Filthy Promises: Chapter 11

The office is eerily quiet after hours. My heels echo down the empty hallways as I make my way back to my desk.

After the impromptu summons to the office this afternoon—which turned out to be nothing more than Vince needing someone to take notes during an unexpected conference call with Moscow—I decided to stay late and try to make sense of his impossibly complicated schedule.

Call it professional dedication.

Call it brown-nosing.

Or call it what it actually is: me trying to prove I actually deserve this job that tripled my salary and might just save my mom’s life.

“Just a couple more hours,” I mutter to myself, settling into my chair. “Then you can go home, have a glass of your finest chilled Franzia, and pretend you don’t work for the Russian mob.”

The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about that phone call I overheard. More importantly, I’m thinking about all the things I’m not thinking.

Like, for example, why did it take me this long to consider involving the police? I haven’t even told Nat about it, for crying out loud! I’m the dumbest accomplice in history. Whoever plays me in the true crime Netflix doc is just gonna be a blank-eyed bimbo with a room temperature IQ.

The audience will be hurling popcorn at the screen like, This dumb bitch! Why didn’t she go to the cops? The FBI? The press? Hell, go find a stranger on the corner and scream in their face that the sexiest man on the Forbes 40 Under 40 list is secretly a mafia boss!

Instead, I’m reorganizing Vince Akopov’s calendar like a good little assistant, color-coding his appointments and trying to find patterns in the chaos.

What does that say about me?

Nothing good, probably.

I pull up the digital calendar on my computer and compare it to the paper version Diane reluctantly handed over before leaving. There are discrepancies—appointments that appear in one but not the other, blocks of time marked simply as “private” or “offsite” with no further details.

“This makes no sense,” I grumble, flipping through the pages.

Maybe there’s something in Vince’s office that could help decode this mystery. His own planner, perhaps? Notes from past meetings?

I glance at his closed door. He left hours ago for what Diane cryptically described as “family business.” Won’t be back until tomorrow.

It’s the perfect opportunity to snoop—er, I mean, to be thorough and proactive in my new role.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I stand and cross to his door. I press my palm against the cool wood for a moment, listening for any sign that I’m not alone.

Nothing.

I turn the handle, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure it’s visible through my blouse.

The door swings open to reveal Vince’s massive office. It looks different in the dim evening light—more ominous, somehow. More secret.

The last time I stood in this doorway, I got a free peep show of my new boss pounding his secretary into next week. The memory flashes like a neon sign behind my eyes—his powerful body, the way his muscles flexed with each brutal thrust, Vanessa’s moans rising in pleasure-slash-pain.

I shiver in the darkness, my body betraying me with a rush of heat between my legs.

Fucking traitor.

I flick on the desk lamp rather than the overhead lights. No need to advertise my presence to any security guards making their rounds.

“Just find a planner or schedule book,” I whisper to myself. “In and out. Two minutes.”

I round the desk slowly, like it might bite. I know I should just check for a planner, maybe flip through some files, but my fingers itch with curiosity. The smooth surface of his desk gleams in the low light, taunting me.

How many women has he bent over this surface? How many deals—legitimate and otherwise—have been sealed here?

Would he bend me over it if I asked?

Jesus Christ, Rowan. Get a fucking grip.

I shake my head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thought. Focus on the task at hand. I need to understand his schedule, to make sense of the gaps and inconsistencies. It’s just organizational efficiency, not intrusion.

God, I lie to myself so prettily sometimes.

Gritting my teeth, I start with the obvious places. The blotter on his desk. The top drawer. The sleek credenza behind his chair.

Nothing helpful materializes.

I move to the desk drawers. The first two contain normal office supplies—pens, paper clips, sticky notes. The third is locked.

“Hmm.” I frown, jiggling the handle.

Definitely locked. Suspicious.

I should stop here. This is already crossing so many lines. But curiosity is a dangerous thing. It killed the cat, as they say.

But satisfaction brought it back, right?

I glance around the office, looking for where a key might be hidden. My eyes land on a small crystal paperweight on the corner of the desk—a globe with what looks like the Moscow skyline encased inside.

On a hunch, I lift it.

Bingo. A small silver key.

“This is insane,” I tell myself even as I fit the key into the lock. “This is how people in movies get murdered.”

And yet, despite how easy it was to find the key, despite how dumb this all feels…

The lock clicks open.

I hesitate, my hand lingering on the drawer pull. This is my last chance to be smart. To be safe.

Instead, I pull the drawer open. It’s…

Empty.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I mutter.

But wait—the drawer seems too shallow compared to the others. I run my fingers along the bottom, feeling for anything unusual.

My fingertips catch on something—a subtle indentation on the right side. I press it.

