Page 74 of Filthy Promises

Perfect.

The images develop slowly, each one more risqué than the last. I select the boldest one—me lying on my bed, back arched, hair tumbled across the pillow, naked except for a strategically placed sheet that reveals everything and nothing all at once.

On the white border at the bottom, I write,For when you get bored with Katerina. - R

I slip the Polaroid into an envelope small enough to fit in my clutch. Tonight, when the moment is right, it’ll find its way into Vince’s pocket.

Let him explainthatto the Russian princess.

I’m shaking by the time I finish getting ready. Not from fear, but from adrenaline. From the electric thrill of taking control for once in my life. Of being the one who disrupts, rather than the one always struggling to maintain order, to stay out of the way.

The red dress fits perfectly, of course. Vince never misses. I curl my hair in loose waves that fall past my shoulders and apply makeup that’s a billion times bolder than I’d usually dare—smoky eyes, defined cheekbones, and lips painted the exact shade of my dress.

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. This isn’t mousy Rowan St. Clair from Marketing.

This is someone powerful.

The thought makes me pause, reality crashing down for a brief moment. What the hell am I doing?

But it’s too late to turn back now.

The car is already waiting downstairs.

Vince is in the backseat when I slide in. He’s wearing a black tuxedo that makes his silver-streaked hair gleam in the dim light.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says, his eyes dragging slowly down my body, lingering on the exposed skin revealed by the low neckline. “You followed instructions perfectly.”

“I live to please, Mr. Akopov.” I settle across from him, crossing my legs so the slit in my dress reveals a flash of thigh. “It’s what makes me such a valuable assistant.”

His eyes darken. “Indeed.”

The car pulls away from the curb and into Manhattan traffic. I can feel the weight of the Polaroid in my clutch, burning a hole through the fabric with its illicit promise.

“Katerina Volkov,” I say, opening my tablet to pretend I’m reviewing information. “Twenty-five. Harvard Law. Mikhail Volkov’s niece.”

“I’m familiar with her résumé.” Vince’s voice is cool, but his eyes remain boiling hot as they track my every movement.

“Just doing my job.” I smile innocently. “Making sure you’re prepared.”

“And are you prepared, Rowan?” His question carries layers of meaning. “For tonight?”

“Always.” I meet his gaze directly. “Though I’m curious. What exactly is my role in these auditions? Am I just window dressing? A convenient excuse to end the evening early if it’s not going well?”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “You’re my assistant. You’re there to assist.”

“With what? Selecting your bride? Or just keeping your bed warm until you find one?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than I intended.

Vince leans forward, closing the distance between us. “Careful, Ms. St. Clair. You’re overstepping again.”

“Am I?” I don’t back down. “Because it seems like I’m the only one acknowledging what’s actually happening here.”

“And what exactly do you think is happening?”

“You’re playing with me,” I say bluntly. “Leaving notes. Touching me under tables. Telling me you think of me when you—” I stop, feeling heat flood my face. “All while shopping for a suitable wife from your father’s approved catalog.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that what you think?”

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