Page 120 of Filthy Promises

Diane catches my eye across the office, her eyebrow raised in silent question. I nod once, and she’s already moving to intercept Rowan as she lurches from her desk.

I move to the doorway of my office, listening.

“I need to— I have to go. Family emergency.” Rowan’s voice sounds hollow, disconnected.

“Rowan.” I say her name firmly, stepping into the main office.

She turns, her face pale as paper. “I need to go,” she repeats. “My mother?—”

“What happened?” I cross the space between us in four long strides.

“I just—I need to go.”

Only one thing could put that pallor on her face: her mother’s cancer. Of course. The medical bills I’ve seen in her file, the hospital visits, the constant drain on her resources. The thing that makes her desperate enough to keep working for me despite everything she’s seen.

So I do what I never do for anyone on this godforsaken planet: I give her help.

Take my car.

I’ll walk you down.

It’s only as I send her off that I realize just how foreign this was. I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. I don’tcare.I don’tfret.

This girl is worming into me in unacceptable ways.

When the car disappears around the corner, I call Arkady. “I need you to follow my car,” I tell him without preamble. “It’s headed to Mount Sinai Hospital. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“What’s going on?” He sounds concerned. “Is this Solovyov again?”

“No. Personal matter.”

“Ah.” I can hear his shit-eating grin through the phone. “The assistant?”

“Just do it,” I snap, hanging up before he can ask more questions.

I return to my office long enough to grab my jacket and throw some files into my briefcase. Appearances matter. I can’t have the entire staff thinking I’m running after an employee like some lovesick teenager.

“Clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” I order Diane on my way out. “And call Dr. Weiss. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently about a cancer patient at Mount Sinai.”

Her eyebrows rise, but she knows better than to comment. “Of course, Mr. Akopov.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the hospital in my second car, the one with the heavily tinted windows. The one I use when I don’t want to be noticed.

Arkady is waiting for me in the lobby, lounging in a chair with a magazine open on his lap. He rises when I enter. “Fourth floor, cancer ward,” he reports. “Room 412. She’s been in there about ten minutes.”

I nod. “Wait here. Let me know if anyone suspicious comes through.”

“You really think someone would target her here?” He sounds skeptical.

“I think I don’t take chances with things that belong to me.”

I make my way to the elevators, ignoring the part of me that’s questioning why I’m really here.

The cancer ward has that particular hush that comes with proximity to death. Hushed voices. Soft footsteps. The steady electronic beeping of machines keeping time like metronomes marking the remaining seconds of too many lives.

I don’t approach Room 412 directly. Instead, I find the nurses’ station and flash a smile at the middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“I need to speak with Dr. Patel regarding one of his patients,” I tell her. “Margaret St. Clair.”

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