Page 19 of Filthy Promises

It’s the same sixty-five intimidating stories that it was on Friday. But this time around, that means sixty-five stories of me trying not to throw up on my green dress.

I smooth my hands down the emerald fabric, suddenly wishing I’d gone with the navy pantsuit instead. Mortuary Hillary Clinton or not, at least that would’ve felt like armor of some sort.

This feels too bold. Too much. Toome.

The elevator slows to a stop at the executive floor.

Moment of truth, here we are. I think I might vomit.

Instead, I swallow it down and step out, my nude heels once again sinking into that same plush carpet that greeted me last week.

Today, there’s someone at the reception desk. Not Vanessa, though—and if I had to guess, I’d say Vincent most likely isn’t sleeping with this one.

Probably because this one has gotta be pushing seventy, and she has the murderous, dead-eyed squint of a drill sergeant.

“Ms. St. Clair?” the new secretary asks, not looking up from her computer. She’s severe from every angle—rigid black glasses, salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun that surely must be causing some serious traction alopecia. Her voice is equally flat and grim.

I clear my throat. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Mr. Akopov is expecting you.” She stands and gestures toward that imposing door. “This way.”

I follow her, trying to control my ragged breathing. I’ve practiced what I’ll say a dozen times. I have my resignation letter tucked into my purse just in case.

Better to jump than be pushed, right?

The assistant knocks once, then opens the door. “Ms. St. Clair to see you, sir.”

“Send her in.”

That voice sends electric eels racing down my spine.

That’s what Mom always used to say.Electric eels down your spine.She swore she came up with it herself. I’m dubious, but there’s no denying that it’s accurate. I’m squirmy, uncomfortable—and, much like an eel, I’d really prefer to be hiding under a rock.

Then Sergeant Secretary steps aside, and I make my way to the gallows.

Mr. Akopov sits behind his massive desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, revealing those forearms I’ve been picturing for the past three days. His dark hair, streaked with premature silver, is perfectly styled, as always.

The desk—oh God,thatdesk—sits between us like a mahogany battlefield. It takes all the willpower in my body to keep from squinting to see if the cleaning staff managed to scrub away the fogged imprint of Vanessa’s bare butt cheeks.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says. “Please, sit.”

The “please” is funny coming from him. You can always tell when someone is trying out new words, new ways of being. And when Vincent says “please,” his mouth does a strange twist.

I perch on the outermost edge of the chair across from him, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. If they look like they’re in a praying position, well, that’s not exactly an accident. Divine intervention is the only thing that might save me now.

“Mr. Akopov.” My voice comes out higher than I intended. I clear my throat and try again, though round two isn’t much better. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Did I have a choice?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I didn’t get much of one last time we crossed paths.”

My face burns.So we’re jumping right into it. Copy that.

“About that—I’m so sorry. I should have knocked. I didn’t realize?—”

He holds up a hand, silencing me instantly. “What’s done is done.”

I swallow hard. Here it comes. The firing. The humiliation. The end of my livelihood.

It was nice knowing you, steady paycheck. It was a pleasure to have met, gainful employment. Next up is the welfare line. I hope I can get used to the taste of Instant Cup ramen noodles every meal for the rest of my life.

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