Page 7 of Filthy Promises

Rowan St. Clair. Marketing Associate. Five years with Akopov Industries.

“Rowan,” I say aloud, testing the name on my tongue.

I click through to her employee file. Nothing remarkable at first glance. Bachelor’s degree in Marketing and Design from Generic State University. Consistent if unremarkable performance reviews—above-average, but never outstanding enough to fast-track for promotion.

I lean back in my chair, intrigued.

Well, that’s not quite true. I’m intrigued by the fact that, on the surface, this girl is so utterly unintriguing?—

—and yet I can’t stop picturing her face.

Oh.Fuck, that single syllable she whispered was a more delicious sound than anything Vanessa ever whined or screamed or moaned.

Oh.Like Rowan had never seen someone fuck before.

Oh.Like she wanted to find out how it feels for herself.

“Let’s see what else you’re hiding, Ms. St. Clair.”

Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to access the HR files. But when your last name is on the building, certain rules become… flexible. A few keystrokes later, and I’ve got everything I could ever want splayed out before me.

What I find makes me sit up straighter.

Health insurance claims. Lots of them. Not for Rowan, but for a dependent—her mother.

Cancer treatments. Expensive ones.

I dig deeper.

Student loans still not paid off. A modest apartment in the sleazy part of town where ambition goes to die. No savings to speak of.

“Interesting.”

I pull up her social media. It’s almost nonexistent. A barely-used Instagram with photos of coffee and dog-eared books. No exotic vacations or wild parties.

An image forms in my mind: a woman trapped by circumstance. Working to survive, not to thrive.

An opportunity.

I recognize that hunger. It’s what drove my father when he first came to America with nothing but ambition and a suitcase full of dreams.

My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil—it’s Andrei himself.

“Father,” I answer.

“Still at the office?” he asks in Russian, his accent drenched with snow and vodka even after thirty years in the States.

“Just finishing up.”

I chuckle to myself at the little joke. Vanessa “finished up” three times. Even now, I can see her silhouette through the frosted glass of my office window. She keeps peeking over her shoulder like she’s wondering if I’m as smitten with her as she is with me.

I’m not, of course. I can’t afford to be. In a few short months, my father will step down from his role as the CEO of Akopov Industries.

Then it’ll bemyturn at the helm.

That’s all well and good. But it’s not the promotion I’m most excited for.

It’s when Andrei hands me hisothercrown that I’ll truly be salivating at everything that’s finally mine.

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