Page 126 of Filthy Promises

Through it all, my phone stays silent. No texts from Vince. No calls.

It’s not until I’m leaving the hospital that evening that it finally buzzes.

Working late tonight?

Just those three words. As if nothing has changed. As if he hasn’t completely upended my world once again.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say? How do I respond?

In the end, I type:Can’t tonight. Still at the hospital with Mom.

His reply comes quickly:Everything okay?

Actually, yes,I write.Some good news about her treatment options.

There’s a longer pause this time. I can almost see him choosing his words carefully.

I’m glad to hear that. Take all the time you need.

37

VINCE

Father’s study.

I loathe this fucking room.

I remember being ten years old, standing on this exact same stretch of Persian carpet, blood trickling from my split lip after some schoolyard punk called me a “Russian piece of shit.”

I’d put the kid in the hospital. In return, the principal had called my parents. Father made me stand here for an hour while he explained in excruciating detail how I’d failed—not because I’d hurt the kid, but because I’d been sloppy enough to get caught.

Twenty-one years later, and the feeling is exactly the same. Like I’m a child awaiting sentencing.

Except I’m not a child anymore. I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. Futurepakhan. Future CEO. The man who will someday own this room, this house, this empire.

If I can just get through this conversation first.

“You’re distracted,” my father accuses, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on his desk. “Careless. Your mind is elsewhere.”

He doesn’t offer me a drink of my own. That’s deliberate. Everything with Andrei Akopov is deliberate.

“My mind is exactly where it needs to be,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “On business.”

He barks out a laugh, harsh and without humor. “Business? Is that what you call fucking your secretary now?”

“My personal life is none of your concern.”

My father’s eyes narrow. His silver hair catches the light from his desk lamp, making him look like some ancient war god seated in judgment. “It becomes my concern when it interferes with what matters. The family. The future.”

I say nothing. I’ve learned over the years that my father’s speeches have their own rhythm, their own inevitable progression.

Interrupting only makes them longer.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” He slams his tumbler down, liquid sloshing over the rim. “That girl has you so twisted up you can barely function. Skipping meetings. Canceling appointments. And this…” He tosses a folder onto his desk, flipping it open to reveal hospital records. “What the fuck is this?”

I feel my jaw tighten but force my expression to remain neutral. “You had me followed.”

“Of course I had you followed!” he roars, standing now. “You’re my son. My heir. Everything I’ve built for thirty years depends on your judgment. And lately, your judgment has been shit.”

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