Vow of Hell by Clara Elroy

Saint

“And finally, the FTC ruled that our ads are misleading.” Carson, our senior marketing advisor, a middle-aged man with a beer belly, stretching his suit, skimmed through the notes on his iPad.

“Which ads?” my father asked, on it like an angry Rottweiler.

Safe to say, he didn’t have the best relationship with the Federal Trade Commission over the years. He was mystified as to why they wouldn’t just bend over backward and showcase their assholes for a good fucking like his mistresses did.

I pulled my gaze from the purple and pink skyline beyond the skyscraper’s glass windows and focused on the matter at hand. The sooner we were done with this meeting, the sooner I could get the hell out of here. It was nearing dinner time, and I’d skipped lunch.

Tapping my fingers on the clear conference table, I settled back on my spinning chair and stared at the image showcased on the TV across from me.

“The Renaissance painting inspired ones,” Carson explained, motioning to the text below the picture of a ginger model, featured stitching the handle of a handbag. “A needle and infinite patience protect each stitch from the wear of time. With so much attention bestowed on every product, should we only call them details?”

My scoff cut off anything else he intended to say, and the room of about four men and two women turned to me when Noah addressed me with a question.

“Do you have something to say, Saint?”

“Only that you cannot get away with lying now as easily as you could twenty years ago. Advertising watchdogs have become more vicious than ever.”

His lips cracked when he plastered a plastic smile on. “Where’s the lie? We put an enormous amount of attention into every product we release.”

I laced my fingers in front of me, glancing at him on my left side. If only I had a picture of his face when he entered the room and saw me sitting at the head of the table, I would stare at it daily.

“In the design aspect of it, sure. But people could not possibly believe that the highest-grossing luxury brand ever handmakes everything. We live in the age of mass production. If that was the case, we wouldn’t have any products to sell.”

“The consumer’s reality is whatever we make it. To a certain extent, our products are made by hand.” He dismissed my claims.

“Then why don’t we divulge how much is made by hand? That should disprove their claims.” I checkmated him, causing the purple veins in his hollow cheeks to deepen in color.

“You know we can’t do that.”

“He’s right, we can’t.” Hunter Connolly, my father’s favorite subject and biggest ass kisser, spoke up. “But we can argue that the use of hand sewing machines is part of what would be expected to amount to “handmade” in the 21st century.”

“That sounds like a good idea, Hunter.” Father, of course, agreed.

“It sounds like a stupid idea.” I countered, causing Hunter’s pale face to twist in distaste. “The public will interpret the image of a woman using a needle and thread alongside the claim "infinite patience protects each stitch" to mean that the bags are hand-stitched.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Hunter knocked the ball on my counter, running his hand through the wispy brown hair on his mostly bald head, confident he had this argument in the bag.

“Pull the ads and make new ones. We can’t release the evidence that demonstrates the extent to which Falco products are made by hand, and you know they’re going to ask for them.”

“We can’t do that. That would mean admitting defeat.” Dad sputtered like a headless chicken.

“You’re going to lose the dispute anyway without sufficient proof and bring more attention to us that way.” I could smell the headlines already. “Whereas if we roll with it and acknowledge the claims without projecting them to the world, this can go under the radar without being picked up by every major self-proclaimed fashion expert out there.”

Hunter tsked, crossing his arms, his whole body turned in dad’s direction, even though he was addressing me. “Rule number one in marketing is that there is no such thing as bad publicity. Sure, it will get us some negative traction in the high fashion social circles, but all will be forgotten the next time Vittoria Birmingham starves her models for one of her runway shows. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. If anything, I guarantee you it will get us more sales because of the free publicity.”

“It would also lose us loyal customers and credibility, which is what matters most for longevity. When someone is paying more than three thousand dollars for a handbag, they expect quality, even if that means the blood, sweat, and tears of some poor artisan in Mumbai.”

My statement made everyone’s eyes widen like they were hearing this for the first time. They weren’t. They simply chose to ignore the facts so they could hold on to their designer bags.

“What do you pass us for Zara?” Hunter asked, affronted.

As if.

