Page 21 of Filthy Promises

“Triple your current salary. Benefits. Direct access to the executive level.”

Triple my salary? That would mean…my God.Mom’s medical bills. A better apartment. Maybe even some savings. What a conceptthatis.

It sounds too good to be true.

… which means it probably is.

“Why me?” I ask, finding a sudden wellspring of courage I didn’t know I possessed. “Is this because of what I saw? Because if you’re offering me this position to keep me quiet?—”

“Are you questioning my motives, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Actually, yes.” I surprise myself with my directness. “Is this a proposition, Mr. Akopov?”

His eyes narrow, and all I can think is,You’re an idiot, Row.

This is why you’re poor and sad and lonely—because you don’t know how to take a good thing without shredding it to pieces in search of the catch.

What if it’s a real offer and you just ruined it, huh?

What if he meant it and you scoffed, hm?

What if the world plopped a happy ending—no pun intended—right in your lap, and you turned your nose up at it like you’re just so rich with options that this one didn’t even matter?

My pity party is raging like a frat kegger—and then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

Laughs.Actually laughs. A rich, genuine chuckle that makes my stomach start jumping rope with my bowels.

“You have more backbone than I gave you credit for.” He cracks his knuckles, then recrosses his arms. “No, this is not a proposition. This is a business opportunity. One that could change your life.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.

And yet self-sabotage is what I do best.

Without that, who even am I?

“I’ve never been an E.A. before.”

Vincent shrugs. “You have five years of experience watching this company operate. You know our products, our campaigns, our strategy.” He undoes the clasp of his watch and rubs at the skin of his wrist beneath it. “And you notice things. You pay attention to details most people miss.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve had a crush on me for five years, and I never noticed until now.”

My heart stops. Just seizes up completely.

Dead.I’m dead. This is what death feels like.

“I—I don’t—that’s not—” I stammer, mortified.

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s flattering, but irrelevant. What matters is your work ethic and your discretion. Both of which I believe you possess in abundance.”

I try to regain my composure, but it’s like trying to gather spilled water with my bare hands.

He knows it, too. Those eyes miss nothing. I meet them—just for a second—and I want to laugh miserably at the realization that all my efforts to come in here composed, well-dressed, with a plan… they’re all for nothing.

He. Sees. Everything.

And he knows exactly what to do with it.

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