Page 49 of Brutal Vows

Double-checking the phone to make sure I haven’t missed anything; I realize that there haven’t been any missed calls or messages. It’s nearly six in the evening and Vitali hasn’t called or checked in once.

Me

Where are you?

It doesn’t take long for Vitali to respond to my text, but bitter disappointment fills me when I see it.

Vitali aka Diablo

Out. I’ll be back later.

Me

You’ve been gone all day. Should I make dinner?

Vitali aka Diablo

Don’t bother.

Don’t bother.Vitali’s text throbs in my head like a persistent migraine, each word a disappointment echoing loudly and painfully. The cold language of his text message after his warmth this morning feels like ice against the flames of our fiery relationship. Words as sharp as jagged diamonds, slicing through me with swift, brutal ease.

What I don’t bother doing is responding. Is this how my days will be spent? Sitting at home with nothing to occupy my time, just waiting for my husband to show up? At least at my father’s house, I had more activities. Even though my father paid little attention to me or let me leave thecompound frequently, he always ensured I had things to keep me entertained.

When I tap on his contact, my eyes are drawn to a small map nestled at the bottom of the screen, where a blue dot pulses rhythmically. Intrigued, I scroll down further and press on the map, only to discover that it reveals his current location.

The name that appears is Clovers

He’s out at a nightclub?

Fuck this.

Placing my phone gently on the table, I wander toward the bedroom, anticipation bubbling beneath my skin. I begin to rummage through my suitcase, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric of my carefully packed clothes. My search leads me to a striking satin dress, its rich crimson hue shimmering in the soft light of the room.

The elegant garment boasts a ruched tulip hem that adds a playful yet sophisticated flair, while the daring plunging neckline promises to make a statement. It’s one of the outfits I remember Peter thoughtfully placing in the suitcase, and its luxurious texture and vivid color captivate my senses and will show Vitali exactly what he is missing.

I grab a sleek pair of matching heels, their glossy finish catching the light as I slide them on. With a quick, practiced motion, I tease my hair, adding just the right amount of volume. Thankfully, I still have the fake I.D. that Vitali had crafted for me before leaving New Orleans—a small but crucial lifeline. My next challenge is figuring out how to slip away from here without drawing any attention.

Surprisingly, escaping proves easier than anticipated. The elevator descends directly into the garage, a vast, echoing space devoid of any prying eyes or lurking figures. Relief washes over me as I realize I won’t have toconfront any of Vitali’s men, a tense encounter that would have had them marching me back upstairs.

As I step into the dimly lit garage, a more daunting task presents itself. Leaving the penthouse was the easy part; reaching my destination will be the real challenge, especially since I have no money, leaving me unable to afford an Uber or taxi. I pull up the map on my phone, exhaling a sigh of relief when I see that the club is merely a few blocks away from the hotel, conveniently close to McDonough’s.

The website for the club also says that it is ladies’ night, which means the cover is free. One last thing I don’t need to worry about.

I hug myself to keep warm as I walk to the club, the fall breeze whipping into me. Twenty minutes later, I am handing the bouncer my I.D. trying not to look uncomfortable and out of place as he inspects it. He looks between me and the card several times, one brow raised before he hands me the I.D. back, lifts the red rope, and motions for me to go ahead. It’s a small feat, I know, but I feel like I’ve just won the Olympics.

The pulsing music thrums through my body, a palpable vibration, as I step into the club. The room is a kaleidoscope of flashing colorful lights that burst from every corner, casting vivid patterns on the sea of people. A barely clothed server glides past me with a tray brimming with glittering drinks, each bottle and glass shimmering under the strobe lights.

Holy shit, this is far more intense than I had imagined. It’s worth mentioning that I’ve never set foot in a club before, and this wild scene defies all my expectations.

Women, adorned in scanty attire, writhe atop tables, their bodies swaying with the rhythm, while others are ensconced within cages scattered throughout the vast building.The space is jam-packed, a throng of bodies moving in sync with the music, and I have to carefully navigate to avoid colliding with anyone.

The club towers three stories high, a labyrinth of levels, each guarded by a formidable bouncer at the stairwells. It seems the higher you ascend, the more exclusive and extravagant the perks become.

My stomach twists in knots as bodies meld together, grinding in a feverish dance, hands, lips, and tongues exploring one another with unrestrained passion. The lights are dimmed just enough to allow couples to indulge in near-complete privacy, their intimate encounters becoming mere shadows on the dance floor.

Is this really where my husband chooses to spend his time while he’s in Seattle?

I swallow back the urge to vomit that my husband might have grabbed one of the women from the dance floor to take back to a private room and fuck her. Just thinking about it makes me want to douse the building in lighter fluid and set this place ablaze.

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