Fast fashion brands weren’t the only ones quietly using employees from third world countries for their goods while offering little in the way of employment protection and compensation.

One of my first acts, when I started working at Falco, was to get us to sign a compliance project with other luxury brands to ensure factory safety for our workers, still unregulated facilities were not a thing of the past.

I had a reply on the tip of my tongue, and dad rushed to speak over me just so I wouldn’t make things worse. My differences with Hunter tended to stretch these already useless meetings longer than necessary.

“Anyway, I think Hunter’s idea is the best, so we’re going with that. That will be all for today, gentlemen—”

Slamming the case of my tablet shut, I sliced through my father’s words with a dismissing knife. “You can go now. This meeting is being postponed until tomorrow.”

People’s groans were inaudible. Problem-solving gatherings were no one’s favorite, mostly because of the constant clashing of opinions. They all left, causing my father’s face to sour at the easy abandonment.

“What did you say that for?” He snapped at me as soon as we were left alone.

“I think you’re forgetting that you’re not in charge anymore.” I crossed my arms and legs, meeting his stare head-on. “And I really don’t appreciate your patronizing tone.”

“You don’t possibly believe that you can work this all out by yourself, do you? You need someone to guide you through the process, and I have over forty years of experience on you, boy.”

Except, I didn’t want this to work.

Well, not the way my father originally intended to, anyway.

I put some thought into my original assessment and concluded that the complete dissolution of Falco was not the right way to hurt my father. It would devastate him, don’t get me wrong, but I couldn’t put everyone else’s lives on the line just because we were in a dick measuring competition.

So, instead, I’d target his policies, completely overthrow his marketing techniques, basically shit all over his legacy until no one remembered who he was. Make Noah Astor blend into the background like he loathed.

“Haven’t you gotten tired after all this time? I mean, forty years of acting like a tyrant and ruling with an iron fist must’ve taken its toll.” I didn’t feed into his hysterics, eager to leave, and shrugged my abandoned suit jacket on.

“If you want to be successful, you’ll have to be willing to put in the work. Who cares what people label you as? They always have something to say for the ones at the top, that’s why they’re at the bottom.” Father groused.

“Look at the bright side; you could become a motivational speaker,”—since you’re so good at spewing bullshit—“but you’ll need to research your quotes more. I imagine you’d be chased with tomatoes if you hit them with the ‘It’s lonely at the top, that’s why a Lamborghini has two seats and a bus has fifty,’ next.”

His face twisted in a mean snare that reminded me of a constipated otter. “What do you want from me, Saint?”

“Absolutely nothing.” I got on my feet. “I’m letting you stay until my wedding day to help smooth out things with the merger, but after that, you’re done, old man.”

“Done?” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t throw me out like that, I’ve worked my ass off for this company, and I deserve to leave with dignity.”

“Then don’t make this harder than it needs to be. December first, you’re out.” I gave him a final look. “Consider it forced retirement. Take mom on a cruise, go visit Scotland like she always wanted to. She’s your wife, in case you’ve forgotten, not this fucking company.”

“And let Darian Fleur take over everything I’ve worked for all these years?” He hissed, crashing his fist on the table. “You know he’s filling Ariadne’s shoes, right?”

I knew. Ariadne was going to be a silent partner, and I was more than okay with that. I had to live with her at home. I didn’t need her at my place of work too.

“You should’ve considered the risks before serving me with the merger papers and shoving her down my throat.” I shrugged, turning to leave. “Oh, and by the way, I had Yelena move your stuff to your temporary office on the second floor.”

The conference room door slammed shut behind me as soon as the last word escaped my mouth, muffling roar that brought a smile to my face.

“Saint!”

It didn’t take him long to follow. I greeted some employees as he stewed behind me, and stopped short as I was nearing my office, a strained laugh catching my attention.

I didn't pay my father any mind when he crushed against my back, feasting my eyes on Ariadne, donned in a beige babydoll dress, and sexy as sin thigh-high leather heels that I found myself dreaming of unzipping with my teeth. My pulse raced faster when I saw that she was talking to Jane from HR—who I might've bumped uglies with once or twice in the past.

“Saint, our conversation—” My dad continued, oblivious to anything else but his wants.

