Page 145 of Filthy Promises

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. The agents are moving around the office now, opening drawers, rifling through papers. One heads toward the desk where I’m still crouched.

Without thinking, I grab the laptop, close it, and slip it under my blouse, tucking it against my stomach like I’m already showing with Vince’s child.

Just as I do, the agent rounds the desk.

“Ma’am, I need you to stand up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

I rise, hands raised, silently praying the bulge of the laptop isn’t visible. My blazer is loose enough that it might just hide it.

“Identification?” he barks.

“My purse is at my desk,” I say with forced calm. “I’m Mr. Akopov’s assistant, Rowan St. Clair.”

The agent nods to another officer. “Escort Ms. St. Clair to retrieve her ID, then bring her back for questioning.”

As they lead me out, I risk a glance at Vince. Our eyes meet across the chaos of the raid.

And in that moment, something passes between us. He sees the slight bulge under my blazer. His eyes widen fractionally, then his expression shifts to something I’ve never seen before: a vulnerability that makes my chest ache.

I turn away before the agent can notice our exchange.

At my desk, I carefully retrieve my ID with one hand while keeping the other pressed against my stomach, securing the laptop. As the agent checks my credentials, I discreetly grab a manila folder from my desk and hold it against my chest—additional camouflage.

“What’s this about?” I ask the agent, trying to sound appropriately confused and concerned. “Why are you searching Mr. Akopov’s office?”

“That’s confidential, ma’am,” he responds curtly. “How long have you worked for Mr. Akopov?”

“A few months as his assistant,” I answer truthfully. “Before that, I was in marketing for five years.”

“And what do you know about his business dealings outside of Akopov Industries?”

My mouth goes dry. “Nothing. I just handle his schedule, correspondence, things like that.”

The agent studies me, clearly skeptical. “You’ve never seen or heard anything suspicious?”

I shake my head. “Nothing comes to mind. Mr. Akopov is very private about his personal affairs.”

The lie comes easily. Too easily. I’ve been covering for Vince for months without even realizing it.

From Vince’s office, I hear raised voices. Special Agent Carver emerges, looking frustrated.

“The safe’s empty,” he tells another agent. “Check the assistant’s desk and computer.”

As they start rifling through my belongings, I stand there, Vince’s laptop burning against my skin.

One wrong move and they’ll discover it.

One wrong move and Vince could go to prison.

The thought makes my blood run cold.

I should just hand it over. The right thing, the logical thing to do is just tell them everything I know. About the gun in his desk. About the overheard conversations. About the night he killed a man right in front of me.

I should do the right thing.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stand there and protect him.

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