Page 63 of Filthy Promises

“Two months, Vincent.” He taps the stack of folders. “Choose wisely.”

The rest of dinner passes in strained conversation about business matters. By the time dessert arrives—a traditional Russian honey cake that tastes like radioactive ash in my mouth—I’ve made my decision.

I’ll play my father’s game. Meet these women. Pretend to consider them.

But I’ll do it onmyterms.

I drop my fork clattering onto my plate and stand. “Where are you going?” my father asks in surprise.

“To throw myself a bachelor party,” I say sarcastically.

I turn and leave, though I bring the glass of vodka with me. I drain it dry, then leave it on the stoop as I brush through the front door and out into the night again. The purr of my car rocketing down the drive settles into my bones. Steadies me. Orients me.

“I’m afraid of what you’re capable of. But also… drawn to it. And that scares me even more.”I smile into the darkness as Manhattan’s skyline rises before me.

My father thinks he’s going to drag me down into the hell of his choosing. And fuck it, maybe he will.

But I won’t be going alone.

19

ROWAN

I’m halfway through a rerun ofThe Great British Bake Offwhen someone knocks on my door.

Actually, “knocks” isn’t the right word. It’s more like a furious, impatient pounding that makes me nearly slosh my Solo cup full of boxed wine all over my threadbare couch.

Nobody visits me unannounced. Ever. Natalie always texts first, Mom’s in the hospital, and the building super only shows up when something’s been broken for a minimum of three weeks.

I mute the TV and tiptoe to the peephole, wine cup still clutched in my hand like a sad weapon.

My heart stops.

Vincent Akopov is standing in my hallway.

“I know you’re in there, Rowan,” he calls through the door. “I can hear you breathing.”

I glance down at my outfit in horror. Gray flannel pajama shorts with little cartoon sloths on them. A faded NYU t-shirt with acoffee stain right between my boobs. Hair piled on top of my head in a disgusting knot. Calling it a “filthy rat’s nest” would be an insult to filth, rats, and nests.

“One minute!” I call, my voice way too high-pitched, like a teakettle on helium.

I scramble around my tiny studio, looking for something—anything—more presentable to throw on. But there’s no time. He’s already seen the light under my door, already knows I’m home.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door just enough to peek out.

“Mr. Akopov,” I say, trying to sound professional despite my attire. “This is unexpected.”

He’s devastating in dark, tailored slacks and a charcoal cashmere sweater that looks like he tugged a cloud out of the night sky and molded it to his biceps. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over again, and there’s a tightness to the clench of his jaw that makes my thighs do a clench of their own.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.

“I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

His eyes rake slowly down my body, taking in every embarrassing detail of my loungewear. “I don’t mind.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Um, okay. Just… it’s small. And messy. I wasn’t expecting?—”

“Rowan,” he interrupts, “open the fucking door.”

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