Page 37 of Vows in Sin

“That’s low, Sara.”

“Sorry, Mom. I tried to tell you. I warned you. But you poked me till you got bit.”

There’s silence on the other end. I hang up first.

The pain curls around me, etching its way inside like frostbite. I press my forehead against my knees and breathe.

Dad left when I was ten and Alessi was three. Mom worked long hours, chasing promotions, burning herself out to keep us afloat. I took care of Sissy. I made her lunch, walked her to daycare, and sang her to sleep when mom worked.

No one took care of me. That was the deal.

I accepted it. Did my best.

Until the day I failed her.

No matter how many professionals I paid to tell me it wasn’t my fault, it was.

And when the memories come, they don’t knock. They flood. Her tiny hand in mine. Her laughter as she twirled in her favorite dress. The way her cheeks puffed when she said “buh-fly” instead of butterfly.

She was obsessed with butterflies.

Butterflies and storybooks.

The worst was the silence of her room. It smelled of her shampoo, but not of her. The emptiness was gut-wrenching.

I stand up, needing to move, to do something—anything. I pace the apartment barefoot, my silk robe billowing. But I’ve already watered my neglected plants. I’ve scrubbed the lipstick-stained mugs on the counter that went untouched for days.

When I have work, I can distract myself with meetings, deadlines, and photo shoots, and then more deadlines. I could go for weeks, months, even years, without experiencing an emotional crash.

Now, this carefully curated, colorful apartment feels more like a padded cell, and grief has returned with a vengeance.

It pours in through the cracks. Leaks under the windows. Pools in the corners.

I’m drowning in it.

I try to shake it off. I redo my makeup, opting for something bold and bright.

Keeping my promise to Lucy, I record a video—dancing to Donna Summer, a banana for a microphone—but it falls flat. I delete it.

I’ll film something so I can fool everyone into thinking I’m okay. But I’m not. That night with Dame tore open that wound.

The hotel’s rooftop bar in Rome overlooked the glittering River Tiber below.

His voice is low and warm. Dame lost his brother in a boating accident. His father was drunk and crashed into a rock in the water. His brother died on impact.

Dame knew his father had been drinking all morning.

Like my experience, the tragedy ‘wasn’t his fault,’ yet he carries its weight nonetheless. He shared with me, and I opened up to him. We connected over our troubled memories.

He made me feel seen.

Mistakenly, I thought he could heal me.

That’s why I went to the club looking for him. Even knowing it was reckless. Even knowing he wouldn’t be looking for me.

And I found Reign.

My fraudulent life is weighing me down. I don’t know if I can bear any longer.