Page 34 of Risky Vows

A chilly shiver runs down my spine.

Daphne. Oh, great.

How did she get here? I specifically asked for a brand-new performer for this reason, and the agency gave me someone else's name. Daphne must have gone through some trouble to sneak into this party. What a bold move.

I wiped her contact information from my list after we parted ways. She texted me a few times, but I ignored it and blocked her number. I was sure she'd forget about me and move on.

But her being here proves she hasn't.

I run my hand over my face.

The act starts, the song blasting from the speakers as she works for the crowd, dancing around. She uses the swing on stage, and the guests love it. Her talent as a performer has never been a problem.

She gets off the stage and comes to my dad's table, where he sits with a bunch of guys his age. Another wave of catcalls and whistles travels around us as she removes her long gloves and gives them to my father. He's completely smitten.

He's never met Daphne—I never took her to any events. Our relationship was strictly sexual. But to have her here, with myfamily around, hell, with Amara around, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

"Omg, she's so flexible," Amara says, fascinated by the show. "I bet she does Pilates."

A wave of guilt washes over me. If Amara only knew.

But she can't. I avoid eye contact with Daphne at all costs. I'll wait until this show is over and find out with the agency why Daphne ended up rubbing against my father. Right now, I want her to rub her way out of this party—with whoever she wants. Just not me.

"Oh, wow," Rocco says, and the attention of the crowd shifts closer to us, the stage light casting over our table.

Great. Daphne sits on Nico's lap, slowly removing her glove. And soon, her gaze lands on me. She looks at me like I'm the only one in the room, and annoyance creeps under my skin. She knows exactly what she's doing.

All my muscles are taut.

"He's taken, but I'm still available," Rocco says to dispel the tension.

She laughs, and once her glove is removed, she flings it in my direction. I fail to grab it and let it fall on the floor. I hope my serious stance gives her the message I want to convey.Don't fuck with me.

Finally, she slides out of my brother's lap and sashays back to the stage, where she continues the show. A few other dancers join her, performing the big number together. She ends up wearing a thin G-string and cherry-colored pasties on her breasts.

Then, a giant cake comes, and they sing Happy Birthday to my father.

"Hey, are you okay? You froze when that lady came over," Amara asks, squeezing my hand.

"I'm good. Just done with this," I say.

"A man who's bored with a burlesque routine. I'm lucky, aren't I?" She kisses my cheek.

An abundance of emotions moves through my chest. I'm pissed at Daphne for wanting to humiliate my wife in public with her little plot. Degrees of guilt threaten to suffocate me for being here, for fucking existing, and for having a past dirtier than a gas station's bathroom.

Then… another sentiment fills me. The one I've been avoiding all along.

Love.

I can't let anything happen to Amara. Can't let anyone hurt her. I'll protect her at all costs. How did I let this weakness take over me? And why does it make me feel so strong when it does the opposite—if I'm being pragmatic?

Knowing how vulnerable it makes me doesn't mean I have the power to stop it.

I've fallen for my wife and hope I won't regret it.

20

Amara

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