Page 12 of His Ruthless Vow

I pull up to his apartment building—one of those converted factories in the arts district with exposed brick and pipes that cost way more than they should. I've never understood why Griffin insists on living here when he could get twice the space elsewhere, but image has always mattered more to him than practicality.

As I climb the stairs to the third floor, I rehearse my speech. I'll be casual but firm."Hey, so that gambling debt you had with Armando? It's been taken care of. Don't ask me how, don't worry about paying me back. Just stop gambling, you idiot."

I've known Griffin since college—marketing classes, group projects, late-night study sessions that turned into drunken confessions. He's always had a weakness for anything that gives him an adrenaline rush. But I never thought he'd get himself this deep.

I knock on his door. Wait. Knock harder.

Nothing.

"Griffin?" I call out, pressing my ear against the door. The silence on the other side feels wrong.

I slide my key—the one he gave me "for emergencies" after I helped him home from the hospital that time—into the lock. It clicks open, and I step inside.

The apartment feels...hollow. The furniture is still there—couch, TV, coffee table—but the framed vintage movie posters that usually line the walls are gone. So are the shelves of vinyl records he prides himself on. My footsteps echo against hardwood floors as I move deeper inside.

"Griffin?"

His bedroom door stands ajar. I push it open to find the closet emptied, hangers dangling like skeletons. The bathroom: toothbrush gone, expensive hair products missing. A half-empty bottle of cologne sits abandoned on the counter—the cheap one he never liked.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I pull out my phone, dialing his number. It rings once, twice, then straight to voicemail. His cheerful voice echoes in my ear. "You know what to do!"

I try again. Same result.

A throbbing starts behind my temples as I sink down onto his stripped bed. This doesn't make sense. Griffin wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me. Not when he knows I'd worry.

Unless...

A chill slides down my spine. I scroll through my phone, dialing the number of the bar where he tends to hang out—Milagro's on West End.

"Hey, this is Kendra. Griffin's friend? Have you seen him tonight? Or this week?" I ask when someone finally answers.

"Griffin? Nah, he hasn't been in for...damn, at least a few days now."

A few days. Probably since Armando came to visit him.

"Thanks," I mumble, ending the call.

I try another friend, then another. Same story. No one's seen him. No one's heard from him since I last did.

My fingers hover over Skye's name in my contacts. She might know something through Luca. But the thought of admitting I've been played makes bile rise in my throat.

Instead, I stand up and walk back to the living room, stopping at the kitchen counter. That's when I see it—a stack of mail. Right on top is a postcard. A glossy shot of Miami Beach, the colors so vivid they hurt my eyes. Something pushes me to turn it over.

Sorry, K. Had to bounce. Take care of yourself. —G

Bounce. Take care of yourself. As if I haven't spent the last six years doing exactly that for him—picking him up, dusting him off, making sure he doesn't self-destruct. I thought we were close, the best of friends, and instead, he's just left me behind like I'm nothing to clean up his mess.

The anger comes suddenly, burning through my chest and up my throat until I can taste it, metallic and hot. I slam the postcard down on the counter.

"You selfish bastard!"

My voice echoes through the empty apartment. Empty like the promises Griffin made, empty like the friendship I thought we had. He knew about his debts. He knew what would happen if he didn't pay. And instead of facing it, he ran—leaving me here holding the bag.

And what a bag it is. I've tied myself to Enzo Rossi, a man who makes my skin prickle with equal parts fear and something I refuse to name. All for someone who couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye to my face.

I sink onto a barstool, burying my face in my hands. I don't know what's worse—the anger or the humiliation. I've always been the smart one, the one who sees the angles, who doesn't get taken for a ride. Yet here I am, played like the world's biggest fool.

I sold myself to Hades to save someone who abandoned me the second he could.

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