There’s a soft click, and the false bottom of the drawer pops up.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my pulse racing. I’m in a spy movie. I’m in a crime thriller. I’m in so much fucking trouble.

I lift the false bottom.

What I see makes my blood run cold.

A gun. Sleek, black, and definitely real. Next to it, stacks of cash—thousands, maybe tens of thousands. Neat bundles secured with rubber bands.

And beneath the money lies what looks like a passport. Not American—the cover is darker, the text in Cyrillic letters.

This isn’t just suspicious anymore. This is confirmation.

The rumors are true. Vince Akopov isn’t just a business mogul. He’s something else entirely.

Just as my fingertips brush the cover, I hear it—the unmistakable sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall.

Followed by footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Heading this way.

“Shit!” I whisper-scream, frantically replacing the false bottom and shutting the drawer. I fumble with the key, lock the door, then stash the key back under the paperweight.

The footsteps are getting closer. Too close.

I dart around the desk, heading for the door, but I know I won’t make it back to my desk in time without being seen.

Think, Rowan, think!

The private bathroom. It’s my only option.

I slip inside just as I hear the main office door open. I leave the bathroom door open a crack—closing it might make a sound—and press my eye to the opening.

Vincent strides into his office, looking nothing like the polished CEO I’m used to seeing. His tie is gone, his shirt collar open, his hair a mess. He has a cut above his right eyebrow. A small one, but fresh and gleaming with crimson blood.

He looks dangerous.

He goes straight to his desk, setting down a manila envelope before reaching for the crystal paperweight.

My heart stops. He’s going to check the drawer. He’ll know someone’s been here.

But at the last second, his hand veers off course. Instead of retrieving the key, he picks up his desk phone and dials.

“It’s done,” he says without preamble. “The Koreans won’t be a problem anymore.”

A pause as he listens.

“No casualties, as ordered. Just some broken bones and bruised egos.” His mouth curves into a smile that sends shivers down my spine. “The girls are being taken care of. Safe houses in Jersey for now, then new identities.”

Girls? Safe houses? What the hell is going on?

“Yes, Father. I’ll be at breakfast tomorrow. Your concerns are noted, but unnecessary.” Another pause. “She’s working out fine so far. Resourceful. Discreet.”

Is he talking about me?

“I’m not rushing anything. I know the timeline.” He sounds annoyed now. “Seven months is plenty of time.”

Hold up—timeline for what?

“Goodnight, Father.” He hangs up and sets down the phone with a little more force than necessary.

Then he does something unexpected. He laughs—a short, humorless sound. Runs his hands through his hair. Looks suddenly tired, human.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost forget what I just found in his desk.

Then he reaches for the crystal paperweight.

Panic surges through me. If he opens that drawer and sees the false bottom isn’t exactly as he left it…

But a second phone rings—his cell this time. He checks the screen and answers immediately.

“Speak.” His tone changes completely—softer, intimate. “I told you not to call me here.”

A woman? A girlfriend? Why does that possibility send a flash of completely inappropriate jealousy through me?

“Tomorrow night.” He lowers his voice. “Wear the red dress.”

Great. Perfect. Of course he has someone to wear red dresses for him. Someone who isn’t his terrified assistant hiding in his bathroom like a criminal.

Which, technically, I am at this point.

“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t call again tonight.”

He hangs up, slips the phone into his pocket, and—to my immense relief—walks out without touching the drawer.

I wait a full five minutes after I hear the outer door close before I dare to breathe again.

Then I slink out of the bathroom, my legs shaking so badly I can barely walk. I somehow make it to my desk and collapse into my chair, my mind racing.

A gun. Cash. What was probably a fake passport. And now, phone calls about Koreans and girls in safe houses and someone in a red dress.

This is madness. I’m in way over my head.

But if I quit and go to the cops, like the good angel on my shoulder is demanding I do, what happens to Mom? To her treatments? To the life I’m finally able to give her after years of scraping by?

And what happens to me if Vincent finds out I betrayed him?

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.

There has to be an explanation, right? Maybe he’s some kind of undercover agent. He’s rescuing those girls from traffickers, probably. I’m sure the gun is just for protection.

Even as the thoughts form, I know I’m grasping at straws. Lying to myself.

Vincent Akopov is dangerous. Possibly a criminal. Definitely not someone I should be fantasizing about.

And yet here I am, unable to shake the image of him with his collar open, his hair mussed, that small cut making him look like he just walked away from a fight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I gather my things with shaking hands, shut down my computer, and practically run for the elevator.

Tomorrow, I’ll face him again. I’ll smile and take notes and pretend I didn’t see what I saw. I’ll be the perfect assistant.

What other choice do I have?