really is.

Of course I’m jealous. I’m drowning in it.

I’ve been trying to tell myself that what happened between us was just sex. Just the inevitable explosion of five years of pent-up fantasy finally finding release.

But it wasn’t.

Not for me.

And now, I have to sit here and watch him court the woman who might actually become his wife.

I think I might be sick.

“Showtime,” Vince announces as the car slows to a stop.

I draw in a deep breath, center myself, and step into my role. Professional. Detached. Completely unaffected by the way his cologne makes my heart race or how I still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.

Le Bernardin is even more pretentious than the last spot. The kind of place where the menu doesn’t list prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

We’re shown to a table where a stunning woman is already waiting. Anastasia Kuznetsov is everything I’m not—tall, elegant, with sleek dark hair pulled into a chignon so perfect it looks painted on. Her dress is worth more than I’ll make in ten years of crawling through life on my knees.

Worse yet, she looks like shebelongsin it. Whereas every eye that rakes up and down my outfit knows I’m just an overmatched little girl playing dress-up.

“Mr. Akopov,” she says, extending her hand. “How lovely to finally meet you.”

Vince takes her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Kuznetsov.”

I stand awkwardly behind him, invisible as always. The decorative third wheel.

“And this must be your assistant,” Anastasia says, turning those calculating eyes on me. “Father mentioned you bring her to all your… meetings.”

“Rowan St. Clair,” I mumble before Vince can introduce me. “It’s nice to meet you.”

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