Filthy Promises: Chapter 52

I know something’s wrong the moment I reach my motel room door. It’s slightly ajar, a thin strip of light pouring out into the hallway.

I definitely closed it.

I definitely locked it.

Backing away slowly, I pull out my phone and Arkady’s card. But before I can dial, a cleaning cart rounds the corner, pushed by a middle-aged woman in a wrinkled uniform.

“Excuse me,” I call out, gesturing to my door. “Did housekeeping already come by here?”

She shakes her head. “Not today, miss. We only do rooms on request in this place.”

My heart pounds as I peek through the crack. The room beyond is in shambles—mattress slashed open, drawers emptied onto the floor, my few meager belongings scattered everywhere.

Someone was looking for something.

Or someone.

I back away from the door, arms wrapped protectively around my middle.

“You need help, miss?” the housekeeper asks, looking concerned.

“I need—” My voice catches. “I need a friend.”

But my friends aren’t really my friends. Natalie is Vince’s spy. My other work acquaintances feel a million miles away from this nightmare. Mom is in the hospital.

I’m alone.

Except…

I pull out my phone again and scroll through contacts until I find a number I never thought I’d use. I press dial before I can change my mind.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice answers, cool and cultured.

“Anastasia? It’s Rowan. Rowan St. Clair.” I swallow hard. “I… I need to talk to someone. Someone who might understand.”

There’s a pause. “Where are you?”

I tell her the name of the motel. She doesn’t comment on its questionable reputation or the neighborhood.

“There’s a coffee shop three blocks from there. Blue awning. Meet me there in twenty minutes.” She hangs up without waiting for a response.

I glance back at my ransacked room, then turn and walk away, leaving everything behind.

None of it matters anymore.

Anastasia Kuznetsov is even more beautiful in daylight, away from the dim restaurant lighting where we first met.

Her dark hair is pulled into an elegant knot, her outfit simple but clearly expensive. She looks like she belongs on a runway, not in a shabby coffee shop with chipped mugs and sticky tables.

But here she is, studying me across said sticky table with eyes that miss nothing.

“You look terrible,” she observes, not unkindly.

“So I’ve been told.” I wrap my hands around my mug of decaf, grateful for its warmth. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll admit, I was curious.” She sips her own coffee. “I never expected a call from you.”

“That makes two of us.” I laugh humorlessly. “But I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“Not your fiancé?” Her perfectly shaped eyebrow raises.

“Ex-fiancé,” I correct. “And definitely not him.”

“Ah.” She nods, unsurprised. “You found out.”

I freeze, then set down my mug before I drop it. “So you knew? About all of it?”

“Most of it.” She studies me with those calculating eyes. “Though not about you being Petrov’s daughter until recently. That was quite the revelation.”

I shake my head, trying to process yet another betrayal. “Did everyone know except me?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I disliked you at first just on your own merits,” Anastasia offers.

“Gee, thanks.”

“But then I saw the way he looked at you at that dinner.” Her voice softens. “I’ve known Vincent Akopov for many years, Rowan. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“You mean like a surveillance target?”

“Like a man in love,” she corrects. “Whether he meant to or not.”

I stare down at my coffee, fighting back tears. “It doesn’t matter if he loves me now. He lied to me from the beginning.”

“Yes. He did.” She doesn’t sugarcoat it, which I appreciate. “But I think you need to understand what kind of world Vincent comes from. The world you’re now part of, whether you want to be or not.”

“The Bratva,” I say quietly.

She nods. “Vincent was raised to be suspicious, calculating, ruthless. He was taught that love is weakness and trust is for fools. His father made sure of that.”

“That doesn’t excuse what he did to me.”

“No. It doesn’t.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “But it might help to explain why, when he found himself actually falling in love with Grigor Petrov’s daughter, he didn’t know how to handle it.”

I look up at her, surprised by the understanding in her voice. “Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not.” She sighs. “I’m trying to help you see the complete picture before you make a decision you can’t take back.”

“What decision?”

“Whether to leave him for good,” she says simply. “Whether to raise that baby alone, without the protection of the Akopov name.”

My hand drops to my stomach instinctively. “Arkady mentioned something about that. About me being a target now.”

“He wasn’t exaggerating.” Her face grows serious. “The child you’re carrying represents the union of two of the most powerful Bratva families in America. There are people who would kill to control that kind of potential power.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. “Go back to the man who’s been lying to me for five years?”

