Page 180 of Filthy Promises

“Rowan…” He waits until I look at him. “Vince may be many things—arrogant, controlling, occasionally homicidal—but he does love you. That wasn’t part of any plan.”

I step out of the car without responding.

I don’t want to hear any of it.

52

ROWAN

I know something’s wrong the moment I reach my motel room door. It’s slightly ajar, a thin strip of light pouring out into the hallway.

I definitely closed it.

I definitely locked it.

Backing away slowly, I pull out my phone and Arkady’s card. But before I can dial, a cleaning cart rounds the corner, pushed by a middle-aged woman in a wrinkled uniform.

“Excuse me,” I call out, gesturing to my door. “Did housekeeping already come by here?”

She shakes her head. “Not today, miss. We only do rooms on request in this place.”

My heart pounds as I peek through the crack. The room beyond is in shambles—mattress slashed open, drawers emptied onto the floor, my few meager belongings scattered everywhere.

Someone was looking for something.

Or someone.

I back away from the door, arms wrapped protectively around my middle.

“You need help, miss?” the housekeeper asks, looking concerned.

“I need—” My voice catches. “I need a friend.”

But my friends aren’t really my friends. Natalie is Vince’s spy. My other work acquaintances feel a million miles away from this nightmare. Mom is in the hospital.

I’m alone.

Except…

I pull out my phone again and scroll through contacts until I find a number I never thought I’d use. I press dial before I can change my mind.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice answers, cool and cultured.

“Anastasia? It’s Rowan. Rowan St. Clair.” I swallow hard. “I… I need to talk to someone. Someone who might understand.”

There’s a pause. “Where are you?”

I tell her the name of the motel. She doesn’t comment on its questionable reputation or the neighborhood.

“There’s a coffee shop three blocks from there. Blue awning. Meet me there in twenty minutes.” She hangs up without waiting for a response.

I glance back at my ransacked room, then turn and walk away, leaving everything behind.

None of it matters anymore.

Anastasia Kuznetsov is even more beautiful in daylight, away from the dim restaurant lighting where we first met.

Her dark hair is pulled into an elegant knot, her outfit simple but clearly expensive. She looks like she belongs on a runway, not in a shabby coffee shop with chipped mugs and sticky tables.

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