Page 77 of Savage Vows
“Do you like it?” I ask, hands in my pockets.
She looks over her shoulder, trying for a smile. “I do. Very…bachelor pad.” She moves toward the window, fingers trailing over the back of the couch.
I close the door behind me. She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, without turning, “About what you said to your father back there…”
I keep my gaze on the city, not ready for this. “Which part?”
She shifts, watching me in the reflection. “About why we’re here. Your father said something about love?—”
I cut her off. “He was just trying to get under your skin. And mine.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “I don’t love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.”
She nods, looking away, hands twisting in her sleeves. “Right. I get it,” she says, soft, her voice a little unsteady. She doesn’t meet my eyes. For a moment, her shoulders seem to fold in on themselves, and the hurt settles over her like a shadow—quiet, proud, but unmistakable.
I stand there, not sure what else to say, the silence thick between us. The city glows outside, restless and alive, and all the things I didn’t say hang in the air—things I can’t let myself feel, even if part of me already does.
21
ADRIANA
Of coursehe doesn’t love me.
Why did I ever let myself imagine he might?
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingertips pressed to the cool glass. Same eyes, same hair, same pale scar along my collarbone—nothing looks different, yet everything feels stripped bare. I touch my lips and remember the way he kissed me in the rain, how certain his mouth felt against mine. How certain his words felt afterward.
I don’t love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.
The apartment behind me is still half-unpacked. A single suitcase in the corner, one of his black suit jackets draped over a barstool, take-out napkins folded beside half-read shipping manifests. I told myself that once we moved here, I’d feel less like an intruder, but the space still belongs to him—high ceilings, dark floors, cold modern lines. I move through it like a ghost, touching nothing for fear of breaking the sleek silence he built around his life.
We share the same king-size bed—out of practicality, not warmth. He sleeps on the left, I take the right. A gulf of untouched sheets stays between us. Sometimes, in the small hours, I lie awake listening to the city hum below and wonder if he’s awake too. I never ask. He never turns over.
During the day, he works—meetings, phone calls, hushed conversations on the balcony while I pretend not to listen. I wander the apartment, flip through art books, brew coffee I don’t finish. I’ve started counting the cracks in the concrete ceiling above the bed (thirty-six) and the number of cars that honk on the avenue between midnight and one a.m. (anywhere from five to twelve, depending on rain). It’s a small routine, but it keeps the hours moving.
He stands in the doorway before dawn, jacket half-buttoned, tie hanging loose. “I’ll be gone most of the day,” he says. His eyes are rimmed red from lack of sleep, but his voice is steady. I almost reach out—almost ask him to stay—but the words die.
He leaves, soft shoes on concrete, a quiet click of the front door. When the apartment settles into stillness I carry my laptop to the wide kitchen island. The marble counter feels chilly beneath my forearms, but the hush of the space lets my thoughts line up in a way they never do when he’s near.
I start with what Bella told me. Two girls, Anya and Samie, disappeared after one night at Portello. Both of them appeared for a fleeting moment in other people’s Instagram stories, laughing under the colored lights, and then they were gone. Bella’s research ended there because most of the accounts were private and the rest had already been buried under fresh party content. She warned me that Samie had a boyfriend, a young dealer who sometimes ran errands for the Romanovs. That single lead keeps tugging at me like thread caught in a doorway.
I create a new Instagram account, complete with an innocuous profile picture—a latte art heart—and no posts. It takes a moment of scrolling through Portello’s location tag before I find Liza, the only one of Samie’s friends who still leaves her page open.
I type slowly, trying to sound like someone who once orbited their circle without alarming her:Hey, Liza. We met at Portello last spring—I was with Dani and the group from Kirov. I lost touch with Samie after that night. Do you know if she’s okay? I keep thinking about her.
I read it twice, decide it feels harmless, and press send. The message hovers in my mind like a held breath.
For a while the apartment is quiet except for the low rumble of traffic ten stories down. I don’t expect Liza to answer quickly, or maybe even at all.
But twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a reply.
Hey! Wow, that was forever ago. I haven’t heard from Samie in months. I think she left with that guy she was seeing? No one really liked him. Dealer type, always hanging around the Russian tables. I think his name was Mik or Misha or something. Last name was Reznikov, I think. Sorry I can’t help more. :/
A second bubble pops up almost immediately.
If you find her, tell her to call home. Her mom’s a wreck.
After I thank Liza for replying, I sit back for a moment, letting the information settle. A name—Mik Reznikov. A dealer, always seen with Samie. It’s the first real thread I’ve had since Bella handed me those screenshots.
I open Signal and scroll through my contacts until I find Alex’s number. He was my colleague at the paper before he moved to New York, but we kept in touch throughout the years.