Anastasia reaches across the table, surprising me by taking my hand. “I can’t tell you what to do, Rowan. But I can tell you what I’ve seen: a man who started with calculation and ended with love. A man who stood up to his father, risked his inheritance, and broke a lifetime of conditioning because of how he feels about you.” Her grip tightens. “Do you have any idea how monumental that is? Vincent was raised to be Andrei’s perfect heir, his mirror image. Breaking from that… It’s like trying to stop the tide.”

I pull my hand away, suddenly exhausted. “Even if what you’re saying is true, I don’t know if I can ever trust him again.”

“I understand that.” She stands, gathering her purse. “But ask yourself this: In a world where everyone is hunting you, where your child will be a target from the moment it’s born, can you afford to reject the one person willing to burn everything down to keep you safe?”

She leaves me there with my cooling coffee and impossible choices and the weight of two families’ legacies pressing down on my shoulders.

Night has fallen by the time there’s a knock on my new motel room door. This one is even seedier than the last, paid for in cash, no ID required.

I know who it is before I open it.

Vince stands in the doorway, looking nothing like he did when I left him. His hair is a wreck, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, his suit rumpled.

He looks like hell.

Good.

“May I come in?” he asks.

I step aside wordlessly, too tired to fight anymore.

He enters cautiously, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. In a way, I suppose that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“How did you find me?” I ask, closing the door.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Rowan.”

I cross my arms. “Fine. What do you want, Vince?”

“Not this,” he says at once. He spreads his arms as if to encompass the whole fucked-up situation. “This isn’t what I wanted. None of it.”

“No? Then what did you want, Vince? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been playing me from the beginning.”

He moves toward the window, keeping his distance from me. “At first, yes. I was monitoring you. Making sure you weren’t a threat.”

“And then?”

“And then I got to know you.” He turns to face me, his face half-cloaked in darkness. “Your kindness. Your loyalty. Your ridiculous stubborn streak. You tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous—did you know that?”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Just… stop. I can’t handle any more lies.”

“I’m not lying.” He takes a step toward me. “Yes, I manipulated you. Yes, I used Natalie to keep tabs on you. Yes, I hired you to keep you close. But somewhere along the way, you stopped being Petrov’s daughter and started being… Rowan. Just Rowan.”

“And that’s supposed to make it all okay?” I back away, needing distance from him. “You violated my privacy, my trust, my entire life for five years, Vince. Five years!”

“I know.” He doesn’t try to defend himself. “And I will regret that for the rest of my life.”

“Will you? Or will you just regret getting caught?”

He flinches like I’ve slapped him. “I deserved that.”

“You deserve a lot worse.” My voice cracks, but it does not break. I refuse to let it. “Do you have any idea what it felt like?”

“I can imagine⁠—”

“No, you can’t!” I’m shouting now, all the pain and rage I’ve been bottling up finally exploding. “You can’t possibly imagine because you’ve always known exactly who you are! Vincent Akopov, heir to the throne, future pakhan, the man who controls everything and everyone around him!”

Tears are streaming down my face. I hate that he’s seeing me like this, so broken, so vulnerable.

But I can’t stop.

“Meanwhile, I don’t even know my own name anymore,” I continue, softer now. “Am I Rowan St. Clair? Rowan Petrova? Do I belong to your world? To his? To neither? Who am I, Vince? Who the hell am I?”

He moves toward me like he’s going to reach out, then stops himself. “You’re the woman I love,” he says simply. “The mother of my child. My future wife, if you’ll still have me.”

I shake my head in disgust. “How can you even ask that? After everything?”

“Because despite all of the bullshit, what we found together is real.” His voice lowers, intense and urgent. “I love you, Rowan. That wasn’t part of any plan. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t Bratva politics. It was just you. You, breaking through every wall I’ve spent a lifetime building.”

Part of me wants desperately to believe him. To fall into his arms and pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened.

But I can’t. I won’t.

“Even if I believed you,” I say carefully, “there’s too much broken between us now.”

“Then let me fix it.” He steps closer. “Let me earn back your trust. Day by day. Year by year. However long it takes.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.” I hug myself and rock side to side. “There’s more at stake here than just us.”

He runs a hand through his already mussed hair. “You carry my child, Rowan. Many people would kill to turn that into a trump card up their sleeve.”

“So I’ve been told.” I sink onto the edge of the bed. “Arkady. Anastasia. Now, you.”

