Page 3 of Ruthless Vows

“Of course,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I appreciate your honesty.”

In the back of my mind, I’m freaking out, praying she takes me in because I’m going to lose my apartment if I can’t come up with more money for rent.

“Good,” she responds, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Thank you,” I manage, standing up and smoothing out my skirt.

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk toward the door, each step a mixture of hope and fear.

As I exit the room, I make my way down to the elevator, and as soon as I’m in the lobby the noise of it greets me—a stark contrast to the hushed intensity of our conversation.

I head toward the revolving doors, my mind racing.

A few days. That’s all it’s going to take to redefine my future.

I step into the crisp New York air. It’s late afternoon, and the sky is a patchwork quilt of grey clouds.

My heels click against the pavement as I join the throng of pedestrians.

Each step is a reminder of how precarious my situation is.

Three thousand dollars. Two weeks.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath, dodging a man engrossed in his phone.

The irony isn’t lost on me—a Hawthorne, second cousin to the King of England, walking the streets of New York hoping for a job that involves marrying a stranger.

But it’s better than crawling back to my Father, admitting defeat, allowing him to pull the strings once more.

“Keep it together, Stassi,” I whisper to myself as I pass by storefronts displaying everything I can’t afford.

A boutique dress, a pair of stilettos, a diamond necklace—all taunting reminders of a life I could have had if I swallowed my pride.

I reach into my bag, fingers brushing against my phone.

No messages from Esme yet.

She promised she’d check in after my interview.

She probably thinks I’m still in it, but I really need her optimism right now, her certainty that this can work out.

“Just a few days,” I remind myself, exhaling slowly.

A few days to find out if I’m going to get pulled out of this financial nosedive or crash spectacularly.

I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

Cars zoom by, their drivers oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding on this corner.

When the signal turns green, I stride forward and remind myself I’ve been through horrible things, and this is minuscule in comparison.

Plus, I’ve faced worse odds.

This is just another chapter in the saga of surviving, away from my family’s dark legacy.

“One step at a time,” I murmur, blending into the sea of faces surging toward whatever futures await them.

I finally round the corner to my apartment, an old brick building with squeaky fire escapes and chipping paint that gives it a charm no billionaire’s mansion could ever hope to possess.

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