11. A Dangerous Vow
A Dangerous Vow
Evelyn
I stare at my reflection in the ornate mirror, but the woman gazing back feels like a stranger.
My green eyes look too bright against my pale skin.
My dark curls have been styled into an elegant partial updo with perfect ringlets hanging down my back.
The white silk robe whispers against my skin as I shift uncomfortably.
“This isn’t real,” I mutter to my reflection. “This can’t be fucking real.”
But it is.
In less than an hour, I’ll be walking down the aisle to marry Ezekiel King—the man who hurt me when he vanished, the same man who now claims this marriage will save my life, a man who stands for everything I fight against.
My hands tremble as I reach for the gin martini on the vanity.
The familiar burn does little to calm my nerves.
I can’t decide if I’m nervous because getting married again is the last thing I want or that some small part of me does want this with Zeke.
I take another sip of my martini. Anything to stop myself from over thinking.
Through the window of this absurdly luxurious bedroom—my bedroom now, apparently—I hear the bustling of wedding preparations below.
Lydia arranged everything in record time. A small, intimate ceremony in Zeke’s massive living room. “We’ll make it beautiful,” she’d promised, her eternal optimism somehow more grating than comforting.
My fingers trace the delicate lace trim of the wedding dress hanging nearby. It’s stunning—exactly what I would have chosen if this was a real wedding and not some twisted arrangement born from danger and necessity.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
This wedding is real. The circumstances which brought it to fruition may be twisted, but I am marrying Zeke.
More willingly than I want to admit. Soon, I will be legally bound to him, and my emotions are in turmoil trying to figure out how I really feel about this.
This morning, Leo’s excitement about the wedding had almost made it seem normal. Almost made me believe this could work. But now, alone with my thoughts in this opulent prison of a bedroom, reality crashes back.
I’m about to marry a man who operates in the shadows, who commands respect through fear. He’s also the man who makes breakfast with my nephew and promises to keep us safe.
My reflection offers no answers, just the lost look of a woman caught between duty and desire, between fear and an emotion I refuse to name.
If I’d refused to marry, Zeke wouldn’t stop me. He’d tell me the same story about how this is the only way to protect me—to keep me alive. But is that the only reason for us to marry?
Regardless, I’m still standing here, letting this day take place. What does that say about my wants and desires?
I’m not emotionally stable enough to answer that question.
Instead, I pour another gin martini with trembling hands, spilling a few drops on the vanity. My third drink, or maybe my fourth—I’ve lost count. The clear liquid catches the light, creating tiny prisms that dance across the polished wood.
The familiar burn slides down my throat, and for a blessed moment, the tightness in my chest eases. But it’s temporary, like trying to patch a bullet hole with a Band-Aid. The alcohol dulls the edges of my panic, but underneath, everything still feels raw and exposed.
You swore you’d never do this again.
After Ryan, I’d made promises to myself. No more marriages. No more letting a man have that kind of power over me. No more watching someone’s face transform from love to disgust when they learned I couldn’t give them children.
I laugh bitterly. The sound echoes in the vast bedroom, hollow and sharp. The woman staring back at me looks expensive in her silk robe, her dark curls perfectly styled. But her eyes—my eyes—hold the same haunted look they did the day I left Ryan.
The gin isn’t working fast enough. I pour another, my movements mechanical. The bottle is getting dangerously low, but what does it matter? In an hour, I’ll be Mrs. Ezekiel King.
“Some fucking choice,” I mutter, raising the glass to my lips. The martini tastes like defeat and broken promises. Like all those nights I spent convincing myself I was better off alone, no ring and no one else’s expectation.
But here I am, about to do it all over again. Different man, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same trap.
The alcohol burns, but not enough to drown out that voice in my head—the one that keeps reminding me how spectacularly I failed at being a wife the first time around. How damaged I am. How unworthy.
The gin isn’t enough to silence Olivia’s voice in my head either, her stories echoing like a warning bell.
I remember the haunted look in her eyes when she described her ex-husband Vinny’s brutality—the casual violence, the constant fear.
“In their world,” she’d said, “women are property, nothing more.”
Is that what I’m about to become? Property?
