Page 2 of Savage Vows
Across the room, Julie has found him.
She’s leaning against the mirrored bar now, a stemmed cocktail in her hand, her posture relaxed but alert. The mark, Rafael Serrano—real estate mogul, political donor, and suspected human garbage—has sidled up beside her, grinning like a man who thinks he’s already won.
Good.
Julie’s hair is tucked behind one ear now—her signal to me that she’s made contact. Her laugh floats over the thump of the music as he says something, likely sleazy, possibly illegal.
She doesn’t flinch.
We planned this for weeks. A chance “run-in,” an easy flirtation. Serrano loves beautiful women who don’t ask too many questions.
Unfortunately for him, Julie isn’t here to ask. She’s here to listen.
And I’m here to record.
No one notices me in the corner booth. I’m just another face in the crowd, invisible in the haze, drink in hand, eyes on my phone.
But I’m watching. And I don’t miss the way Serrano’s hand brushes Julie’s waist as he leans in.
Careful, I think.
She knows what she’s doing. But if he touches her again, I may just break protocol.
I shift in my seat just enough to tilt the microphone clipped inside my jacket toward the bar. We tested it last week in a coffee shop full of screaming toddlers—it still caught every word. Tonight, with the music pulsing and voices bouncing off mirrors and glassware, I pray it’s still doing its job.
But I don’t just rely on the tech. I watch their mouths. I read their body language. And when Serrano leans in, elbow against the bar, eyes glued to Julie’s lips, I know he’s finally taken the bait.
“I know you,” he says, loud enough that even without the mic, I catch the words. “You’re the one from that gala, right? With the red dress.”
Julie lets out a soft laugh, playing coy. “Maybe. I go to a lot of galas.”
“You were hard to forget.”
She takes a sip of her drink, lets the silence stretch just a little too long before replying. “You’re flattering, Mr. Serrano.”
“Rafa,” he says quickly. “Call me Rafa. Anyone who makes me stop talking mid-speech is allowed to skip formalities.”
Julie touches his forearm, just a fingertip. “Mid-speech, huh? That’s a strong reaction.”
“Only when I’m surprised. And it’s not easy to surprise me.”
He’s leaning in too close now, blocking her in between his arm and the bar. She doesn’t pull away. She lowers her voice justenough that I can’t make out the words. I clench my jaw, but I stay put. This is what she’s trained for.
His answer is clearer. “That depends on the project. Some clients need the whole floor—discreet renovations, flexible schedules, cash options.”
Cash options.
There it is. The sweet spot. I lean forward slightly, pretending to check my phone while I tap the record button, just in case.
Julie tilts her head. “And the nonprofits?”
He pauses for half a beat too long.
“Separate arm of the business. Community engagement,” he says smoothly. “Donations, outreach. You know how it is. Appearances matter.”
My skin prickles. That’s the phrase we found in the emails.Appearances Matter.Always capitalized. A signal.
Julie plays it cool. “Of course. And do you handle that personally, or?—”
