Page 73 of Filthy Promises

I turn to leave, putting an extra sway in my step.

“Rowan,” he calls after me.

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yes?”

He picks up the cup, his eyes never leaving mine, and deliberately places his lips exactly where mine had been.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says after taking a sip.

I smile, feeling bolder than I ever have. “I’m just following your lead, Mr. Akopov.”

“Be careful what you start,” he warns, but there’s heat in his eyes that makes my knees weak. “You might not be prepared for how it ends.”

“Or maybe,” I say, surprising myself with my daring, “you’re the one who isn’t prepared.”

I walk out before he can respond, my heart pounding a victory march in my chest.

For the first time since this cat-and-mouse game began, I feel like I might actually have the upper hand.

22

ROWAN

When Vince’s text arrived last night, demanding I wear red for the Katerina Volkov date, something inside me snapped.

It’s not enough that I have to watch him court potential brides. Now, he’s color-coordinating me to his whims? Like I’m some accessory he can match to his fucking pocket square?

Wear the red one tomorrow night. Volkov dinner at 8. Car at 7.

I can still taste your lipstick.

That last line is what does it. The casual reminder that I’m just a game to him. A diversion. Entertainment between his important bride-shopping excursions.

I don’t sleep. Instead, I pace my tiny apartment, rage building with each step. By dawn, I’ve made my decision.

If Vince wants to play games, so be it.

I’ll show him what happens when I play to win.

The red dress arrives by courier at noon. It’s stunning—crimson silk that flows like blood, with a neckline that plunges daringly low and a slit that reaches scandalously high.

It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t just speak; itscreams.

But I have my own addition to tonight’s ensemble.

I set up my old Polaroid camera—a vintage find from a thrift shop that I use for art projects. I position it carefully, set the timer, and take a series of photos that would make my mother disown me if she ever saw them.

Nothing fully explicit. Just… suggestive.

My bare back, the dress strap slipping off my shoulder.

The curve of my hip.

A glimpse of side breast with my arm strategically placed.

My exposed legs, one knee bent to hide what needs hiding, but revealing enough to make the viewer desperate to see more.

And he’ll be desperate. Oh, he’ll be fucking foaming at the mouth when he sees this.

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