Page 11 of Filthy Promises

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ROWAN

I’m halfway through my second cup of Monday morning coffee when the email arrives.

The subject line alone makes me choke.

MEETING REQUEST FROM VINCENT AKOPOV

Coffee splatters across my keyboard. “No, no, no,” I whisper hoarsely, dabbing at the keys with my sleeve.

I consider fleeing the country. How hard could it be to get a fake passport, dye my hair, pick up an Aussie accent? I could probably open a surf shop, right? Work retail? Work a pole, if all else fails?

Any of that would be preferable to facing down the Akopov firing squad.

Because that’s what this has to be about, right? I’m about to get fired, canned, sacked. Maybe drawn and quartered, too, if the rumors about Mr. Akopov’s family’s secret activities are even remotely true.

It’s not just that I saw him having sex with someone he probably shouldn’t have been having sex with.

It’s that, for a moment, I punctured the veil. I witnessed something I shouldn’t have dared to see.

I saw the man half-naked,for God’s sake.

But what good would running do? Because if he is truly as “connected” as the rumor mill says, then wouldn’t he just find me?

And if he did… if I tried to flee and he hunted me down…

How much worse would the punishment be then?

It’s hard to be too breathless about it all—but that’s only because I spent all of last night imagining all thewhat-ifsthat I swore I wouldn’t think about.

What ifI stayed in that doorway?

What ifI stepped inside?

What ifI threw Vanessa out and locked the door and turned to him and said,I’ve been waiting for this?

Those what-ifs ended the exact same way that all my what-ifs have ended for the last five years: with me, alone in my crummy apartment, sweaty and shivering and shamelessly soaked all at once, bedsheets tangled around my bare legs.

But last night’s what-if was the most earth-shattering one yet. I’m still drooling just thinking about it. I practically blacked out and came to, foaming at the mouth like a rabid sex monster.

Now, it’s time to reap what I’ve sown.

Was it my fault? No.

But do I have to deal with it? Just like all the messes in my life that are not of my own making…

Yes. Yes, I do.

So I click the email with trembling fingers.

Ms. St. Clair,

Mr. Akopov requests your presence in his office tomorrow at 9:00 AM sharp to discuss an urgent matter.

Please confirm receipt of this message. Punctuality is highly advised.

Regards,

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