Page 1 of Ruthless Vows

CHAPTER ONE

Stassi

The brisk New York wind nips at my cheeks as I hurry down the crowded sidewalk.

My heels click against the pavement with a rhythm that matches my racing thoughts.

People bustle around me, but all I can focus on is the weight of this meeting hanging over my head.

Miss May. The name echoes in my mind like some clandestine password to a new life.

“Sorry!” I mutter, dodging a man engrossed in his phone. Not today, mate. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

I clutch the strap of my leather handbag tighter, feeling the reassuring bulk of my documents inside.

Identification, proof of residence, and—I cringe inwardly—the last bank statement showing my dwindling funds.

Three thousand dollars isn’t exactly a safety net—it’s more like a threadbare blanket barely covering my toes.

The hotel looms ahead, its grand façade a stark contrast to my humble aspirations.

It’s one of those places where you expect to see movie stars or politicians slipping in and out discreetly.

I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath before pushing through the revolving doors.

Inside, the lobby is an opulent maze of marble floors and crystal chandeliers.

I feel like an imposter, a commoner sneaking into a royal banquet, especially since I left my family back home in Britain.

The receptionist’s smile is professional, her eyes scanning me with a hint of curiosity. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Miss May. I believe she rented out a conference room,” I reply, my British accent crisp and authoritative.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, and she nods, directing me toward the elevator with a flick of her wrist.

“She’s in the conference room on the tenth floor. 10B.” Her voice is polite, but I can sense her interest piqued by my presence.

Probably wondering why a woman like Miss. May rented a conference room to meet one person.

The elevator ride is a short yet agonizing ascent.

Each ding of the passing floors feels like a countdown to a moment I can’t afford to mess up.

When the doors slide open, I step out into a quiet hallway lined with numbered rooms. Conference Room 10B—there it is.

A deep breath, then I push open the door.

The room is spacious yet intimate, with a long mahogany table dominating the center.

Sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting a warm glow on the plush chairs arranged neatly around the table.

“Right then,” I whisper to myself, walking in and choosing a seat.

I settle into the chair, smoothing my skirt and crossing my legs.

My fingers drum lightly on the table as I attempt to calm the storm brewing in my chest.

Wonder how this is going to play out.

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