Page 42 of Filthy Promises

All color drains from her face. For a moment, I think she might faint.

“I—I can explain,” she stammers.

“Please do.” I keep my voice dangerously soft. “Explain why my newest employee feels entitled to break into my private desk and rifle through my personal belongings.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I was trying to make sense of your schedule. There were inconsistencies. Things that didn’t add up.”

“So naturally, you decided a locked drawer might contain the answers?”

“I know it was wrong.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

I pick up the gun, turning it over in my hands. Her eyes follow every movement, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“Do you know what happens to people who betray my trust, Rowan?”

Her name feels intimate on my tongue. Too intimate for this conversation, perhaps. But I want her to feel it—the personal nature of what’s happening here.

“I haven’t betrayed you,” she insists, a surprising spark of defiance in her eyes. “I haven’t told anyone what I saw. I haven’t called the police. I came back to work.”

I study her for a long moment. She’s right. She could have gone to the authorities. Could have run. Could have done any number of things that would have created problems for me.

Instead, she showed up at her desk this morning, on time, coffee in hand.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“Why did you come back? Why haven’t you reported what you found?”

She hesitates, clearly struggling with how to answer. I wait.

“I need this job,” she finally says. “My mom’s medical bills… they won’t pay themselves.”

“So it’s just about the money?” I press, knowing there’s more.

Her cheeks flush again. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Not for what I need from you.”

I set the gun down, rise from my chair, and circle the desk. She tenses as I approach, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.

Brave little thing.

I perch on the edge of the desk, directly in front of her, close enough that our knees almost touch.

“What do you need from me?” she asks, voice barely audible.

What do I need? Loyalty. Discretion. A wife to satisfy my father’s archaic conditions. A warm body in my bed. Any or all of the above.

But none of that answers the immediate problem.

“Right now, I need to know if I can trust you.” I lean forward, forcing her to look at me. “Can I, Rowan?”

Her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. “Yes.”

“Words are cheap. How do I know you won’t run to the police the moment you leave this office?”

She meets my gaze directly now, that spark of defiance growing. “Because I haven’t done it yet.”

---