Page 112 of Filthy Promises

At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is more pathetic: I can’t bear to go a day without seeing Vince.

“You look terrible,” Diane observes as I stumble to my desk.

“Thanks,” I croak, wincing at how raw my throat feels. “Just allergies.”

She eyes me skeptically but doesn’t push.

I make it through the morning on sheer stubbornness, choking down Dayquil and drowning myself in tea. But by lunchtime, the room is spinning.

I’m fumbling with some papers when Vince emerges from his office. “The Xiao proposal needs revisions before—” He stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as a violent shiver wracks my body.

He crosses to my desk in three long strides and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Why the hell are you at work?”

“I have deadlines.” I try to stand and immediately regret it as the room tilts alarmingly.

Vince catches me before I can fall, his arm strong around my waist. “That’s it. You’re going home.”

“I can’t,” I protest weakly. “The Hong Kong conference call?—”

“Can be rescheduled.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Diane, clear my afternoon. Ms. St. Clair is ill, and I’m taking her home.”

Diane raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. She’s seen too much working for the Akopovs to be surprised by anything.

“Her home or yours?” she asks quietly.

“Mine,” Vince replies without a morsel of shame. “She needs proper care.”

I want to object—to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries—but I’m too dizzy to form a coherent argument.

The next thing I know, I’m being bundled into his car, his jacket wrapped around my shoulders as I shiver despite the heat blasting from the vents.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, though there’s no real anger in his voice. “Why didn’t you call in sick?”

“Can’t miss work,” I mumble through chattering teeth. “Need the… the… m-money.”

He simply scowls. “You’re paid whether you’re in the office or not, Rowan. That’s how salaried positions work.”

I try to respond, but another wave of dizziness washes over me. I close my eyes against the nauseating motion of the car.

“Just rest,” Vince sighs, his hand settling on my knee. Not sexual for once. Just comforting. “We’ll be home soon.”

Home.As if his penthouse is my home, too.

The journey passes in a blur. Vince half-carries me from the car to the elevator, then through his penthouse to the guest bedroom—nothisroom, I note with a pang of something that feels dangerously like disappointment.

He helps me out of my work clothes and into one of his t-shirts, his touch clinical rather than seductive.

“Into bed,” he orders. “I’ll get medicine.”

I obey, sinking into the soft mattress with a grateful sigh. My head is pounding, my body alternating between fire and ice.

And not in the fun way. This feels more like torture.

Vince returns with a glass of water, pills, and a cold compress. He sits on the edge of the bed, helping me sit up enough to swallow the medication.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice a raspy mess.

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