“You spoke with Anastasia?” He looks surprised.

“I needed a perspective from someone who wasn’t you.” I shrug. “She seemed like the only person who might understand.”

“And did she?”

“She tried.” I look up at him. “She seems to think you actually love me. Can’t imagine where she got that impression, though.”

His eyes never leave mine. “She’s right.”

“But that doesn’t change how we started,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been lying to me from the beginning.”

“No. It doesn’t.” He kneels in front of me, not touching, just bringing himself to my eye level. “But it might change where we go from here.”

I search his face, looking for any hint of the calculation, the manipulation I now know has defined our relationship from the start.

But all I see is exhaustion, desperation, and something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“What exactly are you proposing?” I ask carefully.

“Marriage,” he says without hesitation. “As planned. Not just for the inheritance now, but for your protection. With the Akopov name, you and the baby will be untouchable. Even to my father. Even to Grigor, should he discover your existence.”

I laugh bitterly. “And I’m just supposed to forget everything and fall into your arms?”

“No.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. “I expect you to hate me for a long time. To doubt me. To question everything. But I’m asking you to let me prove myself. Let me earn back what I destroyed.”

“And if I say no? If I walk away?”

His expression darkens. “Then I would still do everything in my power to keep you safe. But it would be more difficult. Without the protection of marriage, without my name, you’d be vulnerable. The baby would be vulnerable.”

“And my mother?” I hold his gaze. “If I say no, does she die?”

“I would never let that happen,” he says fiercely. “Regardless of your decision, I’ll make sure your mother gets the treatment she needs. That’s not conditional.”

“But your father⁠—”

“My father doesn’t control me anymore.” His eyes flash with a dangerous gleam. “He tried to hurt you. He crossed lines I won’t tolerate.”

I pause and search his face.

I spent five years dreaming of it, memorizing it from every angle except for straight-on. I know it so, so well.

But it’s changed.

The harsh angles of his jaw are now covered in dark stubble that’s more unkempt than I’ve ever seen it. The silver streaks in his hair catch the cheap motel light. His eyes—those devastating blue eyes—are bloodshot and haunted, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. There’s a small cut at the corner of his lip that wasn’t there yesterday.

He looks wrecked. Dangerous. Desperate.

I hate how much I still want him.

“If—and this is a very big if,” I say slowly, “I were to consider your proposal, I would have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“Separate bedrooms,” I begin. “At least until I decide otherwise. I can’t… I can’t be intimate with you again. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He nods once, accepting this without argument.

“I also want a prenuptial agreement that protects my independence. My own bank accounts, too. And my own security that doesn’t report to you. Privacy.”

“Done.”

“Plus guaranteed medical care for my mother, regardless of what happens between us.”

“Already arranged.”

“Most of all, I want complete honesty going forward.” I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “I want access to everything you know about me, about my father, about this whole situation.”

He hesitates at this last condition.

“What?” I challenge. “Is that where you draw the line? At actual honesty?”

“No,” he says carefully. “But there are things in my world—in our world now—that are dangerous to know. Information that puts you at risk simply by possessing it.”

“I’m already at risk,” I point out. “And I’d rather face danger with my eyes open than be blindsided again.”

He considers this for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. Complete transparency. But in return, you have to accept additional security measures. Non-negotiable.”

“Fine.” I stand, needing to move, to think. “Is that all?”

“One more thing.” He rises as well, watching me pace. “I want your word that you’ll give us a real chance. That this won’t just be a convenient arrangement for the baby’s sake. That you’ll at least try to… to find your way back to me.”

I stop pacing, turning to face him. “I can’t promise that, Vince.”

“Then promise to try,” he presses. “That’s all I’m asking. Try to remember what we had before. What we could have again.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper, opening my eyes to meet his. “But I’m not making any promises beyond that.”

Relief washes over his face. “That’s enough. For now.” He reaches for me, then stops himself. “May I?”

I nod stiffly, allowing him to take my hand. His touch, once electric, now feels complicated—comforting and disturbing all at once.

“I will earn back your trust, Rowan St. Clair,” he swears with quiet intensity. “Whatever it takes. However long it takes.”

I wish I could believe him. Part of me even does. But as I stand in a seedy motel room, holding hands with the man who’s broken and rebuilt me more times than I can count, I make one more promise: a silent one, to myself.

This time, my walls stay up.

This time, I protect my heart.