Page 4 of Ruthless Vows

I make my way up the narrow stairs, each creak echoing in the decaying hallway.

I fumble with the keys, eventually pushing open my door.

Instantly, I’m wrapped in the comforting scent of home—old books, coffee beans, and a hint of lavender from Esme’s recent visit.

I sink onto my worn-out couch, pulling out my phone to finally get through to Esme.

One ring. Two rings. Then her familiar voice fills my ear. “Darling! How’d it go? Are we wedding planning or what?”

I take a deep breath before answering, her infectious cheer soothing my frayed nerves.

“It wasn’t terrible,” I begin. “She said she’d be in touch soon.”

Esme hums approvingly on the other end of the line. “Good, good,” she says, and I can almost see her nodding approvingly on the other end. “Miss May’s a tough nut to crack, but if she said she’d be in touch, then you made a good impression.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Esme has always been my rock since I moved here—her unwavering support and optimism have kept me going through the dark times, especially over this last year.

“Esme,” I start, unsure of how to word my next question. Anxiety knits itself into a hard knot in my stomach as I find the courage to voice my doubts. “What if... what if it doesn’t work out? What if she doesn't choose me?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Stassi,” Esme finally says, her voice measured and calm. “I really don’t think that’s the case. Just try and be positive.”

CHAPTER TWO

Lorenzo

The glass door swings open with a soft chime, and I step into the office Miss. May wanted me to meet her at.

The air inside is cool and smells faintly of vanilla, a stark contrast to the bustling chaos of New York just outside.

I move quickly across the plush carpet, my polished shoes sinking slightly as I approach her mahogany desk.

“Mr. DiGiovanni,” she greets me, standing up and extending a perfectly manicured hand.

Her voice is smooth, almost soothing, but I don’t have time for pleasantries.

“Miss May, I need a wife,” I state flatly, as I take a seat in the plush leather chair opposite her.

“Mr. DiGiovanni, I assure you, we have exactly what you’re looking for,” she says, her voice smooth and professional. She opens a sleek tablet and taps a few times. “Why don’t you tell me what qualities you seek in a spouse?”

“Someone who can hold her own, looks the part, and has a family background that will satisfy certain... expectations.” My words come out clipped, but Miss May nods in understanding.

“Very well,” she murmurs, swiping through profiles.

The first image appears—a raven-haired beauty with piercing blue eyes.

“Maria,” Miss May indicates, “Harvard graduate, speaks five languages, impeccable pedigree.”

“Decent,” I mutter, not entirely convinced.

She swipes again, revealing another woman—this one a statuesque blonde with a dazzling smile.

“Elena,” Miss May continues, “Philanthropist, excellent public speaker, comes from old money.”

“Not bad,” I concede, leaning forward slightly.

But then Miss May slides to the next photo, and my breath catches in my throat.

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