Page 13 of Filthy Promises

The laughter stops abruptly.

The pause that comes after is not nearly as funny as the ones that preceded it. “Holy shit, Rowan. When did this happen?”

“Friday night. When you made me deliver those reports.”

“Oh my God,” Natalie says. “And he’s justnowcalling you in?! What happened to Saturday and Sunday? Was he, like, planningyour termination all weekend? Twisting his evil billionaire mustache and wondering how to make it as painful as possible? And what wereyoudoing all weekend? Why’d you wait so long to loop me in? Do you hate me?!”

The truth is that Mom wasn’t doing so good when I got home after that disastrous encounter. One of her “little hiccups,” as she calls them, which means she fainted and fell while trying to get out of bed and sprained her wrist. We spent the weekend in the hospital.

It was almost nice, in a sick kind of way.

Because, for just a little while, I could focus on her and her alone.

Now, though… Now, everything is about me again.

And none of it is good.

“Thanks for that mental image, Nat,” I mutter. “Super reassuring.”

“Sorry, sorry. But Row, this is serious. Did you report it to HR?”

I sit bolt upright. “Reportwhat? Me barging into his private office without knocking?”

“No, him sexually harassing you with his bare ass!”

I twist a strand of hair around my finger. “I don’t think it counts as harassment.”

“He literally winked at you while he was having sex with someone else!”

“Maybe I misunderstood.” My face burns at the memory. “Maybe he meant, like,Be with you in a second!”

“That’s not even one percent better.”

I groan and flop backwards. “What am I going to do, Nat? I can’t lose this job. Mom’s medical bills?—”

“I know. Honey, I know.” Her voice softens into the caring tone of my best friend, my ride-or-die. “Look, maybe it’s not as bad as you think. What if he just wants to, like, apologize?”

I laugh bitterly. “Men like him don’t apologize to women like me.”

I can practically hear her Feminist Queen frown powering up. “What’sthatsupposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” I stare at the water stain on my ceiling, which promptly assumes the shape of the bare ass we’re discussing. That familiar flare of longing perks up somewhere low in my abdomen. “He’s rich, gorgeous, and could literally have anyone. I’m… me.”

“And what’s wrong with you, huh?” Natalie demands.

I wave my hand at my empty apartment, as if she can see it. “Look at my life, Nat. I’m twenty-seven and I live in a shoebox. I haven’t had a date in two years. My idea of luxury is splurging on name-brand cereal.”

“So what? You’re smart, talented, and way too good for that marketing associate position.”

“Tell that to my bank account.”

“Rowan Elizabeth St. Clair,” Natalie scolds sternly, “this pity party ends now. You go to that meeting tomorrow with your head held high. Whatever happens, you face it with dignity.”

“Even if I get fired?”

“Even if you get fired—which you won’t.”

I take a deep breath. “You’re right. Dignity. I can do dignity.”

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