Page 132 of Filthy Promises

“Ms. St. Clair,” she says coolly. “Mr. Akopov has been looking for you. The Xiao representatives have arrived early for their meeting.”

“Of course,” I say, standing quickly and smoothing my skirt. “I’ll be right there.”

Diane gives us both one last suspicious look before leaving.

“That woman gives me the creeps,” Natalie mutters. “Like she can see into your soul.”

“She probably can,” I sigh. “And she probably reports everything directly to Vince.”

“Then you’d better fix your makeup before you go out there,” Natalie advises, pulling a compact from her purse. “Can’t have the boss knowing you were crying in the bathroom.”

I apply fresh concealer and lipstick, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown. When I look presentable again, I turn to Natalie.

“Thank you,” I say, hugging her. “For not judging. For listening.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she replies. “And Row? For what it’s worth, I think you’d make an amazing mom.”

Her words follow me as I exit the bathroom, heading toward the conference room where Vince waits.

An amazing mom.

Is that what I want? Am I ready to be someone’s mother when my own life is such a mess?

I place my hand briefly on my stomach as I walk, a silent acknowledgment of the life growing inside me.I don’t knowwhat to do yet,I think to the tiny bundle of stuff that might someday be my child.But I promise, whatever I decide, it will be with love.

39

VINCE

I drum my fingers on the table, glancing at my watch for the third time in five minutes.

Anastasia is late.

Not that I care. I’d rather be anywhere else but here—specifically, I’d rather be with Rowan, figuring out why the hell she’s been avoiding me.

Something’s wrong with her. I can feel it in my gut.

She’s pulling away. Creating distance between us. Acting like we’re nothing more than boss and employee again. It’s driving me fucking insane.

“Mr. Akopov.” Anastasia’s cool voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

I stand, buttoning my jacket. “Ms. Kuznetsov.”

She looks impeccable as usual—designer dress, perfect hair, cold beauty. The ideal Bratva wife on paper.

She sits across from me, studying my face. “You look terrible.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere.”

“I mean you look distracted.” She signals the waiter for wine. “Where’s your assistant tonight?”

The question hits closer to home than I’d like. “Ms. St. Clair sends her regrets.”

“Interesting.” Anastasia smiles thinly. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Let’s keep this professional,” I say sharply.

“By all means.” She leans back as the waiter pours our wine. “Shall we discuss how convincingly we’ll pretend to fall in love before our inevitable engagement?”

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