Page 105 of Filthy Promises

I laugh, a brittle sound that cracks and dies in the air between us. “Trust me, you don’t.”

“Try me.”

I finally turn to face him. “Fine. I’m thinking this is insane. All of it. The fact that I’m even considering being your… what? Your dirty little secret? Is there a word for that in Russian I should learn?”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“What else could it be?” I gesture helplessly. “You heard her! She’s offering you exactly what you need: a wife who doesn’t care if you’re sleeping with someone else. And that someone else would be me.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me!” I snap. “I’m not— I don’t…” I fumble and lapse into a stupid silence, because whether you speak Russian, English, Klingon, or otherwise, they don’t make words for situations like this.

“You don’t what?” he presses.

I don’t want to share you. I don’t want to be your second choice. I don’t want to fall in love with someone who can never fully be mine.

But I can’t say any of that. So instead, I say, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

His forehead furrows smooth out. “Come home with me tonight.”

It’s not a question, but it’s not quite a command, either. It’s… an invitation.

One I should refuse.

One I know I won’t.

“That is a bad idea,” I whisper.

“Probably,” he agrees.

But he’s already tapping on the divider, instructing the driver to take us to his penthouse.

And I’m letting him.

Because no matter how many times I tell myself this can only end in heartbreak, I can’t seem to stay away from him. I’m a moth circling a flame, drawing closer and closer despite knowing I’ll eventually be consumed.

But my God…

What a way to burn.

Vince’s penthouse feels different at night.

The view is the same as it is from his office, more or less. Manhattan in every direction, glittering, indomitable. But it all feels farther away than it ever has before. I’m insulated from it, or within it, in a way I can’t quite wrap my head around.

I can’t decide if it makes me feel safer, or if this is just the grim acceptance of a drowning victim who’s finally realized that no help is coming.

My reflection looks every bit as small and uncertain as I feel. Eyes tired, hair drooping, arms wrapped around myself like that’s the only thing keeping me together.

“Drink?” he asks, moving to the bar.

“Several, please.”

He pours two glasses of amber liquid and returns to stand next to me. I take the one he offers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that small contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.

“To unconventional arrangements,” he says, raising his glass.

I don’t toast. Instead, I take a long sip, welcoming the burn down my throat. “More like irreversible mistakes.”

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