Page 127 of Filthy Promises

“Margaret St. Clair’s treatment is a personal matter,” I say.

“Nothing is personal when you’re an Akopov,” my father spits. “You paid for that woman’s treatment—millions of dollars—without consulting me, without considering how it might look if anyone discovered the connection.”

“No one will discover it.”

“You don’t know that. Youcan’tknow that. All it takes is one loose-lipped doctor, one grateful nurse, one nosy reporter. Then what? Headlines about how the heir to Akopov Industries has a thing for his secretary’s mother? Questions about why? Attention we don’t need?”

I take a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm. This isn’t about the money. My father couldn’t care less about the cost. This is about control.

It always has been.

“The doctor understands discretion,” I say. “The hospital administration does, too. The money was moved through our charitable foundation. Clean. Untraceable.”

My father stares at me, silent and calculating. Then, in a move that’s somehow more terrifying than his rage, he sits back down and laughs.

“You really care for this girl, don’t you?” he asks, his voice suddenly soft. “You think you’re in love.”

The word hits me like a bucket of ice water.Love. Such a small word for such a devastating concept.

“This isn’t about love,” I snap. “This is about practicality. Rowan is a valuable employee. Her work suffers when she’s distracted by her mother’s illness. I took steps to resolve the distraction.”

“Bullshit.” My father leans forward. “I’ve watched you, Vincent. I’veseen.”

I say nothing. What can I say? He’s right. Of course he’s right. Rowan has become something more than just a convenient fuck, more than just a pretty distraction from my obligations.

She’s become… more.

“Do you know what happens to men in our position who allow themselves to be weakened by sentiment?” my father continues. “They lose everything. Respect goes first. Power comes soon after. And what becomes of a man with no respect and no power?” He snaps his fingers. “Dead.”

He stands again, circling the desk until he’s standing directly in front of me. Even at sixty-two, Andrei Akopov is a bear of a man. Six-foot-four of solid muscle and ruthless determination.

“That girl,” he says, jabbing a finger toward the door as if Rowan is standing just on the other side, “is a liability. She knows too much. She makes you vulnerable in ways you can’t even comprehend yet.”

“She’s loyal,” I counter, the words escaping before I can stop them.

“Loyal?” He scoffs. “To what? To whom? She’s not Bratva. She has no blood ties to our world. Her loyalty extends exactly as faras her paycheck and your cock. Neither goes as far as you think they do.”

Anger flares hot and bright in my chest. “You don’t know her.”

“I know enough.” He steps closer, his voice dropping dangerously. “I know she walked in on you fucking another woman and didn’t run to HR. I know she witnessed you kill a man and didn’t go to the police. I know she’s been letting you bend her over every surface in your office without demanding a ring or a promise. What more do I need to know, hm?”

Each word drives into me like a knife. Not because they’re untrue, but because hearing them spoken aloud by my father makes them sound so much worse than they are.

That’s not what Rowan is to me. Not anymore.

“And what would you prefer?” I fire back. “That I marry some ice-cold Russian princess who’ll fuck my lieutenants behind my back and plot to take over the moment I let my guard down?”

My father laughs, genuine amusement breaking through his anger. “At least that I’d understand! At least that would be expected, manageable. Instead, you’ve lost your mind over some virgin from marketing with sad eyes and medical bills.” He shakes his head. “I taught you better than this, Vincent.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” The words come out harsher than I intend. “I’m tired of everything you taught me.”

His hand moves faster than I can track, the slap connecting with my cheek before I can even flinch. I taste blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. The familiar copper taste of childhood lessons.

“You disrespectful little shit,” my father hisses. “Everything you have, everything youare, comes from what I taught you. You think you’d survive a day without the Bratva’s protection?”

I say nothing, though every muscle in my body screams to hit back.

But that’s not how this game is played.

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