Page 146 of Filthy Promises

Why? Why am I still protecting him?

It’s a rhetorical question, because I already know the answer. I’m protecting him because, despite everything—the lies, the secrets, the impending engagement—I still love him.

I love Vincent Akopov.

It’s not just about the pregnancy. It’s not just about the mind-blowing sex or the triple salary or the mysterious payment for Mom’s treatment.

It’s about the way he looked at me that night in the hospital when I was sick. The gentleness in his hands when he thought I was asleep.

It’s about the man behind the monster—the one no one else gets to see.

After what feels like hours, Agent Carver approaches me.

“Ms. St. Clair, we’ll need you to come downtown to answer some questions.”

I nod, clutching the folder—and the laptop—tighter against my chest. “Am I under arrest?”

“Not at this time. We just have some questions about your boss’s activities.”

“I’d like a lawyer present,” I say, surprising myself with my calm resolve.

Agent Carver’s eyebrows rise. “That’s your right, of course. But innocent people don’t usually lawyer up so quickly.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Is that a threat, Agent Carver?”

He studies me for a moment longer, then nods to another agent. “Get her ready.”

As they get me prepared to go downstairs, I look to Vince across the room. He’s speaking with his own lawyer now, a gray-haired man who appeared like a phantom about twenty minutes into the raid.

His eyes find mine again, and this time, I don’t look away. I don’t know what happens next—for him, for me, for us. I don’t know if I’ll keep this baby or if I’ll ever tell him about it. I don’t know if he’s going through with his engagement or if he even cares about me beyond the physical.

But I do know that when the FBI came for him, my first instinct wasn’t to save myself.

It was to save him.

43

ROWAN

My hands won’t stop shaking.

Three hours of FBI questioning will do that to a girl, I guess. Though to be fair, the pregnancy hormones, constant nausea, and general sense of relentless, overwhelming terror probably aren’t helping matters.

The office is eerily silent when I return, the aftermath of the raid like a crime scene—papers strewn haphazardly across floors, drawers left wrenched open, chairs overturned for no good reason at all. Yellow tape blocks off Vince’s private office, but the rest of the executive floor is accessible.

I glance at my watch: 11:48 P.M. Nobody should be here.

Perfect.

I take a deep breath, scanning for any lingering FBI agents before making my way to the supply closet. I drag out the stepladder, positioning it under the ceiling panel where I stashed Vince’s laptop during the brief moment when agents were distracted arguing over jurisdiction.

Thank God for bureaucratic pissing contests.

The ceiling tile slides away easily, and there it is—the laptop, still wrapped in my scarf. I reach up, wincing at the strain in my shoulders, and carefully pull it down.

Just as my feet touch the ground again, the elevator dings.

My heart stops. My fingers tighten around the laptop.

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