Filthy Promises: Chapter 6

My heart is doing its damndest to jailbreak through my throat as I ride the elevator up to Vince’s floor.

It’s the same sixty-five intimidating stories that it was on Friday. But this time around, that means sixty-five stories of me trying not to throw up on my green dress.

I smooth my hands down the emerald fabric, suddenly wishing I’d gone with the navy pantsuit instead. Mortuary Hillary Clinton or not, at least that would’ve felt like armor of some sort.

This feels too bold. Too much. Too me.

The elevator slows to a stop at the executive floor.

Moment of truth, here we are. I think I might vomit.

Instead, I swallow it down and step out, my nude heels once again sinking into that same plush carpet that greeted me last week.

Today, there’s someone at the reception desk. Not Vanessa, though—and if I had to guess, I’d say Vincent most likely isn’t sleeping with this one.

Probably because this one has gotta be pushing seventy, and she has the murderous, dead-eyed squint of a drill sergeant.

“Ms. St. Clair?” the new secretary asks, not looking up from her computer. She’s severe from every angle—rigid black glasses, salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun that surely must be causing some serious traction alopecia. Her voice is equally flat and grim.

I clear my throat. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Mr. Akopov is expecting you.” She stands and gestures toward that imposing door. “This way.”

I follow her, trying to control my ragged breathing. I’ve practiced what I’ll say a dozen times. I have my resignation letter tucked into my purse just in case.

Better to jump than be pushed, right?

The assistant knocks once, then opens the door. “Ms. St. Clair to see you, sir.”

“Send her in.”

That voice sends electric eels racing down my spine.

That’s what Mom always used to say. Electric eels down your spine. She swore she came up with it herself. I’m dubious, but there’s no denying that it’s accurate. I’m squirmy, uncomfortable—and, much like an eel, I’d really prefer to be hiding under a rock.

Then Sergeant Secretary steps aside, and I make my way to the gallows.

Mr. Akopov sits behind his massive desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, revealing those forearms I’ve been picturing for the past three days. His dark hair, streaked with premature silver, is perfectly styled, as always.

The desk—oh God, that desk—sits between us like a mahogany battlefield. It takes all the willpower in my body to keep from squinting to see if the cleaning staff managed to scrub away the fogged imprint of Vanessa’s bare butt cheeks.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says. “Please, sit.”

The “please” is funny coming from him. You can always tell when someone is trying out new words, new ways of being. And when Vincent says “please,” his mouth does a strange twist.

I perch on the outermost edge of the chair across from him, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. If they look like they’re in a praying position, well, that’s not exactly an accident. Divine intervention is the only thing that might save me now.

“Mr. Akopov.” My voice comes out higher than I intended. I clear my throat and try again, though round two isn’t much better. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Did I have a choice?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I didn’t get much of one last time we crossed paths.”

My face burns. So we’re jumping right into it. Copy that.

“About that—I’m so sorry. I should have knocked. I didn’t realize⁠—”

He holds up a hand, silencing me instantly. “What’s done is done.”

I swallow hard. Here it comes. The firing. The humiliation. The end of my livelihood.

It was nice knowing you, steady paycheck. It was a pleasure to have met, gainful employment. Next up is the welfare line. I hope I can get used to the taste of Instant Cup ramen noodles every meal for the rest of my life.

“Do you know why I asked you here today?”

To compare me to Vanessa is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Cringe humor strikes again, as inappropriately timed as ever.

“To fire me for barging in on a… a private moment?”

Vincent leans back in his chair, those dark eyes studying me with unnerving intensity. It’s like my first day all over again. “Is that what you think?”

“Isn’t it?”

He steeples his fingers. “No, Ms. St. Clair. I’m not firing you.”

Relief floods through me, so powerful I actually feel lightheaded. Maybe there is a God after all. If there is, it’s starting to look like he has ice-blue eyes and silver streaks in his hair.

“You’re… you’re not?”

“In fact, I’m promoting you.”

I blink.

Then blink.

Then blink again.

“I’m sorry… You’re gonna have to say that a few times before it computes.”

“I’ve been reviewing your file.” He taps a folder on his desk. I can see my company headshot peeking out of the top of it. Strange—I’ve never seen it printed in glossy 8½ x 11 before. “You’ve been with us for five years. Marketing associate, correct?”

I nod, still stunned, still speechless, still baffled by what the hell is going on.

“Your design work is impressive. I particularly liked the Harrison campaign.”

My mouth falls open. I may or may not look like a landed fish.

“You—you’ve seen my work?”

“I make it a point to know what’s happening in my company.” He leans forward, elbows planted on his desk, eyes gleaming like a patch of sidewalk frost that’s about to send you tumbling ass over end. “You’re wasted in your current position.”

Is this really happening? Did I hit my head and hallucinate this entire conversation? The sidewalk frost metaphor might’ve been a little too on point.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple.” His eyes hold mine captive. “Vanessa—whom I believe you met in passing—has been transferred. I need a new executive assistant. Someone with an eye for design, an understanding of marketing, and the ability to be… discreet.”

The last word hits like one of the Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots that Mom got me for Christmas when I was a little kid.

Discreet—whap!

The wink—wham!

My head is about to fly off my spine if he says one more thing out of left field.

“You want me to be your assistant?” I can barely form the words.

“Not just any assistant. My right hand.”

He stands, sauntering around the desk and coming to rest on the edge directly in front of me, arms folded across his chest.

He shaved, I notice. I think I prefer the beard. Easier to imagine how that feels between my thighs.