My hands shake as I set down the glass. Olivia survived, but at what cost? The scars she carries aren’t just physical. Even now, years later, certain sounds make her flinch. A door slamming. A raised voice. The clink of ice in a glass.
“He seemed so normal at first,” she’d told us during one of our gatherings. “Charming. Protective. Until the first time I disagreed with him.” Her fingers had traced the faint scar above her eyebrow, a permanent reminder of that night.
The mirror reflects my pale face as nausea rolls through me. Zeke isn’t Vinny—I know that. But he operates in the same world, walks the same shadowy paths. How long before those shadows creep into our home? How long before Leo gets caught in their darkness?
“He’s different,” Olivia had insisted when I confided my fears about marrying Zeke. “I’ve seen how he looks at you, Eve. It’s not like …” she’d trailed off, but I heard the unspoken comparison. Not like Vinny. Not like the men who view women as possessions to be controlled and broken.
But standing here in this gilded cage, wearing an expensive robe, I wonder if there’s really any difference at all. I can’t deny I have feelings for him—strong feelings—but will that be enough to overcome the circumstances of this union?
The gin burns in my empty stomach as Olivia’s words echo. “Once you’re in their world, you can never truly leave.”
The dress hangs before me like an accusation. Ivory silk and delicate lace. My fingers trace the intricate beading along the sweetheart neckline, each crystal catching the light like a tear.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the word as I take the dress off the hanger.
I slip it on, the silk cool against my heated skin. It fits perfectly—of course it does. Zeke probably had someone take my measurements while I slept. The thought makes me shiver despite the warmth of the room.
The dress hugs every curve, the skirt falling in elegant waves to the floor. I look like a bride from a magazine spread, all polished and perfect. But my eyes tell a different story. They’re wild, filled with the panic of a trapped animal.
My hands smooth down the bodice of my dress, feeling the structure beneath the delicate fabric. Like this whole charade—the dress is beautiful on the surface, but constructed of steel and necessity underneath. A pretty cage is still a cage.
The bedroom door opens with a slight swishing sound, followed by a gasp.
“You look beautiful,” Lydia gushes. “Like a princess.”
Olivia shakes her head. “Not a princess. A queen.” There’s a firmness to her voice that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention. A mafia queen. Oh, God .
I don’t want to be a mafia queen. I want to be Detective Landry, the woman who fights for justice, who protects the innocent.
The dress whispers against the floor as I pace, each step a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from my own path.
This isn’t me. The Eve I know wouldn’t be caught dead in something so overtly feminine, so deliberately enchanting.
She wears practical suits and sensible shoes, ready to chase down leads or comfort victims at a moment’s notice.
But that Eve seems very far away right now.
Behind Lydia and Olivia is an entourage of stylists carrying countless cases of makeup. I groan, already tired of this kind of treatment. The hairstylist nearly did me in.
“Sit.” Lydia orders. I glare at her but do as she says. I’ve come this far. And I know I’m not turning back. I’ve committed to this marriage if for no other reason but to keep Leo safe.
Keep telling yourself that, lady.
The makeup artist introduces herself, but I’m only half paying attention. The minutes tick by and it feels like this process is never going to end. She’s taking longer than the hairstylist took. Is my face that bad?
“You need to hold still,” the makeup artist scolds as I take another sip of gin. Her name is Samantha—or Sarah? I can’t remember. The faces around me blur together in a haze of cosmetics and concern.
“I am holding still,” I protest, though the words come out slightly slurred. The gin has finally started doing its job, softening the sharp edges of reality.
Lydia exchanges a worried glance with Olivia. “Eve, honey, maybe you should slow down?”
I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle. “Trust me, you’d be drinking too if you were in my position.”
The makeup artist—definitely Samantha—sighs and adjusts my chin with gentle fingers. “Close your eyes, please. Let me finish your eyeshadow.”
I comply, but my free hand still clutches the martini glass like a lifeline. The cool rim presses against my lower lip, a constant reminder that I can take another sip whenever I need it.
“Eve.” Olivia’s voice is soft but firm. “How many have you had?”
I crack one eye open, earning another exasperated sigh from Samantha. “Not enough.”
“Sweetie—” Lydia starts.
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Just … don’t. I need this, okay? I need to not feel everything so fucking much right now.”