Page 37 of Filthy Promises

Instead, I’m reorganizing Vince Akopov’s calendar like a good little assistant, color-coding his appointments and trying to find patterns in the chaos.

What does that say about me?

Nothing good, probably.

I pull up the digital calendar on my computer and compare it to the paper version Diane reluctantly handed over before leaving. There are discrepancies—appointments that appear in one but not the other, blocks of time marked simply as “private” or “offsite” with no further details.

“This makes no sense,” I grumble, flipping through the pages.

Maybe there’s something in Vince’s office that could help decode this mystery. His own planner, perhaps? Notes from past meetings?

I glance at his closed door. He left hours ago for what Diane cryptically described as “family business.” Won’t be back until tomorrow.

It’s the perfect opportunity to snoop—er, I mean, to be thorough and proactive in my new role.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I stand and cross to his door. I press my palm against the cool wood for a moment, listening for any sign that I’m not alone.

Nothing.

I turn the handle, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure it’s visible through my blouse.

The door swings open to reveal Vince’s massive office. It looks different in the dim evening light—more ominous, somehow. Moresecret.

The last time I stood in this doorway, I got a free peep show of my new boss pounding his secretary into next week. The memory flashes like a neon sign behind my eyes—his powerful body, the way his muscles flexed with each brutal thrust, Vanessa’s moans rising in pleasure-slash-pain.

I shiver in the darkness, my body betraying me with a rush of heat between my legs.

Fucking traitor.

I flick on the desk lamp rather than the overhead lights. No need to advertise my presence to any security guards making their rounds.

“Just find a planner or schedule book,” I whisper to myself. “In and out. Two minutes.”

I round the desk slowly, like it might bite. I know I should just check for a planner, maybe flip through some files, butmy fingers itch with curiosity. The smooth surface of his desk gleams in the low light, taunting me.

How many women has he bent over this surface? How many deals—legitimate and otherwise—have been sealed here?

Would he bendmeover it if I asked?

Jesus Christ, Rowan. Get a fucking grip.

I shake my head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thought.Focus on the task at hand.I need to understand his schedule, to make sense of the gaps and inconsistencies. It’s just organizational efficiency, not intrusion.

God, I lie to myself so prettily sometimes.

Gritting my teeth, I start with the obvious places. The blotter on his desk. The top drawer. The sleek credenza behind his chair.

Nothing helpful materializes.

I move to the desk drawers. The first two contain normal office supplies—pens, paper clips, sticky notes. The third is locked.

“Hmm.” I frown, jiggling the handle.

Definitely locked. Suspicious.

I should stop here. This is already crossing so many lines. But curiosity is a dangerous thing. It killed the cat, as they say.

But satisfaction brought it back, right?

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