Filthy Promises: Chapter 22

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; it screams.

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.

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 explain that to 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?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just watches me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.

“You’re not wrong,” he finally admits. “Not entirely.”

The confirmation stings more than it should. I’d known it was true, but hearing him say it…

“Then let’s be clear about the rules of this game,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Because I’m tired of being the only one who doesn’t know how to play.”

“The rules are simple. I pursue what I want. When I want it.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

The car slows to a stop at a red light. In the momentary stillness, I feel the air between us charge with electricity.

“You know what I want, Rowan.” His voice drops to a growl that makes every nerve in my body stand at attention. “I’ve made that very clear.”

“And what about what I want?” I challenge.

“Tell me.” His eyes pin me in place. “What do you want?”

For a moment, I consider telling him. I have all the words right there on the tip of my tongue, lined up just like they have been for five years.

I want YOU, Vince. I want you to shred me to pieces and build me back up just so you can shred me again. I want to know how it feels to melt on you, with you, for you. I want to crumble in your arms and on your tongue, because I just know, with a deep and unshakeable certainty, that there isn’t another man alive capable of ruining me the way you would.

I want you to ruin me, Vince.

I want it now.

Then the light changes. The car moves forward. The moment shifts.

“I’m not sure anymore,” I whisper, honesty slipping through the cracks in my bravado.

Vince sits back. “When you decide, feel free to let me know.”

We ride in loaded silence for several minutes. I need to time this perfectly. If I’m going to slip the Polaroid into his pocket, it has to be now, before we reach the restaurant.

I set my tablet aside and reach for my clutch. “I should check my makeup before we arrive.”

Opening my purse, I palm the small envelope, then pretend to drop my lipstick. It rolls across the floor of the car toward Vince’s polished shoes.

“Allow me,” he says, bending to retrieve it, just like I hoped he would.

As he leans forward, I reach out as if to help, letting my hand brush against his jacket pocket. With a sleight of hand that would make a pickpocket proud, I slip the envelope inside.

He straightens up, hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” I say as he passes me the lipstick.

Our fingers touching briefly. Just barely. Chaste. Unremarkable.

But something in is obscene and fucking violent.

A flare blooms in his eyes—suspicion, perhaps—but then it’s gone, replaced by that maddening mask of control.

“We’re here,” he announces as the car pulls up to Per Se once again in an eerie déjà vu re-creation of our previous disaster here.

I take a deep breath, suddenly nervous about what I’ve done.

But it’s too late to take it back now. The Polaroid is in his pocket, a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate.

Vince exits first, then offers his hand to help me out. As I take it, he pulls me closer than necessary, his lips brushing against my ear.

“Remember who you work for tonight, Rowan.”

If only he knew what was sitting in his pocket, inches away from his heart.