Filthy Promises: Chapter 42

The resignation letter stares back at me from my computer screen, cursor blinking impatiently like it’s tapping its foot, waiting for me to finish what I started.

Dear Mr. Akopov,

Please accept this letter as formal notification that I am resigning from my position as Executive Assistant with Akopov Industries, effective…

That’s as far as I’ve gotten. The cursor blinks. Blinks. Blinks. Taunting me.

I’m still struggling to fill in the date. How much longer can I stand being around him? Watching him prepare to marry someone else while I carry his—his—his⁠—

God, I can’t even think the word without my hand drifting to my stomach.

Baby.

The office is quiet. It’s past seven, and most people have gone home. Vince left for a “meeting” hours ago, which I can only assume means he’s somewhere with Anastasia, planning their future together.

I wonder if they’ve picked out china patterns yet. If they’ve discussed how many rooms their mansion will have. If they’ve talked about children.

The thought makes me nauseous all over again.

I yank open my desk drawer, fishing out the travel pack of saltines I’ve been surviving on. As I nibble one, I go back to staring at the letter.

My phone buzzes with a text from Natalie: Did you tell him yet?

I type back quickly: No. Still figuring things out.

She responds immediately: He deserves to know, Row.

I put the phone down without answering. She’s right, and I hate it. Vince does deserve to know about the baby. But that doesn’t make it any easier to tell him.

How exactly do you drop that bomb? “Hey, congratulations on your engagement! By the way, I’m pregnant with your child. Have a nice life with your Russian crime princess!”

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

The elevator dings, making me jump. Before I can minimize the resignation letter on my screen, Vince strides out. When he sees me, he stops short. “You’re still here,” he says, sounding almost surprised.

“Just finishing some things up.” I quickly click away from the resignation letter.

He watches me, that intense gaze that always makes me feel like he can see straight through me. “Good. I need to talk to you.”

My stomach knots. “If it’s about the Hong Kong paperwork, I’ve already⁠—”

“It’s not about work.” He glances toward his office. “Come inside. Please.”

The “please” throws me. Vincent Akopov doesn’t say please. He commands, he demands, he expects. He doesn’t request.

“It’s late,” I hedge. “I should really get going.”

“Five minutes,” he says, and there’s an urgency in his voice I’ve never heard before. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Against my better judgment, I rise from my desk. My legs feel wooden as I follow him into his office.

He closes the door behind us. Instead of moving to his desk, he remains standing, close enough that I can smell his cologne.

“I need to tell you something,” he starts, then pauses, apparently struggling with words.

Vincent Akopov, at a loss for words. That’s new.

“What is it?” I prompt when the silence stretches too long.

He takes a deep breath. “The engagement⁠—”

Before he can continue, the elevator dings again. Multiple times in rapid succession.

Vince’s head snaps up, his entire demeanor changing instantly. Gone is the man who seemed on the verge of some important confession. In his place stands the predator I’ve glimpsed before—alert, dangerous, coiled to strike.

“Get behind my desk,” he orders sharply.

“What—”

“Now, Rowan!”

The elevator doors slide open, and suddenly, the quiet office is filled with shouting. Footsteps thunder across the marble floor of the reception area.

“FBI! Nobody move!”

Everything happens so fast. Men in bulletproof vests with FBI emblazoned across them flood into the office, guns drawn. I’m frozen in shock until Vince grabs my arm and practically throws me behind his desk.

“Stay down,” he hisses, just as the first agents burst through his office door.

“Vincent Akopov?” A stern-faced man in a suit holds up a badge. “I’m Special Agent Carver. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

Vince’s face reveals nothing. He might as well be discussing the weather. “May I see this warrant?”

While they’re exchanging words, my eyes land on Vince’s laptop. It’s open, the screen showing a folder labeled “SOLOVYOV.” Even from here, I can see documents that look suspiciously like shipping manifests.

Shipping manifests. Like the ones I overheard him discussing on the phone that night.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. The agents are moving around the office now, opening drawers, rifling through papers. One heads toward the desk where I’m still crouched.

