Page 10 of The Vow

“You said he’s a gentleman?”

She clasped me tighter. “A perfect one—a good man, I promise.”

Weeks ago, I would’ve said that being married to Sinclair meant Sandrine could have no concept of what a good man was, but now knowing her, knowing all those diamonds she wore weren’t for show but for security—to gleam and blind anyone who looked too closely—maybe Sandrine was more equipped to judge a man’s character than I was. After all, I’d fallen for Sinclair’s promises, too.

It seemed like it took forever for us to reach the dining room. Maybe because the dress was so tight to my legs, it felt like all I could take was baby steps.Note to self: there would be no running to escape if I got caught snooping around.Or maybe because the heavy thud in my chest seemed to stretch out each second to its breaking point.

Either way, Sandrine made the most of our pace, diving deeper into her accolades of my blind date. Carefully, I steered the conversation to the house, drawing out a threadbare tour as we passed each room. I noted which doors were open and which were closed, and that Sandrine mentioned Sinclair’s office—behind a shut door—as a precursor to the bathroom that appeared next.

I tucked the information away for later, ignoring the twinge of pain in my chest; she shared this information because she wanted us to be friends, and I was only going to use it to betray her.

Hopefully, it would be better for her in the end, too. That was what I had to believe.

We rounded a corner, and the distinct low tones of masculine voices filled my ears. I stiffened.

“Are you okay, chérie?”

Shit.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ear.

“Don’t be nervous, chère,” she said, the voices growing louder. “He’s going to love you. Especially in that dress.”

I didn’t care about my blind date. I cared that I was about to meet Magnus Sinclair in person. The man who’d convinced me to sign over my parents’ legacy so he could protect it for my future. The man who’d taken that money and did…God knows what with it. The man I would bring to justice no matter the cost.

My heart thumped like a jackhammer in my chest, and I glanced at Sandrine, sure that she had to hear it. I looked ahead again as we entered the room, my gaze homing in on the two well-dressed men at the far end of it. My vision blurred. Every inch of my skin felt clammy.

“Magnus, cher.” Sandrine led me into the room like a cabaret star gliding onto her stage. “Damon,mon chou,it’s so good to see you. Please allow me the pleasure of introducing my dear friend, Robyn.”

Had I known what was going to happen, I never would’ve pitied her, the woman married to a monster…because soon, I would be married to one, too.

Chapter Four

Robyn

Fifteen years ago…

I’d never forget seeing Damon for the first time. I’d been so certain that my focus would be instantly taken on Sinclair.My enemy.That one look at that evil man and it would be all I could do to not lunge for him and strangle his confession out with my bare hands.

Instead, I followed Sandrine into the sprawling dining room, heard her greet the two men who were in deep conversation next to the roaring gas fireplace at the far end of the room, and found my attention wholly consumed by the man I was destined to meet.

Damon Remington.

His dark hair fell in wavy disarray, only highlighting the perfect order of his facial structure. High cheekbones, straight nose, full yet structured mouth, and the slightest cleft in the center of his chin when the light caught it just right. He was beautiful, his features shaped with a precision that was…unreal. I’d never been a believer in masculine beauty before, but now I was certain he had to be the very definition of it.

His navy pinstripe suit was sharp. Fitted to every nip and tuck. And standing there, with a cigar perched between his lips and a glass of whiskey in his other hand, he reminded me of a vintage mobster. The ones that had panache, but with a tailored suit.

And then those silver eyes landed on me, iridescent in the flickering light. No one had ever (or would ever) look at me the way Damon Remington did in that moment. Not like a lock that had found its key or a missing piece to a puzzle…he looked at me like a bullet wound to his chest. Like I was the thing that would be his undoing and it was too late to do anything about it.

I only recognized it because I felt the same. Instantaneous ache. A penetrating want. The intensity of it unnerved me, my senses going wild like thread unraveling from a spool. But the fear it created only amplified my attraction.

The cigar lowered from his mouth, his fingers barely holding it secure.

“Robyn…Foster, is it?” Only when Sinclair spoke did I recall the other man in the room—the one I was really there for.

Magnus Sinclair, by contrast, was exactly what I envisioned. Harsh, stocky features stitched into an expensive suit. When he greeted me, the corners of his cold, shrewd eyes never lifted no matter how he smiled, like two dead weights.

“Yes.” I took his extended hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how damp my palms were.

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