Page 23 of His Ruthless Vow

"Hot date cancel on you?" she asks.

"No date to cancel," I say, smoothing my expression into professional indifference. "Just waiting on that feedback from Westman Corp."

The lie slides off my tongue with practiced ease. I've become too familiar with lying lately—to my friends, to myself. Especially about a certain steel-eyed mafia capo who sucks up mental real estate I can't afford to give him.

I force my attention back to the marketing proposal on my screen, attacking the keyboard with renewed determination. I've stayed late at the office every night this week, burying myself in work that could easily wait until tomorrow. The strategy isn't subtle, but it's all I have. When I'm knee-deep in demographics and conversion analytics, I can almost forget the way Enzo looked at me the last time we were together—like he'd already mapped every inch of my body in his mind.

Almost.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension that's taken up permanent residence there. I try to shake it off, try to ignore the way he has me twisted. And then my phone vibrates against the desk.

The small sound makes my stomach flip over itself, a Pavlovian response I hate with my entire being. I don't move for a full ten seconds, my fingertips hovering over my keyboard as I debate whether to check it.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, snatching up the phone.

It's just an email notification. Of course it is.

I should be relieved, but instead, a strange disappointment twists through me. I shove it down, hard and fast. I refuse to sit around waiting for a man who thinks he can call and I'll come running just because he cleared some debts I never even asked him to handle.

Gathering my things, I make a decision. My finger hovers over the power button on my phone for just a moment before I press it firmly, watching as the screen goes black.

"Let's see how you like being ghosted, Rossi," I whisper to the dark device.

A small, juvenile act of rebellion? Absolutely. But the satisfaction it brings is immediate and delicious. For once, I'm controlling the narrative. If Enzo wants to reach me tonight, he'll hit a wall of silence. The same wall I've been hitting every time I've made the mistake of thinking about him, about his home, about those damn dogs of his that made him seem almost human.

I slip my phone into my purse and head for the elevator, my heels clicking against the marble floor with renewed purpose. The air hits me as I push through the revolving doors, cool enough to make me pull my blazer tighter around my shoulders.

Chicago has always felt like home, but tonight, everything feels slightly off-kilter. I scan the street automatically, a habit I didn't have before Enzo crashed into my life. The shadows between buildings seem deeper, every corner capable of hiding someone I shouldn’t be looking for.

I feel the absence of something—someone—watching over me. It's ridiculous. I never asked for his protection, never wanted it. Yet I find myself glancing over my shoulder as I walk, half-expecting to see a sleek black car trailing at a distance.

Nothing but empty pavement stretches behind me.

The hollow feeling in my chest intensifies, and I quicken my pace, annoyed at my own disappointment. This is exactly what I wanted—my life back, free of complications with tattooed men who look at me like I'm something they want to devour.

So why does the city feel so different? Like there's a shadow at my back, a presence missing where I've come to expect it.

I unlock my apartment door, sinking into the familiar comfort of routine. Toss keys in the ceramic bowl. Slip off heels. Breathe.

The sunset filters through my west-facing windows, painting molten gold across the hardwood floors. I move through my evening ritual on autopilot—change into black silk lounge pants and a soft tank top, twist my hair up into a messy bun. The ordinary acts should calm me, but tonight, they feel hollow, performative.

In the kitchen, I pull a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet—not the cheap stuff I keep for guests, but the good Bulleit I save for bad days. The amber liquid sloshes against crystal as I pour two fingers deep. The first sip burns in the best way, warming my chest and loosening the knot that's been sitting there since I left the office.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, the words echoing in my empty living room.

The bourbon warms my throat but doesn't touch the chill that's wrapped around my spine. I grab the remote and drop onto my plush sectional, flicking through streaming services with increasing irritation. Nothing catches my interest—not the true crime documentary I'd been saving, not the trashy reality show that usually makes me laugh, not even the period drama Mikayla's been raving about.

I settle on a cooking competition, the vibrant colors and manufactured drama washing over me without penetration. The host's enthusiasm grates on my nerves. I change channels. A medical drama where everyone's too beautiful. Change. Home renovation. Change. Some action movie with explosions.

Nothing feels right. The restlessness crawls under my skin like ants marching in formation, impossible to ignore and even harder to satisfy.

I refill my drink, this time not bothering to measure. The bourbon spills slightly over the rim, and I lick it from my fingers before it can drip onto the countertop.

"This is not about him," I tell the silence.

The silence calls me a liar.

I pace to the window, watching the last threads of daylight surrender to dusk. Street lights flicker on below, cars passing like glowing insects. In the distance, Chicago's skyline twinkles to life, a constellation of commerce and ambition.

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