Filthy Promises

Chapter 5 Episode 5

I groan and flop backwards. “What am I going to do, Nat? I can’t lose this job. Mom’s medical bills⁠—”

“I know. Honey, I know.” Her voice softens into the caring tone of my best friend, my ride-or-die. “Look, maybe it’s not as bad as you think. What if he just wants to, like, apologize?”

I laugh bitterly. “Men like him don’t apologize to women like me.”

I can practically hear her Feminist Queen frown powering up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” I stare at the water stain on my ceiling, which promptly assumes the shape of the bare ass we’re discussing. That familiar flare of longing perks up somewhere low in my abdomen. “He’s rich, gorgeous, and could literally have anyone. I’m… me.”

“And what’s wrong with you, huh?” Natalie demands.

I wave my hand at my empty apartment, as if she can see it. “Look at my life, Nat. I’m twenty-seven and I live in a shoebox. I haven’t had a date in two years. My idea of luxury is splurging on name-brand cereal.”

“So what? You’re smart, talented, and way too good for that marketing associate position.”

“Tell that to my bank account.”

“Rowan Elizabeth St. Clair,” Natalie scolds sternly, “this pity party ends now. You go to that meeting tomorrow with your head held high. Whatever happens, you face it with dignity.”

“Even if I get fired?”

“Even if you get fired—which you won’t.”

I take a deep breath. “You’re right. Dignity. I can do dignity.”

“That’s my girl,” she says with satisfaction. Then her voice drops into a guilty register. “Now, tell me exactly what he looked like.”

“What? I’m just trying to get all the facts.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “All I saw was muscles. Lots and lots of muscles.”

“Hm. Disappointing. No glimpse of the Akopov family jewels?”

“Wait! Pause. Slow your roll. What are you wearing for the meeting tomorrow?”

I glance at my open closet. “I don’t know. The navy pantsuit?”

“Absolutely not. That thing makes you look like Hillary Clinton at a funeral.”

“I might be. My career’s funeral.”

“Row, be serious,” says Natalie. “This might be your one chance to make a real impression.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. What do you suggest? My nonexistent designer wardrobe?”

Her answer comes way too quickly for my liking. “Wear that green dress. The one from the Christmas party.”

“Absolutely not!” My stomach cartwheels around in my ribcage. “That’s, like, a hundred times too sexy for a work meeting that might end with my head rolling around on his office floor.”

“I’m not even gonna make the obvious joke about all the other reasons you might end up rolling around on his office floor…”

“—thank you for your admirable restraint⁠—”

“… because,” she continues, “it’s flattering, it’s professional enough, and it makes your eyes pop.”

I bite my lip and let out a defeated sigh. “You think so?” I ask, knowing even as I say it that I’m fishing for a compliment. Sue me—God knows I need a little bit of a pick-me-up right now to keep me out of my doomish-and-gloomish ways.

“I know so. Green dress, nude heels, hair down. Trust me. You do trust me, right?”

I sigh one more time. There’s only one possible reply, so I give it to her. “With my life, Natty. With my life.”

“Good. I love you, Row-Row. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

After we hang up, I pull out the dress Natalie mentioned. It’s the most expensive thing I own—a rare indulgence from last year’s bonus that I’ve worn exactly once.

It’s off the rack, but it might as well be tailored for how well it fits. Molded perfectly to my body, hitting just above the knee. The color is a deep emerald that does in fact bring out my eyes.

But what do I have to lose?

I hang it on my closet door and spend the rest of the day alternating between working on the Harrison drafts and imagining increasingly catastrophic scenarios for tomorrow’s meeting.

By midnight, I’ve convinced myself I’m not only getting fired but possibly arrested for corporate espionage and/or being a creepy Peeping Tom.

When I do finally go to bed, I toss and turn all night, plagued by dreams where I’m running naked through the office while Vincent chases me with a stack of quarterly reports in one hand and Vanessa’s panties in the other.

At 3 A.M., I give up on sleep entirely and clean my entire apartment.

At 5 A.M., I take the world’s longest shower.

