Page 17 of Filthy Promises

The vodka burns my throat as I cough on it. “That Volkov is an idiot.”

“Mikhail is my oldest friend and business partner.” Father’s eyes narrow. “And his son is married with two children already. Stability. Continuity. These things matter to the board.”

“The work should matter more.Mywork, to be specific.”

“It’s not enough.” He downs his drink in one swallow. “The inheritance terms are clear. To receive your full allotment of shares and the CEO position, you must be married by your thirty-second birthday.”

And therein lies the rub.

The thing I’ve been avoiding, shoving out of sight, out of mind.

Because it’s fucking archaic. Because it’s fucking pointless. Because itshouldn’t fucking matter…

And yet it does.

I couldn’t believe my eyes the first time he called me in here, almost a year ago. It smelled just like this, looked just like this. My father pushed a folder across his desk, and in it were the words I’d been waiting almost a decade to see.

AKOPOV INDUSTRIES SUCCESSION PLAN

But as I read the fine print, my grin soured. Buried in the details were catches that had no place in my world.

Must be married by thirty-two…

Father wouldn’t hear a single word of my arguments. I drew in a breath to tell him exactly what I thought of histerms,but he simply raised one of his grizzled hands and said,Don’t bother. They will not change.

In the present, my jaw tightens the exact same way as it did a year ago. “That’s still seven months away.”

“And in all the time you’ve had to come up with a solution, you’ve found no one worthy? Notone?” He scoffs, his bearded lip wrinkling. “You’ve always been too picky.”

“I’mselective,” I correct. “As you taught me to be.”

Father’s expression softens, if only slightly. “Son, you still think I am doing this to punish you. You’re wrong. I’m doing this to helpyou.”

I say nothing.

Andrei leans back, lights his cigar, and takes a contemplative puff. “I spoke with Samuil Litvinov last week. His daughter just finished law school.”

I fight to keep my voice even, though all I want to do is roar in his face about how antiquated all this bullshit is. “You’re suggesting I marry into the Litvinov family?”

Father shrugs. “Samuil helped me when we first came to America. Without him, there would be no Akopov Industries.”

“I’m aware of our history.”

“Then you should be aware of your duty, too.” His voice hardens as he leans forward, that familiar ice crackling in his eyes.“The Litvinovs aren’t the only option. The Grozas have a lovely daughter, too. Harvard-educated. Or the Kuznetsov girl?—”

“What part of ‘I don’t need you to arrange my life’ is hard to understand, Father?” I interrupt.

He slams his hand on the desk and lurches upright. Even at sixty-two, he’s still a bear of a man. “Then arrange it yourself!” Jabbing the lit end of the cigar at me with two fingers, he warns, “But understand this: Without a wife, you get nothing. Not CEO, notpakhan, not the controlling shares, nothing. Not so much as a bullet casing from my gun or the ashed end of my fucking cigar.”

The room falls silent.

Grimly, violently silent.

We stare at each other across the desk.

If he wonders why I’m so stubborn, he needs only to look in the mirror. I am what he made me.

But I will become only what I choose for myself.

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