Page 1 of Filthy Promises

1

ROWAN

The Akopov Industries corporate headquarters always gives me the creeps.

It’s sixty-five floors of glass and steel designed to make peasants like me feel exactly that—tiny, insignificant, and easily replaceable.

Unfortunately, it’s very good at what it does.

I shift my heavy folder from one arm to the other, trying to pretend like there aren’t sweat stains forming under the armpits of my thrifted blazer. It’s not even hot—I’m just a nervous sweater. One of my many genetic gifts.Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad.

But why am I sweating? That’s dumb. This is a very easy task. Robots could do it. Monkeys could do it. Robot monkeys could almost certainly do it.

Probably with less sweat, too.

“Just deliver the quarterly reports,” I mutter to myself, mimicking my best friend Natalie’s voice. “Super easy. In and out in five minutes.”

Right. Easy for her to say when she isn’t the one being sent into the lion’s den.

Technically, this should be her job. But Nat is so obscenely pregnant that I’ve been keeping her away from sharp objects so she doesn’t accidentally get popped like a balloon and go whistling around the office. Therefore, it’s fallen in my lap to schlep this thick stack of financial statements up to the king of the castle himself.

The elevator dings as it passes the thirtieth floor. Still only halfway there. Fantastic.

Too much time alone with my thoughts has never, ever been a good thing. Today is no exception.

I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls. Mousy brown hair pulled into a messy bun. Dark circles under my eyes from staying up late finalizing the Miller campaign last night.

Not that anyone had noticed my extra effort.

Not that anyone will ever notice.

Certainly nothim.The lion himself.

Vincent Akopov. Son of Andrei Akopov, Russian immigrant turned tech billionaire.

My boss’s boss’s boss’s boss…

… and the star of approximately nine billion of my inappropriate daydreams.

“Get it together, Row,” I whispered. “He probably doesn’t even know the marketing department exists. He sure as hell has no clue whoyouare.”

Right on cue, the elevator slows to a stop at the executive floor.

I’ve only been up here once before, back when I was first hired five years ago. I was fresh out of college, frothing at the mouth with desperation for any job that would pay enough to cover both Manhattan rent and my mom’s medical bills.

I remember every single detail of that day. Gray clouds, windy, frigid with the promise of winter coming soon. My mouth tasted like wintergreen mints and abject, stuttering fear.

And thenhestrode into the room.

He wasn’t there to interview me—God knows that Vincent would never sully his hands with the likes of hiring lowly worker bees like myself.

He simply swept in as if I didn’t exist, bent down to whisper something in the ear of the Chief Marketing Officer who was conducting the interview, and then started to sweep right back out.

Two things about that swift, brutal interaction stuck out to me.

One was how all it took was a few growled words from Vincent to make the CMO look like she was about to shit her extremely expensive silk slacks. Her face was printer paper white, her lips parted, breath whistling out of her like a forlorn teakettle.

I was instantly terrified of anyone who could do that with so little effort.

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