Page 1 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

Is stalking a crime when the heart’s involved?

Technically, I’m only trying to control my destiny. I’m simply pre-arranging an impromptu meet-up. Which Cleopatra would tell me is an oxymoron.

If things don’t go to plan I’m a complete moron.

I’m standing across the street, staring down Bachman Avenue, dressed in a hideous disguise and avoiding standing too close to The Cantina so I don’t smell of tacos when I finally reach my soulmate?—

Soulmate? Yikes. Slow down heart. I meant to say, when I reach my target.

My oversized sunglasses hide my eyes, a wide-brimmed hat is pulled tightly over my head, and I wear a shapeless patchwork abomination of a dress I’ve borrowed from Cleo.

I look an absolute fright, and now a drizzle blanks the Manhattan dusk, threatening to fog my already dark glasses and frizz the exposed ends of my hair.

The crosswalk beeps. Green. Go. I cross with the foot traffic. I swear the woman next to me is glaring at my dress. I cringe, wanting to tell her this look is so not me.

If you think looks don’t matter, you’ve never strolled down Bachman Avenue before. I never leave my apartment without looking like a million bucks, but…here we are.

I’m also not the kind of person who goes undercover to track down a man. I’m not one to long for someone who isn’t that into me. I’m emotionally intelligent enough to read the writing on the wall.

I prefer men begging for my attention.

Not the other way around.

Yet again, here we are.

Made it safely across. Shuffling away from the glaring woman, I turn onto Bachman Avenue with ‘I wear my sunglasses at night,’ playing in my mind as I pass the sparkly shop windows, coming to the one with a red awning.

Gold letters spell out Bachman Jewelers.

The name on the lush fabric is enough to make that familiar pang tear through my chest.

Remnants of the pain left behind by Dame Bachman, the man I thought could be husband material.

He’s a member of the elusive Bachman Brotherhood, which has a hidden, Fort Knox-level security compound in Manhattan called the Village.

The road I’m on is home to many high-end businesses.

Clothing shops filled with couture, a gym to keep their beautiful bodies toned, a few cafés, and a soon-to-be-open vintage bookstore.

I don’t want him to recognize me before I’m in the club. I fear he’ll run the other way if he sees me on the street. I can’t take the pain of more rejection. I need to corner him on his turf, looking spectacular, and come across chill-like.

I practice my surprised face, whispering to myself, “Dame! What are you doing in town? I had noooooo idea you’d be here.”

When he asks me how I got into the club, that’s a whole ‘nother acting job I’ll have to take on.

It sounds desperate, and well, I am.

They say you find love when you aren’t looking for it, and a man was the last thing on my mind when Cleo asked me to accompany her on an impromptu trip to a luxurious Italian estate.

Dame was my bodyguard, assigned to be by my side, with my safety as his primary responsibility.

Is there anything sexier than having a muscled man protecting you?

Dame and I spent every minute together when I wasn’t with Cleo.

He took me on an overnight shopping trip in Rome.

He showered me with compliments and attention.

Didn’t let me carry so much as the tiny Dior bag that once held these sunglasses I now wear to hide my face.

He stayed up late with me on the hardest night of my life; the one that comes every year and never seems to get any easier.

The anniversary of my little sister’s death.

He held me, let me cry, and even shared his own tragic story with me. Was it the magic of the air breezing in off the Tyrrhenian Sea, the ridiculously romantic atmosphere of Rome, or the heartfelt conversation that made me feel so tied to him?

I didn’t expect to leave my heart in Italy with Dame, or to find out half the women in New York are on his roster when he visits for work.

Even worse, he ghosted me.

I tried to forget Dame, that magical night, and the string of unreturned texts.

But I haven’t been able to.

Which is why I now hold my head down as I try to blend into the crowd, making my way past the other glamorous stores. The bright lights of Gotcha’s neon sign come into view. Butterflies burst into flight in my stomach.

I’m so close to Dame’s world now, I can smell the Hermes leather from the Birkins.

Cleopatra is marrying one of those gorgeous billionaires, so I’ve got intel. Last night, she called me, her maid of honor, asking if she should use live goldfish in bowls as centerpieces for her wedding.

Last night’s phone call also informed me that in about thirty minutes, Dame will be arriving at the family dance club, Gotcha.

Tonight is a private party meant for Bachmans and the important people they do business with.

Invite-only.

Unfortunately, my name won’t appear on the guest list alongside the influential mafiosos, celebrities, and millionaires who can buy their way in.Consequently, this hardworking city girl has to employ clever tactics.

