Page 8 of The Vow

It was pointless to protest. As we spoke, I was certain Harm was having Tynan track my phone so they could come find me as soon as the FBI were gone. As much as I appreciated their overbearing protectiveness when it came to the people they loved, I couldn’t risk it now. They’d already done so much for me, but this was only ever my fight. And especially now that they’d all found love, I couldn’t put them in danger. I wouldn’t.

“I need to let them know I’m okay,” I insisted and reluctantly pulled my cell from my pocket and handed it to him.

“I’ll give you a new one to use that’s too encrypted to trace,” he said, powering down my cell and then pulling apart all thepieces before tucking everything awkwardly into his jacket pocket.

When Damon looked back to me, I smiled and asked through gritted teeth, “Anything else?”

“Yes.” He sat back in his chair, his lips pinning a dimple to one cheek. “I’d like you to address me by my first name.”

He requested it like he was asking for extra ice in his water or more dressing on his salad. Like calling him Damon rather than Remington didn’t infer a level of intimacy that had been lethal to my crippled heart.

But what choice did I have?If I wanted the vengeance I’d been searching for all these years, I was bound to the demands of the man who’d hurt me in the worst way possible. Bound to obey him like I’d already sworn to do.

Maybe it was pathetic to stoop so low for revenge, but I’d already sold my soul to the devil. This was the only way to get it back.

“Of course, Damon,” I said, my tone one of perfectly feigned apathy. “Now, where do we start?”

He set his arms on the table, eyeing his bound wrists.

With another huff, I pulled out my pocket knife and expertly slid the blade under the zip tie, the ominous pop when it released echoing through the room.

I held the knife still. “Where?”

“My house.”

Chapter Three

Robyn

Fifteen years ago…

“I’m so happy you could come, Robyn.” Sandrine smiled at me, her French accent the perfect accessory to her flawless appearance.

She ushered me into the sprawling mansion tucked into the hills surrounding San Francisco, my heels clicking on the marble floor.

“Of course. Thank you for having me.” I followed her into the large foyer, letting my gaze flit across the gold and crystal decor that drenched the space in luxury. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Oh,merci beaucoup. You are too kind.”

I looked away, feeling my expression waver with unexpected guilt.

I’d met Sandrine at a hot yoga class a few weeks ago.Intentionally. I’d always been too restless for yoga and meditation, but this particular hot yoga class was the one place SandrineSinclair went unaccompanied by her husband’s security. The small studio was tucked away in an old historic home on the fringes of downtown. The kind of place large men in black suits stuck out like a sore thumb, so they stayed camped in the SUV out front, waiting the entire ninety minutes until the class was done.

Twice a week, I bundled my coat tight and pretended like I didn’t notice the big car with the tinted windows or the way they watched the flawless Frenchwoman. Twice a week, I placed my mat next to hers and sweated through the class in order to get close to the woman whose husband had taken everything from me.

Not everything. Hatred made me dramatic. I still had my life. My adopted family. My future. But Magnus Sinclair had taken—stolen—the inheritance left to me by my parents when they died.An investment in your futurewas what he’d first said on the phone, adding to erase my concerns.As a father, this is the kind of wealth security I would recommend to my own daughter.

I’d been sold.Swindled. Between what my parents had saved for me and what their employer, GrowTech, had given me as a show of bereavement on their deaths, it had been close to a million dollars I’d entrusted to Mr. Sinclair. A million dollars that he’d then stolen, claiming I’d never sent him anything.

I had no recourse. The trail of where I’d sent the funds had vanished into the internet ether, so the only way I was going to get any assistance from law enforcement was by finding the proof myself. And to do that, I had to get creative.

The kind of man who did this—who stole livelihoods from honest people—wasn’t the kind of man you could get close to easily. But when you’re willing to do almost anything, you find a way.

First, I took a position on the janitorial team that cleaned the high-rise where Sinclair’s investment firm was located, only to learn the bastard hired a special cleaning crew to do his offices. The closest I got was the elevator bay on the fourteenth floor. Even though I never made it into Sinclair’s offices, the effort wasn’t wasted.

It was surprising how invisible I became when people thought I was part of the “help.”

All the men and women coming and going in their expensive suits and expressionless faces completely ignored me. As I wiped down the frosted glass windows of Juniper Investments, they went about their conversations while waiting for the elevator as though I were nothing more than an inanimate fixture in the room.

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