Bound By Vows

Chapter One – The Saboteur

“You’re late,” Aria Flint threw her hair over her shoulder, her eyes darting over to the diamond-faced watch strapped around her wrist. “I told you to come ten minutes earlier. I have a life too, you know.” She didn’t like latecomers.

The bride-to-be squirmed in her chair. “I couldn’t just…” Even though they were in an office, the woman kept looking around her. “...he watches everything I do.”

Aria smiled, a blade-thin smile designed to cut. “Then he’ll watch this. Trust me, sweetheart. By tomorrow morning, he’ll be the one begging you to leave.”

She leaned across her desk, sliding a sealed envelope toward the trembling woman. Inside were carefully staged photographs, which she had taken herself.

It was an artful arrangement of shadow and scandal, enough to cut any engagement. Aria’s work was never sloppy, and these photos with a blonde woman leaning too close to the husband to be, his eyes staring lustfully into her open cleavage, and also, the woman whispering something into the husband to be’s ear while her hand trailed down the man’s pants were incriminating enough.

Yes, Aria staged her photos, but the men were always easy to get.

“Show him,” Aria said softly. “Let him choke on his own hypocrisy. And when he asks how you knew, remember the first rule.”

The woman’s lips trembled. “You don’t exist.”

“Good girl.”

When the client scurried out, clutching the envelope like contraband, Aria leaned back in her chair, letting her heels slip from the desk to the floor. Her office was a one-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue where she also lived, and she took great pride in it.

There was warm lighting, books stacked neatly, and flowers arranged just so. “A relationship advisory firm,” the brass plaque outside read.

Nobody knew it was an execution chamber for love.

She allowed herself a sip of whiskey. The burn down her throat was a quiet reward. Another job finished, another contract fulfilled, and another reminder she was very, very good at destroying what people thought unbreakable.

A knock on her door had her frowning. Her last appointment for the day was gone, she set her glass down, already calculating if she’d have to grab the letter opener from her drawer.

The man who stepped inside wasn’t trembling like her clients usually were. He wasn’t desperate or broken or clinging to hope.

“I take it I’m in the right place?” The man arched an eyebrow and adjusted his sleeves.

He was tall, and broad-shouldered, in a navy suit that whispered of bespoke tailoring, he moved with the composure of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. His dark hair was slicked back with a few strands falling over his face.

She bit her lower lip and frowned as the thought of reaching out to pull them away from his face filled her mind.

“Aria Flint,” his grey eyes held her green ones.

“You’re trespassing,” she snapped, masking the sudden twist in her stomach with a glare. She loved the way he said her name. “This is private property.”

“On the contrary.” He stepped further into the office, uninvited, but moving as though the space belonged to him. “Your door was unlocked, and I must say it’s poor security for a woman who ruins lives for a living.”

Her pulse skipped but she forced a dry laugh. Her job wasn’t exactly legal. “You’ve done your research.” Was he a cop?

“I make it my business to.” His grey eyes swept the room and then settled back on her. “My name is Vincent Dorian.”

The name struck her like cold water. She knew this man. He’s the owner of Dorian Tech. The family with enough influence to crush her entire business with a single phone call.

She schooled her face into indifference even though she wanted to run the other way in case he came with a cop. “And? I don’t sell phones.”

That drew the faintest curve of a smile at his mouth. “You sell exits. Clean ones. And I have a client for you.”

“No.” She tried to think if she had broken up his engagement, but came up blank.

He arched his brow. “You haven’t even heard the case.”

“I don’t need to. My service is discreet. You being here? Not discreet.” She rose from her chair, walked toward the door, and pulled it open in invitation. “Goodnight, Mr. Dorian.”

But Vincent didn’t move. Sliding a leather folder onto her desk. She had not realised he’d been holding it. “I need your help. My brother is about to marry Lilth Bloom, and—”

I sighed, loudly. “Yeah, definitely no. Isn’t she like the influencer of the year or some s**t like that?”

“You didn’t even let me finish.” He ambled closer, and she found herself rooted to the spot. “I want you to destroy this wedding. It can’t happen.”

Aria stood up then, and made her way to the door. “You must be mad.” She pulled the door open, holding onto the doorknob.

Adrian Dorian, was the philanthropist and the darling of society pages, while Lilith Bloom was the influencer who had clawed her way to the top of New York’s social ladder. Aria had read about them, like everyone else. Golden boy and golden girl.

Vincent tilted his head. “Do I look like a man who’s mad?”

“No,” she admitted. “You look like a man who mistakes me for a mercenary. And I’m not.”

“Really?” He leaned against her desk, unbothered by her hostility. “Because every file I’ve seen says otherwise.”

Her heart gave a violent kick. He shouldn’t have files. Nobody had files on her.

“Whatever fantasy you’ve built in your head, Mr. Dorian, I don’t hire myself out to rich men with vendettas. You want to stop your brother from marrying a woman you don’t like? Call a therapist. Or a hitman. I only work closely with clients.”

“You think too small. This isn’t about dislike. It’s about survival. Lilith Bloom will ruin my brother, and by extension, my company. She’s not who she says she is. You can dig, and you will find rot. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

She swallowed hard. He wasn’t wrong. But still, Vincent Dorian was the wrong kind of client, what if things turned out badly, and she gained the wrong kind of publicity?

“You don’t hire me, Mr. Dorian,” Aria sneered, needing to end this, to shove him out of her world before he unspooled it thread by thread. “Besides, this reeks of a setup.”

For the first time, something like satisfaction appeared across his face. As if he’d been waiting for that exact response. Vincent straightened, reached into his coat, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to her. “Open it.”

With one hand still on the door, she took it. Then she held the door open with her foot and tore open the flap. Photographs fell to the floor. Her photographs.

Her last job, the bride in tears, the fiancé enraged, the hotel hallway where she had paid the blonde woman who was a hooker. There were even surveillance shots that no one should have had.

Her throat tightened. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

“You’ve been watching me?” She raised her eyes to meet him, her lower lip now trembling with fear. “What are you? A stalker?”

Vincent shrugged. “It’s either you work with me or go to prison. It’s your call, really.”