Page 5 of Savage Vows
Up close, he’s even more striking—those pale blue eyes cool and unreadable, dark hair catching hints of gold in the club’s shifting lights, jaw tight with purpose. For a second, I think he might stop, but he just passes by, barely glancing in my direction.
The air changes as he goes. My pulse stutters in my throat, heat rising to my cheeks as his cologne, subtle and expensive, drifts in his wake. I stand completely still, breath caught, only realizinghow tense I am once he’s a few steps past. The pressure in my chest finally eases, and I release a shaky breath.
I glance back at the lounge door, willing my focus to return, but suddenly everything is different. The laughter is gone. The muffled voices I’ve been tracking for the last fifteen minutes have disappeared, swallowed up by the thumping bass below. I shift closer, tilting my head, trying to catch a single word from Julie or Serrano. Nothing but silence.
I fumble for my phone, double-check the feed. The audio is dead, the waveform flat and empty.
A cold, tight feeling settles in my stomach.
Something’s wrong.
I tap the screen again, then twice more, but the feed stays blank. No voices. No signal. Just the dull rumble of bass bleeding through the floor and the occasional clatter of glasses from downstairs.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Julie was supposed to keep him talking. She was supposed to ease into it, stretch the conversation just long enough for Serrano to let something useful slip. The lounge was chosen for its thin walls, the acoustics, the way we could catch sound even from outside the door. We tested it. We rehearsed it. Nothing about this silence makes sense.
I glance toward the stairwell. The man in the suit is gone. No trace of him. The hallway feels emptier without him, but not safer.
I press my ear to the lounge door. Nothing.
I try the handle, slow and careful. It doesn’t move.
Locked.
I back up a step, weighing options I don’t like. I could try circling to the other side of the upper floor, maybe get into the utility room behind the wall. But that takes time. Time I’m not sure Julie has if something’s happened.
I pull out my second phone. It’s a cheap burner, untraceable. We agreed—no calling or texting unless it was urgent. But I dial anyway.
The line clicks once, then goes to voicemail.
I try again.
Still nothing.
Panic creeps up the back of my throat. Not the loud kind, not the type that makes you scream or run. It’s colder than that. Sharper. A quiet certainty that something has veered off track and there’s no map left to follow.
I look down the hallway again. The bouncer is gone.
Then I hear it.
A thump.
Not loud. Not frantic. But enough to turn the cold in my chest into something heavier.
I slip the phone back into my coat and reach for the pin at my collar, flipping it sideways to activate the emergency record. My fingers tremble slightly. Whatever’s happening in that room, Ineed to see it. And if I can’t hear Julie anymore, that means I’m done listening.
I back away from the lounge door, heart pounding a little faster now, but my steps are careful. I retrace the hallway toward the supply closet, scan the ceiling, the vents, the thin sliver of shadow between the plaster and the ductwork. There has to be another way in.
The layout flashes through my mind again. We studied it for days. Behind the lounge, there’s a narrow corridor meant for staff and storage—low ceilings, utility pipes, and a maintenance hatch that opens into the side wall of the private room.
I slip into the closet, closing the door behind me.
The smell of bleach hits immediately. Harsh and familiar. The kind that clings to your clothes. I flick on the light and find a rusted metal step stool in the corner, then drag it beneath the access hatch with shaking hands. My boots creak faintly as I climb up. The hatch isn’t locked, just sealed with a latch, and it takes a careful twist to pop it loose without making too much noise.
The panel shifts open with a low groan. Dust rains down, and I pull myself up.
