Page 62 of Ruined Vows
“No, you don’t. You hate that I see what you won’t say out loud.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my morning hair as I stare up at the ceiling. “It’s not just that he’s hot. It’s… the way he looks at me. Like I’m already his.”
Joanne’s voice softens. “And maybe that’s what scares you most.”
I go quiet, letting her words settle into the places I’ve been too proud to examine. She’s not wrong. He sees past my barbs. He’s a man who’s not me, not himself.
“I’ll wear the black one,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Oh, the lethal one. Good choice.”
“I’m not trying to seduce him.”
“Sure you’re not. Call me after. Unless you’re too busy getting shipwrecked on his dick.”
“Goodbye, Joanne,” I snark.
Her cackling laughter follows me as I hang up.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, wondering when exactly this relationship turned into something real.
Because if I’m not careful, this fishing trip won’t just hook him.
It’ll hook me, too.
My phone beeps,interrupting my obsession over Vukan, as I wonder what he’s up to today. He’s a man of surprises and mystery. And perhaps that’s part of his plan to seduce me.
He wants to marry me. But what’s his story? As far as I can tell, he’s unobtainable, according to the few articles I’ve found on his construction company. He rarely appears in the press, even though he’s one of the world’s wealthiest men. And when he’s shown, he’s always alone. The rumor mill says he’s a confirmed bachelor.
My phone pings, and my heart seizes. I reach for my phone, but instead of the man hunting me, it’s a friendly invite from my new bestie.
Amara texts me.
“You. Me. Lunch. No men. No mafia.”
I say yes without thinking.
It’s been too long since I had lunch without someone trying to seduce me, interrogate me, or kill me.
She meets me at a garden café tucked behind an art gallery, all pale wood, white linen, and overgrown bougainvillea. She’s already sipping iced lavender tea, sunglasses perched high on her button nose, wearing a soft smile that makes me relax before I even sit down.
“You look tired,” she says, blunt as ever.
“You look suspiciously peaceful.”
“Being pregnant will do that,” she chuckles.
I roll my eyes. “You say that like it’s not chaos on heels.”
“It is,” she grins. “But it’s mine.”
We eat slowly and talk. It’s the kind of conversation that slips beneath the surface without ever feeling like a dive. She asks how I’m doing. I lie. She lets me.
But then she says, “He’s different with you, you know.”
I sip my water. “Vukan?”
“He watched you like you’re the thing that broke him in that warehouse. It was chaos, but I remember the look in his eyes. I was scared for you. You were helping me, and you got pulled into the fray.”