At 6 A.M., I try on the green dress, take it off, put on the navy pantsuit, take that off, and finally resign myself to the green dress.

At 7 A.M., I’m on my third cup of coffee, jittery and nauseous.

At 8 A.M., I leave my apartment, looking better than I have in months and feeling worse than I have in years.

One way or another, at 9 A.M., my life is going to change forever.

I just wish I knew if that was a good thing…

… or a very, very bad one.

My father’s study always makes me feel like I’m ten years old again.

I smell the cologne soaked into leather, the stench of cigars that lingers no matter how hard the maids scrub or how much disinfectant they lather across the marble floors.

This room has seen pain. Blood. Tears.

Far too much of it was mine.

But through that suffering, through those trials, I learned what it cost to build what my father built. And, harder yet—what it costs to keep it.

Because it’s one thing to raise an empire from the dirt.

It’s another thing entirely to keep the grubby fingers of underworld parasites away from it.

That’s the task before me. Soon—very f*****g soon—my father will step into a graceful retirement, and it’ll become my duty to fend off the wolves at the gate.

That thought calms me. Those wolves don’t know what’s coming for them.

They’ll all be skinned and made into throw rugs by the time I’m done.

With a grin, I straighten my tie, shoot my cuffs, then pound my fist against the heavy wooden doors.

“Enter,” comes the gruff command.

I pry open the door and step inside.

Andrei Akopov sits behind his sprawling desk, silver hair slicked back, eyes sharp as ever. At sixty-two, he still has the imposing presence of the man who stowed away from St. Petersburg with nothing but lint in his pocket and insatiable hunger in his belly.

I’ve seen the sepia-toned pictures—he was scrawny in those days, but even then, you could see how his frame would fill out once he sank his teeth into America.

And so it did. What began as a humble sewing factory became a textiles powerhouse. From there, he expanded into electronics, logistics, industrial supplies, this, that, the other…

Now, there is no limit to what Akopov Industries does. The sun does not set on our family’s empire.

“Vince,” he says, pointedly not standing. “You’re late.”

I check my watch. “By three minutes.”

“In our business, three minutes can cost millions.”

I resist rolling my eyes, but only barely. This lecture hasn’t changed in twenty years. “Noted, Father.”

I take my time doing so. First, I pour myself a drink from his bar in the corner before sauntering over to the blood-red leather couch and sinking onto it. I cross one leg over the other, sip the vodka, and then finally turn my eyes on him.

“What was so important that it couldn’t wait until dinner?”

Father slides a folder across the desk. “I checked the quarterly reports myself. Impressive numbers.”

“I told you they would be.”

I don’t touch the folder. I already know what’s in it.

I also can’t stop thinking about the last person I saw carrying those papers. It’s been on an endless loop in my head.

Like f*****g clockwork. My d**k’s been hard for two days straight. Vanessa would carve out a kidney if it meant giving me this kind of reaction.

But despite all her moans and mewls and expensive lingerie, all the hours she’s spent trying to please me, she lacks something that the briefest glimpse of Rowan St. Clair showed.

Fuck if I know how or why.

“Yes, yes. You’ve done well.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But business is not why I called you here.”

Here it comes. I steel myself.

My eyebrow drifts upward involuntarily. “About…?”

“You know about what. The same thing we discuss every month.” He leans forward. “You’re thirty-one, Vince. When I was your age, I had you: a red-faced babe shitting your diapers.”

I keep my face neutral. It’s not personal, what my father says to me. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss me the f**k off, though.

“Times have changed,” I answer coolly.

“Some things never change.” He taps his fingers against the desk. “Family, legacy—this is still everything.”

Like the lecture about my punctuality—or lack thereof—this is not a new line of thought from Andrei.

“I’m well aware of the importance you place on those things, Father.”

What I think but don’t add is that I don’t follow in those footsteps.

I don’t need family. I don’t give a f**k about legacy. Those are the trappings of dinosaurs like my father.

All I need is the crown. I’ll make my own way after that. I don’t intend to rely on anyone but myself.