Page 60 of Filthy Promises

It’s on last night’s gala. On green silk. On wide eyes that somehow managed to look both terrified and tempted at the same damn time.

Rowan St. Clair. My little assistant with the steel spine and trembling hands.

My father noticed her. As innoticedher. Not just the passing of his gaze over her and the deeming of her as insignificant. No, he stopped and helooked.

And he found her wanting.

I saw it in his eyes—the calculation, the dismissal, the warning. He thinks she’s beneath me. A distraction. A liability.

He’s wrong.

I pull through the gates of the Akopov estate, the security team nodding as I pass. The sprawling mansion looms ahead, all stone and glass and Moscow gravitas transplanted to American soil.

Home.Though it’s never really felt that way.

It’s hard to feel fondly about a place that’s swallowed your blood and screamed for more.

I park in the circular driveway and cut the engine. For a moment, I sit in silence, preparing myself for whatever bullshit my father has summoned me here to discuss. His text was cryptic:Family dinner. 7PM sharp. Important matters to discuss.

In Andrei Akopov’s world, “important matters” usually means he’s about to make my life way more fucking complicated.

The front door opens before I reach it.

“Vincent.” Marta, the housekeeper, greets me with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re late.”

“By two minutes.” I kiss her cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume—Yves Saint Laurent Opium, the same bottle I buy her every Christmas. “Traffic.”

She links her arm through mine. “He’s in a mood,” she warns quietly as we walk toward the dining room. “Tread carefully.”

“When is he not in a mood?”

“Fair point.” She squeezes my arm. “But tonight feels different. Don’t ask me why.”

Before I can ask what she means, we enter the dining room. My father sits at the head of the table, a glass of vodka in his hand, a stack of folders beside his plate.

“Seven minutes late,” he announces without looking up.

“Two minutes,” I correct, taking my usual seat to his right. “The traffic?—”

“I don’t care.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “We have business to discuss.”

Marta slips into her chair silently, eyes downcast. After thirty-five years in the Akopovs’ employ, she knows when to fade into the background.

I pour myself a vodka from the crystal decanter. “What kind of business?”

“Your future.” He pushes the stack of folders toward me. “Open them.”

I take the first folder, flip it open, and find myself staring at a photograph of a young woman. Beautiful, in that cold, calculated way favored by the daughters of powerful men. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark, expensive clothes.

“Irina Petrov,” my father says. “Twenty-eight. MBA from Moscow State. Grigor’s only daughter.”

I flip to the next page. Financial information. Family connections. Medical history.

It’s a fucking dossier.

“What is this?” I ask, though I already know.

“Candidates.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “For marriage.”

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