Page 157 of Filthy Promises

“Get out,” I whisper, my voice shaking with fury.

He blinks. “Rowan?—”

“Get the hell out of my apartment, Vince.” I’m trembling now, from rage or hurt or some toxic combination of both. “We’re done with this conversation.”

“Row—”

“Out! Out! Get thefuckout!”

I’m standing now, screaming, and I know I look like an insane banshee but I justdo. not. care.

I want Vincent Akopov out of my life.

For a moment, I think he might refuse. That he’ll continue to push and bully and demand until he gets his way, just like he always does.

But then something shifts in his expression—a subtle softening around the eyes, a barely perceptible loosening of his jaw. An unlocking of something terrifying.

“Think about what I said,” he says, his voice quieter now but still shot through with steel and ice. “Think about the baby.”

“The baby will be just fine without your ‘logical solution,’” I snap. “Now, leave.”

He moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “My men will remain outside. For your safety.”

“How generous of you,” I spit. “Providing protection with one hand while threatening to take it away with the other. It must be so fun being you. Do we all look tiny from up there on your high horse?”

He turns back, and for just a flash of a second, I see something that looks almost like pain in his eyes.

“This isn’t what I wanted, you know,” he says softly.

“No,” I agree. “What you wanted was for me to fall gratefully at your feet and thank you for deigning to make an honest woman out of me. I’m so terribly sorry to disappoint.”

He just sighs.

Then, with that witty final blow, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

And I’m alone.

I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees as the tears I’ve been fighting finally break free. They come in great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body. All the fear and hurt and rage pours out of me in a pitiful torrent I can’t control.

How dare he? Howfuckingdare he waltz in here and propose to me like that?

And then to threaten me when I refuse? To hold my job hostage? To make me feel like I don’t have a choice?

This is the ultimate confirmation of what I’ve secretly feared all along: To Vincent Akopov, I’m just a means to an end.

Not a person with feelings and needs and wants.

Never, ever someone worthy of actual love.

Well, he can take his logical solution and shove it somewhere extremely uncomfortable. I survived for twenty-seven years before Vincent Akopov barged into my life with his ice-blue eyes and his mind-blowing sex and his goddamn superiority complex.

I can survive without him now.

46

VINCE

My penthouse is a black temple that matches my mood as I storm through the front door, rage building with each step. I hurl my keys at the marble countertop, not caring when they skid across the surface and clatter to the floor.

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