Page 38 of Filthy Promises

I glance around the office, looking for where a key might be hidden. My eyes land on a small crystal paperweight on the corner of the desk—a globe with what looks like the Moscow skyline encased inside.

On a hunch, I lift it.

Bingo.A small silver key.

“This is insane,” I tell myself even as I fit the key into the lock. “This is how people in movies get murdered.”

And yet, despite how easy it was to find the key, despite how dumb this all feels…

The lock clicks open.

I hesitate, my hand lingering on the drawer pull. This is my last chance to be smart. To be safe.

Instead, I pull the drawer open. It’s…

Empty.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I mutter.

But wait—the drawer seems too shallow compared to the others. I run my fingers along the bottom, feeling for anything unusual.

My fingertips catch on something—a subtle indentation on the right side. I press it.

There’s a soft click, and the false bottom of the drawer pops up.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my pulse racing. I’m in a spy movie. I’m in a crime thriller. I’m in so much fucking trouble.

I lift the false bottom.

What I see makes my blood run cold.

A gun. Sleek, black, and definitely real. Next to it, stacks of cash—thousands, maybe tens of thousands. Neat bundles secured with rubber bands.

And beneath the money lies what looks like a passport. Not American—the cover is darker, the text in Cyrillic letters.

This isn’t just suspicious anymore. This is confirmation.

The rumors are true. Vince Akopov isn’t just a business mogul. He’s something else entirely.

Just as my fingertips brush the cover, I hear it—the unmistakable sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall.

Followed by footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Heading this way.

“Shit!” I whisper-scream, frantically replacing the false bottom and shutting the drawer. I fumble with the key, lock the door, then stash the key back under the paperweight.

The footsteps are getting closer. Too close.

I dart around the desk, heading for the door, but I know I won’t make it back to my desk in time without being seen.

Think, Rowan, think!

The private bathroom. It’s my only option.

I slip inside just as I hear the main office door open. I leave the bathroom door open a crack—closing it might make a sound—and press my eye to the opening.

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