“Triple your current salary. Benefits. Direct access to the executive level.”

Triple my salary? That would mean… my God. Mom’s medical bills. A better apartment. Maybe even some savings. What a concept that is.

It sounds too good to be true.

… which means it probably is.

“Why me?” I ask, finding a sudden wellspring of courage I didn’t know I possessed. “Is this because of what I saw? Because if you’re offering me this position to keep me quiet⁠—”

“Are you questioning my motives, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Actually, yes.” I surprise myself with my directness. “Is this a proposition, Mr. Akopov?”

His eyes narrow, and all I can think is, You’re an idiot, Row.

This is why you’re poor and sad and lonely—because you don’t know how to take a good thing without shredding it to pieces in search of the catch.

What if it’s a real offer and you just ruined it, huh?

What if he meant it and you scoffed, hm?

What if the world plopped a happy ending—no pun intended—right in your lap, and you turned your nose up at it like you’re just so rich with options that this one didn’t even matter?

My pity party is raging like a frat kegger—and then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

Laughs. Actually laughs. A rich, genuine chuckle that makes my stomach start jumping rope with my bowels.

“You have more backbone than I gave you credit for.” He cracks his knuckles, then recrosses his arms. “No, this is not a proposition. This is a business opportunity. One that could change your life.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.

And yet self-sabotage is what I do best.

Without that, who even am I?

“I’ve never been an E.A. before.”

Vincent shrugs. “You have five years of experience watching this company operate. You know our products, our campaigns, our strategy.” He undoes the clasp of his watch and rubs at the skin of his wrist beneath it. “And you notice things. You pay attention to details most people miss.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve had a crush on me for five years, and I never noticed until now.”

My heart stops. Just seizes up completely.

Dead. I’m dead. This is what death feels like.

“I—I don’t—that’s not—” I stammer, mortified.

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s flattering, but irrelevant. What matters is your work ethic and your discretion. Both of which I believe you possess in abundance.”

I try to regain my composure, but it’s like trying to gather spilled water with my bare hands.

He knows it, too. Those eyes miss nothing. I meet them—just for a second—and I want to laugh miserably at the realization that all my efforts to come in here composed, well-dressed, with a plan… they’re all for nothing.

He. Sees. Everything.

And he knows exactly what to do with it.

“Do we have a deal, Ms. St. Clair?” he asks softly.

My mind races. This is insane. Completely insane. I should protect myself from whatever game he’s playing because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I come out on top.

But then I think of Mom. That stack of bills isn’t getting any smaller, and if I could get her better meds, better healthcare, maybe a nurse to come share the burden of caring for her every once in a while…

How could I say no?

“When would I start?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel, mostly because “how I feel” is the emotional equivalent of Jim putting Dwight’s stapler in a Jell-O mold in The Office: pink, wobbly, and useless.

“Immediately.” He extends his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

I look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. Those blue eyes reveal nothing.

I take his hand. His palm is warm, his grip firm. A current seems to pass between us, and I wonder if he feels it, too.

“We have a deal, Mr. Akopov.”

He smiles, and it transforms his face. It’s that smile that makes it hard for me to breathe, that makes my heart race like I’ve just run a marathon.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that spells danger.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that means I can’t say no.

“Excellent,” he says, releasing my hand. “Diane will familiarize you with the workstation and brief you on your duties.”

“Thank you,” I say, still not quite believing this is real. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” His voice takes on an edge I can’t quite decipher. “Because failure is not an option in my world, Ms. St. Clair.”

I gulp. Nod. Rise on shaky knees and start to stumble toward the door.

“Oh, and Rowan?” he adds as I turn to leave. The sound of my first name on his lips makes me freeze.

“Yes?”

“That dress suits you. Green is your color.” Then he nods and the moment is severed. “You may go now.”

I stumble out of his office like a newborn calf, all shaky knees and fuzzy brain.

Green is my color.

He noticed my dress.

He knows I’ve had a crush on him for five years.

Everything is both worse and better than I could have imagined, and I’m not sure which terrifies me more.

The elderly drill sergeant—Diane, apparently—waits for me at her desk, her face impassive as marble. I wonder if she’s witnessed this scene before. How many women has Vince Akopov pulled into his orbit, only to spit them out when he’s done? How many has he looked at like they’re something he wants to devour, bite by bloody bite?

“Your desk is here,” she says, gesturing to a sleek setup positioned directly outside his office. “You’ll need to clear out your things from the marketing department today. I’ve prepared a handbook with your duties.”

The book she forks over to me is thick enough to stop a bullet. Maybe that’s the point.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“The last five assistants lasted less than three months each,” she says, voice flat as week-old soda. “Mr. Akopov has… exacting standards.”

My stomach plummets. “And Vanessa?”

Her eyes flick to his closed door, then back to me. “Transferred to the Singapore office this morning.”

Jesus Christ. He shipped her to another continent.

The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d written it in my blood: Don’t fuck up. Don’t disobey. Don’t disappoint.

“I see,” I whisper.

But I don’t see. Not really. I’ve just agreed to be the right hand to a man who discards people like used tissues, who can banish someone to the other side of the planet with a snap of his fingers, who watched me for five years while I thought I was invisible.

And the sickest part? As I sink into my new chair—the leather so buttery-soft it feels obscene—there’s a dark, twisted part of me that’s thrilled by all of it.

I’ve just handed the devil my leash…

… and God help me, I can’t wait to feel the first tug.