Page 46 of Filthy Promises

Two days after catching Rowan in my private desk, I’m still deciding what to do with her.

She’s a liability. A risk.

She’s also an opportunity.

I place the manila folder on her desk when she steps away for lunch. Deliberately casual, as if I’d simply forgotten it there.

Inside are shipping manifests. Cargo lists. Names of Bratva lieutenants who’ll be overseeing tomorrow’s shipment at the docks.

Nothing that would single-handedly destroy my organization if it fell into the wrong hands. But enough to ruin a few lives—including her own, if she’s stupid enough to try using it against me.

I return to my office, lock the door, and pull up the security feed on my laptop.

Waiting.

This is how I’ve survived this long. Patience. Calculation. Never leaving anything to chance.

The elevator doors open on the screen—and there she is.

Rowan St. Clair, coffee in one hand, sandwich in the other. Hair windblown, cheeks pink from the spring air outside.

She doesn’t notice the folder immediately. She sets down her lunch, takes a sip of coffee, and answers a ringing phone. “Mr. Akopov’s office,” she says, her voice crisp and professional through the speakers. “I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?”

I smirk. I’m very much available, just choosing not to be.

She hangs up and finally spots the folder.

Her body language changes instantly. Shoulders tense. Spine straightens. Her eyes dart toward my closed door.

I lean closer to the screen.What will you do, little doe?

She picks up the folder, turning it over in her hands. From the camera angle, I can see the clear “CONFIDENTIAL” stamp across the front.

Her fingers hover at the edge, hesitating.

Open it,I silently urge her.Give me a reason to punish you.

She glances at my door again. Then, to my surprise, she doesn’t open the folder.

Instead, she places it squarely in the center of my inbox tray.

Then she straightens my other papers. Arranges her pens. Tidies the entire desk without once looking inside the folder that so clearly tempts her.

Interesting.

She sits back down, takes a bite of her sandwich, and continues working as if nothing happened.

I watch her for another fifteen minutes. She doesn’t touch the folder again. Doesn’t even glance at it.

I close the security feed and press the intercom button. “Ms. St. Clair, my office. Now.”

The door opens thirty seconds later. Rowan steps inside, notepad in hand, professional mask firmly in place.

“Close the door,” I instruct.

She does, then stands waiting, her posture perfect. But I notice the slight tremor in her hands, the pulse jumping at the base of her throat.

She’s scared, but hiding it well.

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