Page 143 of Filthy Promises

Then I stride away, gut churning.

Arkady is already waiting down the block. As I slide into his car, he gives me a questioning look. “Well? Do we have a body to dispose of?”

“Not today.” I check my phone—no messages from Rowan. “Take me back to the office.”

“So the Petrov boy gets to live? That’s not like you, Vin.”

I stare out the window, watching Daniel’s car pull away. “Maybe I’m not entirely like me these days.”

“Who’s to blame for that?”

I don’t answer immediately. My mind is on Rowan.

What I feel for her isn’t convenient. It isn’t simple. It isn’t anything I was prepared for.

It’s consuming. Transformative. Terrifying.

And if I lose her because of my father’s antiquated demands, because of arrangements and appearances and obligations…

Then what the fuck am I fighting for anyway?

Because I’m done watching her walk away. Done pretending this is anything less than what it is.

I’m in love with Rowan St. Clair.

It’s time she knew it.

42

ROWAN

The resignation letter stares back at me from my computer screen, cursor blinking impatiently like it’s tapping its foot, waiting for me to finish what I started.

Dear Mr. Akopov,

Please accept this letter as formal notification that I am resigning from my position as Executive Assistant with Akopov Industries, effective…

That’s as far as I’ve gotten. The cursor blinks. Blinks. Blinks. Taunting me.

I’m still struggling to fill in the date. How much longer can I stand being around him? Watching him prepare to marry someone else while I carry his—his—his?—

God, I can’t even think the word without my hand drifting to my stomach.

Baby.

The office is quiet. It’s past seven, and most people have gone home. Vince left for a “meeting” hours ago, which I can only assume means he’s somewhere with Anastasia, planning their future together.

I wonder if they’ve picked out china patterns yet. If they’ve discussed how many rooms their mansion will have. If they’ve talked about children.

The thought makes me nauseous all over again.

I yank open my desk drawer, fishing out the travel pack of saltines I’ve been surviving on. As I nibble one, I go back to staring at the letter.

My phone buzzes with a text from Natalie:Did you tell him yet?

I type back quickly:No. Still figuring things out.

She responds immediately:He deserves to know, Row.

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