Page 187 of Filthy Promises

We continue to the east wing, where the staff has prepared rooms for Rowan as I instructed. A spacious bedroom with an adjoining sitting room, decorated in soft greens and blues. A private bathroom with a claw-footed soaking tub.

She notices it immediately. “This wasn’t prepared today.”

“No,” I admit. “I had this wing renovated six weeks ago. After you agreed to marry me.”

She turns to me. “But we were staying at your penthouse. You never mentioned bringing me here.”

“It was meant to be a surprise.” I move to the window and gaze out over the gardens below. “Somewhere for us to escape the city. Somewhere you could be comfortable raising our child.”

Her hand drifts to her stomach again in that now-familiar protective gesture. “You were planning that far ahead?”

“I’ve been planning for you since the moment I knew you existed, Rowan.” I turn back to face her. “The difference is, now I’m planningwithyou, notaboutyou.”

She looks away, but not before I catch the flicker of emotion in her eyes. “Where will you be staying?”

“The west wing. Opposite side of the house.” I gesture vaguely. “As agreed. Separate bedrooms.”

“Good.” She nods, still not meeting my gaze. “That’s… good.”

An awkward silence descends. This part is new for both of us—the strange, careful dance of rebuilding what I so thoroughly fucked up.

“Would you like to meet the rest of the staff?” I ask. “The ones you’ll see regularly.”

She hesitates, then nods. “I suppose I should know who else is watching me.”

We make our way back to the main part of the house, where I introduce her to the core household staff. Marta, the housekeeper who’s been with us since I was a child, whose potato soup cured every illness I ever had. Nikolai, the groundskeeper with the gruff exterior and surprising talent for coaxing flowers from the harsh New York soil. Vasily, my father’s driver—and occasional enforcer—who knows more about the Akopov family’s secrets than anyone outside the inner circle.

I watch Rowan with each of them, noting how she softens with Marta, whose motherly demeanor seems to cut through some of her wariness. How she straightens her spine when meetingVasily, as if sensing the danger that radiates from him despite his impeccable manners.

She’s observant, my little doe. Always has been. It’s one of the things that made me notice her from the beginning—long before I understood what she was becoming to me.

After the introductions, I take her to the security center—the heart of the estate’s protection. A windowless room in the basement level, filled with monitors showing every angle of the property.

Two men sit at the controls. When we enter, they acknowledge my presence with respectful nods.

“Ms. St. Clair, meet Sergei and Dima. They coordinate all security operations for the estate.” I gesture to the bank of monitors. “Twenty-four-hour surveillance, rotating shifts, direct lines to both local authorities and our private security forces in the city.”

I move to a control panel and tap in a code that brings up a new set of screens. “This is your biometric profile. As of now, you have full access to every secure area on the property.” I turn to face her. “Your prints open every door. Your voice activates every system. Your eye scan grants you entry to every room, including my private office and the panic room.”

“And if I decide to use that access to, I don’t know… rob you blind and disappear in the night?”

I shrug. “Then you’ll have earned it.”

Her eyes widen before she schools her expression. “What happened to thinking I’m a Petrov plant?”

“If you were, you’d have made your move long ago.” I step close enough to catch the faintly fruity scent of her shampoo. “Besides, you’re carrying my child. You’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to protect my secrets from the FBI. And you look at me like I’m the worst mistake you’ve ever made—which is far too genuine to be faked.”

A flicker of a smile touches her lips before she suppresses it. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’m trying to be.” I gesture toward the door. “One more stop, then I promise I’ll leave you to settle in.”

I lead her to the far end of the east wing, to a room I hadn’t planned to show her until much later.

But new promises require new commitments.

The door recognizes my handprint, clicking open soundlessly. Inside is a spacious, sunny room with pale yellow walls, empty except for built-in bookshelves and state-of-the-art air filtration systems disguised as decorative vents.

“What’s this?” Rowan asks, stepping inside cautiously.

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