Page 103 of Filthy Promises

She assesses me with a single glance, taking in my nervously twisted hands, my chewed nails, my lip swollen from clamping down on it.

I see the moment she dismisses me as a threat.

If only she knew how right she is.

“Will you be joining us at the table?” she asks, clearly expecting the answer to be no.

“Ms. St. Clair will be dining with us,” Vince says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I find her insights valuable.”

Anastasia’s perfect eyebrow arches. “How progressive of you.”

We sit, and I immediately feel like a child at the adults’ table. The silverware has too many pieces. The menu is in French. The wine list is thicker than my apartment lease.

“So,” Vince begins after we’ve ordered, “your father speaks highly of your business acumen. Dual PhDs, was it?”

“International Relations and Economics,” Anastasia confirms. “Though I find academic credentials rather tedious to discuss over dinner.”

“What would you prefer to discuss?”

She glances at me, then back to Vince. “Perhaps your intentions regarding this arrangement? I believe we both understand what our fathers hope to achieve.”

I take a too-large sip of water, nearly choking. At least she’s direct.

“My intention is to fulfill my obligations,” Vince says carefully. “As I imagine yours are as well.”

“To a point.” Anastasia smooths her napkin across her lap. “Though I wonder if you’ve considered that there might be… alternative arrangements that would satisfy the letter of our parents’ demands while allowing us certain freedoms.”

I freeze mid-sip. Is she suggesting what I think she’s suggesting?

Vince’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice his fingers tighten around his water glass. “I’m listening.”

“Marriage is a contract,” she says, coolly logical. “One that can have clauses, amendments, and understandings between the parties involved.”

“You’re suggesting a marriage of convenience,” Vince infers. “With side benefits for each of us.”

“Precisely.” She takes a delicate sip of her wine. “I have no interest in a traditional arrangement, and I suspect neither do you.”

Vince’s eyes flick briefly to me, so quickly I almost miss it.

But Anastasia doesn’t. She follows his gaze, reassesses me with new interest.

“I see,” she says softly. “Well, that makes things even more interesting.”

My face burns. I suddenly find the table setting absolutely fascinating. Is that a salad fork or a dessert fork? Who knows? Not me, that’s for sure.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Anastasia asks, looking at me directly. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Akopov privately.”

Before I can respond, Vince interjects. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Ms. St. Clair.”

Anastasia’s smile is knowing, almost conspiratorial. “As you wish.” She leans forward. “I have someone, too. Someone my father would never approve of.”

“I see,” Vince says slowly. “And this person is…?”

“His name is Daniel.” Her voice softens when she says it, and for the first time, I see a crack in her perfect facade. “He’s American. A doctor. We met at Columbia.”

“Your father doesn’t know?”

“He would disown me.” She straightens her shoulders. “Just as yours would if he knew about the full extent of your preferences.”

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