Savage Vow (Revenge and Surrender #1)

Emily

“You look like Cinderella. Spin for me,” Dad says.

“Thank you, but I don’t want to be Cinderella. I don’t need a fairy godmother, or a pumpkin.”

“What about a nice prince?” He holds out my winter coat for me—it’s my old wool coat that I leave here. It lost a battle with a family of moths and has seen better days. “You’re sure you don’t have another coat? I can have Rachel see if she can find one.”

“If she can find one in the penthouse, then it belongs to one of your ex-wives, and as much as I like to recycle and reuse, I’m not going there.

” I give an inward shudder. Dad’s last ex-wife is in jail for trying to kill my brother and killing Dad’s fiancé.

A fiancé who was about to run away with my ex.

We really can pick them. Dad and I have that trait in common.

“I’ll take it off in the car and carry it in. ”

“Limo,” he states.

“No, Dad. I ordered a ride share.” I hold out my phone. “Thomas should be here in five minutes.”

“Emily! It’s really snowing. How do you know if this man can drive?”

“It’s a few blocks away. If he can’t drive, I’ll get out and walk.

” I hear how ridiculous it is the second it comes out of my mouth.

I’m wearing high heels and Dad’s not wrong.

And the Upper East side to Gramercy Park is more than a few blocks.

“But trudging through the streets of a New York snowstorm in heels isn’t my plan.

I don’t actually want to lose one of my shoes.

” I laugh. “I’ll be good, Dad. Promise. You’re sure you don’t want to come with me? I RSVPed for two.”

My stomach tightens. I should have asked the guy I thought I was seeing in Miami before I did.

I made what my dad would call a tactical error––assuming we’re dating.

Jumping ahead in a relationship or a not quite a relationship is a strength I have.

It’s how I’ve gotten into trouble so many times.

Well, five times—that’s not that many. Right?

I don’t move in on the third date, but I tend to believe the other person feels the same way I do.

After I asked him, I dug the hole deeper by offering to buy him a ticket from Miami to New York.

His words covered me like the slushy snow is about to: “It’s not the money for the ticket, Em.

I can’t go with you to the wedding of one of your boarding school friends at a bougie New York Club.

” There was no sorry. But he called me the day before I left and asked if I wanted to hang out.

At least I had the strength to tell him I was busy.

So no, there's no prince in my life. And I need it to stay that way. What there will be is a large group of people that I love and don’t get to see often.

I didn’t peak in high school, but I absolutely loved every minute of it—the teachers, the beautiful campus in Vermont.

I’ve been looking forward to this. Maybe not the conversations about what happened to me a few years ago, but that’s old news. Right?

Dad puts his hand on my bare upper arm. “Let me order you a limo for the way home. Or a car service. Please, Em?”

“Okay, fine. You win. I’ll text the address to your assistant.”

“I can do it,” he says.

“You and I both know that you’re going to pass it off to Rachel when you get frustrated so—”

“Cut out the middleman.” He laughs because it’s one of his favorite phrases.

The Winston J. Rockwell from four years ago would have gone with me to Whitney’s wedding.

He would have danced with the bride. Shook every hand there was to shake.

Made half-a-dozen business connections and the start of a couple of deals.

All the while having the bride’s parents thrilled he’d decided to come.

But things have changed. He might be four years older, but he looks a good twenty.

And there are no more deals to be made. As part of the terms of the investigation—the allegations of which he was mostly cleared of—he can own part of his financial company he and his partner grew, but he doesn’t have a seat on the board and he can’t be involved in day-to- day operations.

“Cut out the middleman,” I repeat as I text Rachel and ask her for a car, all the while apologizing for the late ask.

Dad didn’t want a new assistant, but after years of having one, he’s not capable of not having one.

Rachel is my mother’s cousin’s daughter.

My second cousin, I guess. She moved here from California last year and I convinced her to take the job.

It’s been fantastic. She’s close enough I know I can tell her when dad’s acting wonky and she won’t judge.

She’s also down to earth and doesn’t act entitled because she’s a relative.

Plus, she’s got a special hatred of my dad’s ex. Something we share.

I shoot her off a quick text, and the reply is almost immediate.

Rachel

Done. And the car service is in the area now if you want to take it there?

I glance over at Dad who is staring out of the balcony window, down the fifteen floors, at the small cars being covered in snow.

That would be nice. Thank you.

Rachel

Done again. They’ll pick you up in ten. Have a good time.

But now I’m kicking myself. I should have asked her to come with me. Though it’s fine. I’ll know a lot of people there. I met the bride at boarding school.

“Rach got me the car. And I’m going to take it both ways. Guess I’ll never know if Thomas is a good driver or not.”

“Guaranteed not,” Dad says without turning. “Have a good time. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Pennington congratulations from me.”

“I will. But I don’t think Whitney’s changing her name.”

“I suppose not. The Ashcroft name wields a lot of power.”

