Page 30 of Filthy Promises

“Wait,” I tell Mikhail, alert now. “I’ll call you back.”

I hang up without waiting for his response.

“Hello?” I call out, rising from my chair. “Who’s there?”

Silence answers me.

I move to the door, pulling it open. The outer office is empty, illuminated only by the dim security lights.

But something feels off.

I inhale deeply, and there it is—that scent. Subtle, drugstore-brand perfume. The same one that lingered after Rowan left my office earlier today.

It can’t be. She left. I watched her walk toward the elevator myself.

Yet the air carries her signature like a whispered secret. Fresh, recent. No more than a minute old.

Crossing to her desk, I notice her chair is slightly askew, as if moved hastily. Her computer is off, her workspace neat—except for one thing.

Her purse is gone.

It was here before, a worn leather thing that’s seen better days. Now, the hook where she hung it is empty.

“Shit,” I mutter.

She came back. She heard me.

I stalk back to my office, running through the conversation in my head. Would she understand the context? Connect the dots?

Most importantly, can I trust her to keep her mouth shut?

I grab my jacket and head for the elevator. The thought of Rowan hearing that call sends an unexpected jolt of adrenaline through me—part anger, part something else.

This complicates things.

Or does it?

If she overheard, and if she says nothing, it’s a test passed without me even administering it.

If she runs her mouth…

Well, there are rusty chains in Tribeca begging for a new occupant.

The elevator doors close, and I find myself thinking not of the security breach, but of how she looked today. Those nervous glances. The lower lip swollen from her gnawing at it while she concentrated. The flush that crept up her neck whenever I stood too close.

It drove me fucking crazy.

All day long, I felt her presence like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I’ve had more beautiful women. More experienced women. Women who knew exactly how to please me without being told.

But there’s something about her. The innocence? The desperation? How laughable her attempts tohidethat crush from me truly are?

No—it’s the chase.

It’s been a long time since I wanted something I couldn’t immediately have.

The elevator reaches the underground parking garage. My Aston Martin awaits. I slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine immediately. Instead, I pull out my phone and send a one-word text to the man who’s been following Rowan.

REPORT

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