Without thinking, I grab the laptop, close it, and slip it under my blouse, tucking it against my stomach like I’m already showing with Vince’s child.

Just as I do, the agent rounds the desk.

“Ma’am, I need you to stand up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

I rise, hands raised, silently praying the bulge of the laptop isn’t visible. My blazer is loose enough that it might just hide it.

“Identification?” he barks.

“My purse is at my desk,” I say with forced calm. “I’m Mr. Akopov’s assistant, Rowan St. Clair.”

The agent nods to another officer. “Escort Ms. St. Clair to retrieve her ID, then bring her back for questioning.”

As they lead me out, I risk a glance at Vince. Our eyes meet across the chaos of the raid.

And in that moment, something passes between us. He sees the slight bulge under my blazer. His eyes widen fractionally, then his expression shifts to something I’ve never seen before: a vulnerability that makes my chest ache.

I turn away before the agent can notice our exchange.

At my desk, I carefully retrieve my ID with one hand while keeping the other pressed against my stomach, securing the laptop. As the agent checks my credentials, I discreetly grab a manila folder from my desk and hold it against my chest—additional camouflage.

“What’s this about?” I ask the agent, trying to sound appropriately confused and concerned. “Why are you searching Mr. Akopov’s office?”

“That’s confidential, ma’am,” he responds curtly. “How long have you worked for Mr. Akopov?”

“A few months as his assistant,” I answer truthfully. “Before that, I was in marketing for five years.”

“And what do you know about his business dealings outside of Akopov Industries?”

My mouth goes dry. “Nothing. I just handle his schedule, correspondence, things like that.”

The agent studies me, clearly skeptical. “You’ve never seen or heard anything suspicious?”

I shake my head. “Nothing comes to mind. Mr. Akopov is very private about his personal affairs.”

The lie comes easily. Too easily. I’ve been covering for Vince for months without even realizing it.

From Vince’s office, I hear raised voices. Special Agent Carver emerges, looking frustrated.

“The safe’s empty,” he tells another agent. “Check the assistant’s desk and computer.”

As they start rifling through my belongings, I stand there, Vince’s laptop burning against my skin.

One wrong move and they’ll discover it.

One wrong move and Vince could go to prison.

The thought makes my blood run cold.

I should just hand it over. The right thing, the logical thing to do is just tell them everything I know. About the gun in his desk. About the overheard conversations. About the night he killed a man right in front of me.

I should do the right thing.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stand there and protect him.

Why? Why am I still protecting him?

It’s a rhetorical question, because I already know the answer. I’m protecting him because, despite everything—the lies, the secrets, the impending engagement—I still love him.

I love Vincent Akopov.

It’s not just about the pregnancy. It’s not just about the mind-blowing sex or the triple salary or the mysterious payment for Mom’s treatment.

It’s about the way he looked at me that night in the hospital when I was sick. The gentleness in his hands when he thought I was asleep.

It’s about the man behind the monster—the one no one else gets to see.

After what feels like hours, Agent Carver approaches me.

“Ms. St. Clair, we’ll need you to come downtown to answer some questions.”

I nod, clutching the folder—and the laptop—tighter against my chest. “Am I under arrest?”

“Not at this time. We just have some questions about your boss’s activities.”

“I’d like a lawyer present,” I say, surprising myself with my calm resolve.

Agent Carver’s eyebrows rise. “That’s your right, of course. But innocent people don’t usually lawyer up so quickly.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Is that a threat, Agent Carver?”

He studies me for a moment longer, then nods to another agent. “Get her ready.”

As they get me prepared to go downstairs, I look to Vince across the room. He’s speaking with his own lawyer now, a gray-haired man who appeared like a phantom about twenty minutes into the raid.

His eyes find mine again, and this time, I don’t look away. I don’t know what happens next—for him, for me, for us. I don’t know if I’ll keep this baby or if I’ll ever tell him about it. I don’t know if he’s going through with his engagement or if he even cares about me beyond the physical.

But I do know that when the FBI came for him, my first instinct wasn’t to save myself.

It was to save him.