Page 52 of Filthy Promises

Cheeky piece of fucking jewelry.

And yet I can’t stop thinking about how good it would look if it was the only thing she had on.

“You clean up well, Ms. St. Clair,” I murmur, breaking the silence.

Her eyes snap to mine. “Thank you, Mr. Akopov.”

“Vince,” I correct her. “When we’re in public tonight, you’ll call me Vince.”

“Is that appropriate? I’m your assistant.”

“Wrong. Tonight, you’re whatever I need you to be.”

A flush creeps up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. It’s becoming my favorite thing to watch.

“And what exactly do you need me to be?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Observant. Attentive.” I lean forward and capture her eyes. “Mine.”

Her breath catches. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” I sit back, straightening my cuffs. “Tonight, you’ll meet some of my most important business associates. People who matter to my world. Pay attention to names, faces, connections. Take mental notes. I’ll quiz you later.”

“Is this a test?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Tests can be failed. This cannot.”

The car pulls up to the glittering entrance of the Plaza Hotel. Cameras flash as celebrities and high society figures strut the red carpet into the Pediatric Cancer Foundation gala.

“Ready?” I ask as the driver opens my door.

Rowan nods, though her eyes betray her nervousness.

I exit first, then extend my hand to help her out. Her fingers tremble in mine, but her face shows none of that fear. She stepsonto the carpet with surprising grace, as if she’s done this a thousand times before.

I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward.

“Smile,” I order into her ear. “Everyone is watching.”

And they are. Heads turn as we pass. I’m used to the attention—the Akopov name carries weight in this city. But tonight, it’s Rowan who draws the second glances.

She holds herself with unexpected poise. Back straight. Chin high. Steps measured and confident. The frightened little doe from my office has transformed into something else entirely.

Something that makes my blood run hotter than it should.

“Mr. Akopov!” A reporter steps into our path. “Who’s your date tonight?”

I smile for the cameras. “This is Ms. St. Clair, my executive assistant.”

“She’s gorgeous,” the reporter gushes. “Are you two?—?”

“We’re here to support the foundation,” I interrupt smoothly. “My family has been a proud sponsor for years.”

Rowan follows my lead perfectly, adding, “The work they do for pediatric cancer research is truly inspiring.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say she sounds sincere.

I guide her past the reporters and into the opulent ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the silk-covered tables and floral arrangements.

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