Page 45 of Filthy Promises

Vincent emerges from his office around noon, looking as polished and controlled as ever. As if he didn’t just hold a gun while threatening me. As if he didn’t almost kiss me senseless.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says, nodding curtly as he passes my desk.

“Mr. Akopov.” I keep my eyes on my computer screen, afraid of what might happen if I look at him directly. Afraid I might see that hunger in his eyes again. If I do, I might beg him to finish what he started.

The rest of the day goes by at warp speed. Vincent is in and out of meetings. I take notes, forward calls, manage his calendar. We interact with cool professionalism, as if this morning never happened.

But I feel his eyes on me every time his office door opens. I sense his presence like an electric current in the air around me.

At five o’clock, Diane returns from whatever mysterious errand kept her away all day. “You’re still here,” she observes, sounding almost surprised.

“Where else would I be?” I ask, attempting a smile.

Her eyes narrow, assessing me. “Most don’t last after they see what’s in the drawer.”

My blood runs cold. “You know about?—”

“I know everything, Ms. St. Clair.” She starts packing up her things. “I’ve worked for the Akopov family for thirty years. There are no secrets from me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She pauses, fixing me with a look that’s almost sympathetic. “Because you made the right choice by staying. But don’t mistake that for safety.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Keep your head down. Do your job. Forget what you saw. That’s how you survive in this world.”

With that cryptic advice, she leaves, therat-a-tatof her sensible heels fading down the hallway.

I sit in stunned silence for a long moment, processing her words. So I’m not the first assistant to discover Vince’s secrets. And apparently, not all of them survived the discovery.

Yet here I am, still at my desk. Still alive. Still employed.

For now.

As if sensing my thoughts, Vince’s door opens. He stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from his office. “Going home, Ms. St. Clair?”

I nod, gathering my things with hands that refuse to be steady. “Yes, sir.”

“Goodnight, then.” He watches me for a beat too long, his eyes unreadable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It sounds more like a command than a statement.

“Tomorrow,” I confirm, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

As I wait for the elevator, I make a promise to myself. I will do exactly as Diane suggested. Keep my head down. Do my job. Forget what I saw.

I will not ask questions about the gun, the mysterious appointments, or the phone calls about shipments at docks.

I will not think about the way his fingers felt tangled in my hair, or the heat of his breath against my neck, or the impossible blue of his eyes as he asked me what I wanted.

I will survive this job. One day at a time. For Mom. For her medical bills. For our future.

And if surviving means ignoring the fact that my boss might be a criminal—and that I might be stupidly, dangerously attracted to him anyway—then that’s what I’ll do.

After all, I’m good at turning a blind eye. I’ve been doing it my whole life.

Why stop now?

14

VINCE

---