Page 6 of Ruthless Vows

“Very well,” Miss May replies, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You won’t be disappointed.”

But one thing is certain: I have to meet Anastasia Hawthorne.

Only then will I get the answers I’m looking for.

As she notes down my decision, I can’t help but think about the implications.

Anastasia Hawthorne—her name alone carries weight.

The bloodline coursing through her veins isn’t just royal—it’s practically legendary.

It has the power to elevate our family to untouchable heights, cementing alliances that would otherwise be impossible.

The room is dimly lit, casting shadows on Miss May’s face as she continues to type away on her sleek computer.

I watch her fingers dance over the keys, sealing my fate with each stroke.

She finally looks up at me, her eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and approval. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Good,” I reply, standing up and straightening my suit jacket, my mind already racing ahead to the next steps.

This marriage won’t just be a union; it will be an empire-building strategy.

I take one last look at the photo of Anastasia on the screen.

Her eyes, deep and enigmatic, seem to be hiding secrets that I am now determined to uncover.

Whatever her reasons for being here, they pale in comparison to what we can achieve together.

“Thank you, Miss May. I will have my banker wire over your fee by the end of the day.” I say, turning to leave.

Her smile lingers in my peripheral vision as I step out into the bustling streets of New York, my mind laser-focused on the path ahead.

This is more than just a marriage of convenience.

It’s a calculated move in a game where power is the ultimate prize.

And with Anastasia by my side, I’m certain we’ll be unstoppable.

Not to mention, the elders and other families can’t tell me I’ve made a bad choice.

I’ve picked a bride whose name carries more weight than my own.

I stride out of the office, the clacking of my dress shoes echoing through the corridor.

The bright lights of New York greet me as I step onto the sidewalk, a symphony of car horns and distant conversations filling the air.

The black town car is waiting at the curb, engine purring like a contented beast.

I slide into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. “To The Velvet Room,” I instruct the driver.

He nods, merging into the traffic with practiced ease.

As the city blurs past, I pull out my phone, scrolling through emails and messages, but my thoughts keep circling back to Anastasia Hawthorne.

What secrets lie behind those aristocratic eyes?

And how did she end up in a Wife for Hire agency? That question alone is enough to drive me crazy.

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