I’m not trying to do the impossible and get into the Village. It’s only a dance club I’m wiggling my way into.

I seek merely a glimpse, one observation, and an opportunity to see Dame in person—perhaps a brief conversation.

A single dance, perhaps.

A slight, fortuitous encounter to allow me to discern whether the fixation flourishing in my mind like forest mushrooms is genuine.

What’s the worst that could happen? I hang out in the corner of the dance floor, scoping eye-candy while enjoying a few drinks? Perhaps I might dance with a stranger?

Maybe Dame will notice me, go wild with jealousy, and realize what he’s missing.

Or I’ll find I’m over him and move on. I slow, taking in the long line of beautiful people outside the club. Either way, it’s worth the risk. If they catch me, what’s the most they can do? Kick me out?

Plan A is to keep my disguise on, get in line, chat with some attractive partygoers, and persuade them to let me join before we reach the front of the line. Get into the club and find somewhere to lose this outfit, revealing my curls and sparkly silver micro dress.

Then, find Dame.

The light rain has stopped now. Moving further down the sidewalk, I spot a brunette wearing a shimmery gold jumpsuit and clear pumps.

Her friendly, open face leads me to slip in behind her.

She’s fiddling with a hot pink iridescent band circling her slender wrist. It glitters like a hologram as she twists it between her fingers, saying, “These men are going to have leashes on us next. They’ve upped security even tighter since the drama started with the Moretties. ”

The friend beside her grabs her wrist. “Don’t do that,” she says, “What if you mess it up?” Her red hair is smoothed into a sleek shoulder-length bob.

“Please, Tess.” Princess Laia laughs. “It’s Bachman Tech. Nothing could hurt it. Either you have a band or you’re a phony.”

“And if you’re a fake, you’re gonna get your ass kicked.” The redhead, Tess, laughs. “If Rockland had his way back in the day, every man in here would be expelled, and we Beauties would be dancing in a girl-only club.”

“And we’d have to take an armored car here instead of walking from the Village,” the brunette says. “But we do love our protective men.”

“True, Charlie.” Princess is named Charlie. Cute. The redhead smiles at her friend. “I always say, you can’t do better than a Bachman.”

Tell me about it, girls!

Charlie leans in, whispering behind a manicured hand. “Especially in the boudoir.”

Wouldn’t I like to know. I didn’t get the chance.

I slip from the line as Tess thanks Charlie for a gift of Dior sunglasses, their conversation growing fainter as I move. My heart sinks.

I can’t ask them to get me in. There’s no way I’m getting in the front door on my own.

A school of well-dressed businessmen swims past. Lawyers, judging by their leather briefcases, headed to the pub down the street. Enveloping myself in the cologne-saturated group, I walk with them away from the front door to the corner of Bachman Ave.

Looks like it’s going to be Plan B.

Dipping away from the men, I wait on the corner, my back resting against the brick wall. The only benefit of this ugly outfit is that it has pockets, and I slip my phone from one now.

She denied me earlier today when I asked, but it’s worth another shot.

I make one more pleading phone call to my childhood best friend. “Tabby, it’s me.”

“I know. I looked at the screen.” She laughs. “And even if I didn’t, you have your own ringtone on my phone. Remember?”

“Tina Charles, I Love to Love?” I ask hopefully.

I can hear her eyes roll as she says, “What else would it be?”

“It’s so good to have friends who respect my love of classic UK disco hits,” I say.

“Friend,” she corrects. “I’m the only one who doesn’t give you crap for your music choices or love of kid books.”

She’s right. When I put disco on while we get ready to go out, she sings into my curling iron as a microphone. And she got me a signed copy of a Roald Dahl book for my last birthday.

I watch clouds of gorgeous people drift along the sidewalk, towards the club. “And for that, I will be forever grateful.”

I NEED to get into this club.

“Ah…Tabby…” Guilt starts to creep in. Am I taking advantage of our friendship?

A young woman in a shimmering orange minidress takes my breath away. She trips down the sidewalk on her too-high heels, long dark curls bouncing as she goes. Turning over her shoulder, she beams a wide grin, animatedly talking to the pack of friends who follow behind her.

I stare at her face. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god, what?” Tabby asks.

My heart ricochets against my ribcage, my breath leaving my lungs. With the girl’s lithe body, heart-shaped face, and her fairy-like movements, she’s what I imagine my sister would be like today.

If she’d lived.

“Oh my god, what?” Tabby asks again.