Page 23 of Filthy Promises

Her eyes flick to his closed door, then back to me. “Transferred to the Singapore office this morning.”

Jesus Christ.He shipped her to another continent.

The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d written it in my blood:Don’t fuck up. Don’t disobey. Don’t disappoint.

“I see,” I whisper.

But I don’t see. Not really. I’ve just agreed to be the right hand to a man who discards people like used tissues, who can banish someone to the other side of the planet with a snap of his fingers, who watched me for five years while I thought I was invisible.

And the sickest part? As I sink into my new chair—the leather so buttery-soft it feels obscene—there’s a dark, twisted part of me that’s thrilled by all of it.

I’ve just handed the devil my leash…

… and God help me, I can’t wait to feel the first tug.

7

VINCE

I stare at the closed door long after Rowan leaves.

Her scent lingers—something subtle, probably drugstore brand, not the nostril-burning designer shit that most women who enter my office wear to impress me. To be fair, she didn’t exactly strike me as a Chanel No. 5 girl.

The green dress, though… that was a surprise.

I expected the nervous little doe to show up in something drab, beige, boring. Instead, she walked in looking likethat.

Like she had something to prove.

I stand up and loosen my tie, pacing to the window that overlooks the city.Mycity. Many men call it that, but only one of them is right.

The rest of them will learn that soon enough.

For now, I’m content to look. The view never gets old—glass towers piercing the sky, the Hudson River carving its waythrough concrete, all of it just waiting for me to claim my rightful position at the top.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.

What the hell just happened? I had a plan. A simple one.

Test the waters. Feel her out. See if she’d be suitable for what I need without showing my full hand.

Instead, I promoted her on the spot.Triple salary. Personal assistant.

Diane’s probably out there wondering if I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Hell, maybe I have.

I run my fingers through my hair. I can feel it fraying, mussing, getting out of place, out of line, out of order. Under normal circumstances, that would drive me fucking crazy.

But none of this isnormal.

Not my father’s insane demands.

And certainly not Rowan.

Something about that girl got under my skin. When she sat across from me, spine straight despite her trembling hands, those green eyes refusing to look away even when I stared her down—it stirred something I thought I’d buried years ago.

Recognition.

I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror, twenty years ago.

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