Page 25 of Filthy Promises

I close the file with a snap.

Yes, Rowan St. Clair will need testing. Her loyalty. Her discretion. Her strength. It’s all in question.

Because if she’s going to serve my purposes—if she’s going to wear my ring and stand beside me at board meetings and family gatherings—she needs to be unbreakable.

And if she breaks?

Well, then I’ll know she wasn’t the right choice after all.

I push away from my desk, stalking to the minibar where I pour myself a double shot of vodka. Not the watered-down American shit, but the real stuff—imported from Russia, distilled from grain harvested on land my grandfather’s grandfather owned. Land soaked in blood.

The burn as it slides down my throat reminds me of who I am. Who I’ll always be.

Vincent fucking Akopov.

A monster in a tailored suit.

I never asked for this life, but I was born into it. Like a crown of thorns that cuts deeper the more you struggle against it.

Rowan St. Clair doesn’t know what she just walked into. Doesn’t understand that her life just changed irrevocably the second I decided to keep her close instead of discarding her like I should have.

I’m not a good man. I’ve killed people. I’ve broken bones with these hands. I’ve ordered the destruction of families who stood in my way—and I’ve slept like a fucking baby afterward.

But I’m not stupid enough to think an innocent doe from Marketing with sad eyes and bills to pay is the answer to my inheritance problem.

Or am I?

8

ROWAN

My first full day as Vince Akopov’s executive assistant is a baptism by fire.

And I’m the lit match.

“Your login credentials,” Diane barks, slapping a piece of paper onto my new desk. “Memorize them, then destroy this.”

I blink at her. “Destroy it? Like, shred it?”

“No. Chew and swallow it.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking.

I don’t think she is.

There’s dead serious and then there’s this: like someone took her sense of humor, shot it, buried it, dug it up, shot it again, and put it through a wood chipper. I think a knock-knock joke might actually send her into the afterlife.

“First order of business is clearing your old desk,” she continues, still completely expressionless. “You have twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” I repeat stupidly. “But I’ve been there for five years. I’ve got plants and?—”

“Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds.”

I scurry to the elevator like my panties are on fire.

Down in Marketing, chaos erupts when I announce my promotion. Natalie screams so loud that someone calls security.

“Executive assistant?!” she shrieks, hands fluttering like cracked-out butterflies around her very pregnant belly. “To VINCENT AKOPOV?!”

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