Page 39 of Filthy Promises

Vincent strides into his office, looking nothing like the polished CEO I’m used to seeing. His tie is gone, his shirt collar open, his hair a mess. He has a cut above his right eyebrow. A small one, but fresh and gleaming with crimson blood.

He looksdangerous.

He goes straight to his desk, setting down a manila envelope before reaching for the crystal paperweight.

My heart stops. He’s going to check the drawer. He’ll know someone’s been here.

But at the last second, his hand veers off course. Instead of retrieving the key, he picks up his desk phone and dials.

“It’s done,” he says without preamble. “The Koreans won’t be a problem anymore.”

A pause as he listens.

“No casualties, as ordered. Just some broken bones and bruised egos.” His mouth curves into a smile that sends shivers down my spine. “The girls are being taken care of. Safe houses in Jersey for now, then new identities.”

Girls? Safe houses? What the hell is going on?

“Yes, Father. I’ll be at breakfast tomorrow. Your concerns are noted, but unnecessary.” Another pause. “She’s working out fine so far. Resourceful. Discreet.”

Is he talking about me?

“I’m not rushing anything. I know the timeline.” He sounds annoyed now. “Seven months is plenty of time.”

Hold up—timeline for what?

“Goodnight, Father.” He hangs up and sets down the phone with a little more force than necessary.

Then he does something unexpected. He laughs—a short, humorless sound. Runs his hands through his hair. Looks suddenly tired, human.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost forget what I just found in his desk.

Then he reaches for the crystal paperweight.

Panic surges through me. If he opens that drawer and sees the false bottom isn’t exactly as he left it…

But a second phone rings—his cell this time. He checks the screen and answers immediately.

“Speak.” His tone changes completely—softer, intimate. “I told you not to call me here.”

A woman? A girlfriend? Why does that possibility send a flash of completely inappropriate jealousy through me?

“Tomorrow night.” He lowers his voice. “Wear the red dress.”

Great. Perfect. Of course he has someone to wear red dresses for him. Someone who isn’t his terrified assistant hiding in his bathroom like a criminal.

Which, technically, I am at this point.

“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t call again tonight.”

He hangs up, slips the phone into his pocket, and—to my immense relief—walks out without touching the drawer.

I wait a full five minutes after I hear the outer door close before I dare to breathe again.

Then I slink out of the bathroom, my legs shaking so badly I can barely walk. I somehow make it to my desk and collapse into my chair, my mind racing.

A gun. Cash. What was probably a fake passport. And now, phone calls about Koreans and girls in safe houses and someone in a red dress.

This is madness. I’m in way over my head.

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