Page 123 of Filthy Promises

And that’s… fine.

No, better than fine. It’s what I want.

I type back:I’m sorry to hear that.

Then I add:Don’t come back to the office today. Take tomorrow too if needed.

Thank you, she replies.For understanding. And for the car.

Such small things to be thankful for. The bare minimum of human decency.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew what I’ve just done. Would she be grateful? Angry that I went behind her back? Would she see it as generosity or just another way I’m trying to control her life?

It doesn’t matter. She won’t find out. No one will ever know except for Dr. Patel, and he knows better than to talk.

I’ve just spent more money than most people see in a lifetime to help a woman I’ve never met, to ease the suffering of my… whatever Rowan is to me. Assistant? Lover? Distraction?

Complication—that’s what I called her once. A beautiful fucking complication.

And now, I’m complicating things even further by doing this. By caring.

It’s dangerous. Weak. Exactly the kind of shit my father warned me against.Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.

Yet here I am, doing it anyway.

I put my phone away and instruct my driver to take me home. I need a drink. A strong one.

And then I need to figure out why the thought of Rowan’s happiness has become more important to me than the lessons beaten into me since childhood.

36

ROWAN

My heart drops into my stomach when I see Dr. Patel’s name lighting up my phone.

It’s been two days since I got the news about Mom’s declining health, which means two days of sleepless nights trying to figure out how to pull hundreds of thousands of dollars out of thin air. I’ve avoided Vince as much as possible, unable to face him while my world is collapsing.

What fresh hell is on the other end of this call?

“Hello?” I answer, my voice already trembling.

“Ms. St. Clair,” Dr. Patel says. There’s something different in his tone. Not the bland, careful neutrality of a doctor delivering bad news, but something almost… cheerful? “I have some rather extraordinary news about your mother’s treatment options.”

I sink onto my sofa, bracing myself. “What is it?”

“An anonymous donor has come forward to cover the full cost of the experimental protocol we discussed. All expenses paid. Your mother can begin treatment as early as next week.”

The words don’t compute.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “can you repeat that?”

“The treatment has been fully funded,” he says patiently. “By an anonymous benefactor.”

“Anonymous,” I repeat. “As in, you don’t know who it is?”

There’s a slight hesitation. “The donor specifically requested anonymity. This happens occasionally with high-net-worth individuals who prefer to keep their charitable giving private.”

I’m not an idiot. I can hear the careful evasion in his voice.

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