“That’s not why she’s not changing her name, Dad.” I give him a kiss on his cheek and head out.

I’m in the car when Rachel texts me.

Rachel

How much do you want Rocky to spend on a gift for the Penningtons?

I clench my eyes at the snow coming down.

He doesn’t need to send a gift. But how about a donation to a dolphin charity? She had a thing for them in high school.

Actually, it was a bit more than a thing. She had dolphin slippers and a dolphin shower curtain in her dorm room.

The car pulls up and I look out. It’s a long shuffle to the door.

“I’m sorry Ms. Rockwell. I can’t get any closer.” The driver double parks and goes to open his door.

“I’ve got it. No point in us both getting covered in sleet.” I’ve got the door open, and I’m a few yards away with my old holey woolen fisherman’s coat over my head before the driver catches up to me with a golf umbrella. “Thank you,” I say as he follows me to the door.

“Shall I keep your coat?”

“Thank you, again. I’ll text when I’m ready to go.” I do the mental math, reception at eight, cocktail hour at nine, dinner at ten . . . “I should be ready before midnight.”

“Whatever you need. Take your time,” he replies.

I wave goodbye as he runs through the slush back to the double-parked limo.

“Welcome to the Birch Pavilion. The hostess will see you in the main lobby,” the door man says, holding the door open.

“Thank you.” I smile and give a nod. I’ve been to three weddings here in the last eight years.

They’re all the same but different. Over the top in their own way.

Gramercy Park. But I’ve always thought of Whitney as a Soho girl.

I skip the coat check and stroll through a portal of gardenias and roses.

The large birch trees that dominate the foyer are covered in small twinkle lights and thousands of flowers.

Real ones too. I stretch up to touch a petal and jump when there’s a brush on my arm.

“Oh, Em, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lilith Sage says.

She’s wearing a pale apricot form-fitting formal dress that gives off cool flapper girl vibes.

Her hair’s no longer bright green—her natural blonde hangs in smooth waves and glows in the candlelight.

She’s hanging on to the arm of an attractive man with teeth so white they’re giving off more lumens than the surrounding candles.

I haven’t seen her in a while, but I hardly go a week without talking to her.

“Hey, my witchy friend,” I say, pulling her into a hug.

Lilith scratches the air like a cat. She spent years in her goth phase.

But she’s an elite born and bred New Yorker, though her family money comes from the oil fields in Texas.

If there had been a superlative at Green for least likely to be a Southern Belle, it would have been Lilith.

Tonight she’s an icon of what it is to be a young wealthy New Yorker.

And I’m . . . a weirdo who doesn’t belong in Miami, New York, or in Maine.

Lil used to say that I must have lived another life in Maine.

That there was no other reason for me to like it that much.

I turn to her date, whose eyes are wandering around the room. “Hello.”

“Oh, this is my lovely friend Emily Rockwell.” She pats her date's arm but doesn’t introduce him. That’s her way of telling me I don’t need to remember his name. It’s a bit harsh, but it’s a time-tested system.

He mutters his name to me, and I shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you.” And I want to kick myself. Ten minutes back with my old friends and I’ve slipped into their world. I wasn’t listening when he said his name. “My apologies. What’s your name?”

He laughs like I’ve said something hilarious. “Tucker Marsh.”

“Did you check in yet, Em?” Lil asks, cocking her head to the side.

“No, I just got here.”

“So you don’t know?” Her eyes sparkle with giddiness. Which either means that there’s something I’m going to love or I’m about to be a spectacle.

Lilith drops Tucker’s arm. “We’ll be right back. Can you be a dear and check Emily in and get us some champagne before the ceremony? Meet us by the door in ten.” Lil takes my arm and weaves me through the guests. “You should have come to the bachelorette party.”

“Lake Como? It’s nice, but did you do anything but sit on the beach and drink?”

She walks us by the bar and drinks station to the bathroom. It’s lush with oversized pink furniture in a front sitting room. An attendant nods hello.

“Sit,” Lil says.

“I’m not a dog like Tucker.”

“No, you’re not. But he’s fucking hot, dumb as a mannequin, and has a tongue better than a rose vibrator. I’m having fun. He’s meeting people he’d never meet. He knows the deal.”

Damn, I love that little Lilith has gained her claws. I pull up my vintage Steve McQueen dress. It’s my favorite. Mostly because the vintage part was from my mother.

Lilith leans against a chair, and honestly, I’m not sure that she’s going to be able to sit.

“What is it?” I ask.

“If you’d come to Lake Como, you would know who RSVPed yes.”

I blink at her. Because . . . “I’m not playing a guessing game with you.”

“Right. Okay . . . You used to be a lot more fun. But I still love you.”

“Love you, too. And who . . .”

“Thayer Zambrano.”

I grit my teeth. My face sinks into resting bitch mode. “Whitney didn’t tell me.”

“Would you have come?”

“No.” I clench my stomach.

“Exactly why she didn’t tell you.” Lilith winks at me through the mirror.