“Is postponed indefinitely.” I cut him off, rushing to the two women.

Jane was a deep-skinned woman, with an afro that made her at least three heads taller than Ariadne alone. Even with the height difference, Spitfire held her own. Her chin was set at a sixty-degree angle, eyes emotionless as she listened to whatever Jane was saying.

“Sweetheart,” the sound of my voice made them both jump. “What are you doing here?”

Jane spun my way, a dazed smile lighting up her face, but I was looking at Ari’s whose eyes clung to me like they were trying to peel away a layer of my skin.

“I was on the road, and thought I’d stop by so we could have dinner together.” She held up a Panda Express bag in one hand, and I unloaded her. “You’ve been working so much, I felt bad.”

“You should take breaks more often, Saint, it’s not good to tire yourself out like this.” Jane popped in, causing Ari’s hands to morph into tiny fists.

“Yes, now he’s going to take one with me. It was good meeting you, Jane.” Spitfire showed her teeth, fisting the back of my suit, ready to usher me inside my office.

“Likewise, Ariadne.”

I wondered if I had two cats instead of dogs if they would act the same way these two were doing right now. And then they said only men had pissing matches.

Loosening my tie, I acknowledged Jane with a simple nod and turned us both around before they resorted to hair pulling. Not that we’d have much privacy in the glass cubicle, but at least there’d be a barrier between them.

“What are you really doing outside of my office, Spitfire?” I asked, settling her chair sideways in front of my desk, and grabbed the one opposite hers.

“Technically, it’s my office too. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours, right?” She crossed her legs and spared me the trouble of removing my gaze from them as she took out the takeout boxes.

Heels were sexy, but thigh-high ones?

They could lead you to an early grave with a hard-on.

“Annoying me is the answer you’re looking for,” I said under my breath, taking the food from her hands.

Ari’s eyes narrowed, and she stabbed her noodles unnecessarily hard. “You’re one ungrateful bastard, but I guess it’s my mistake for trying to do something nice.”

“Never asked you to,” I shrugged, popping a piece of chicken in my mouth.

When she heaved a frustrated breath, my jaw tightened at the weird lump in my throat. Was I being a bigger dick than usual? Yes. Did she deserve it? Also, yes. So why the fuck did I find myself not wanting to disappoint her?

It was that nightie that she wore last night and her outfit today.

Ariadne wasn’t model beautiful, certainly not swan-like and delicate like Eliana, or had an imposing presence like Jane. No, she sucker-punched you in the gut with her colorful palette, huge brown eyes with heavy lashes, and dark hair that would contrast perfectly against silk white pillows.

You couldn’t ignore her presence or place her in a box because she didn’t fit in any of them. Ariadne Fleur was in her own league, and I was fucking stupid for wanting to join. Maybe it was just an infatuation. I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t get to have a girl I wanted.

Self-imposed sanctions were a thing of the present.

“Thank you.” I managed to work around a bite. “Now, answer my question, truthfully.”

“I want to get to know my fiancé better. This will never work if we keep fighting each other. People will see past our bullshit with little effort.”

“And are we fooling anyone specific?”

“My grandparents from my mom’s side, we’re celebrating thanksgiving together.” Aria gave me a venomous smile. “My grandpa is a butcher, and he’s not afraid to use his knives.”

“I see where you get your fire from.”

“I wouldn’t use a butcher knife on you.” She put a hand to her chest. “I’d go for something more inconspicuous, like untraceable drugs.”

“Good to know you’ve put some thought into this. I should probably inform my family that they should suspect you if I’m found dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Rolling her eyes in good humor, she twisted the noodles around her fork and stuffed her mouth. My dick stirred in my pants, and I averted my eyes.

This was heading south quick—literally and figuratively. It was one thing masturbating after our fight last night but getting hard because of the way she ate was fucking unacceptable. I was acting like a teenager with no experience.

I needed to get laid ASAP. Who knew? This time could be different with all this pent up sexual tension I was carrying.

“Alright, I have some questions.” Aria cut off the mental list of available girls I had on my phone who I trusted would sign an NDA if served with one.

“Shoot.”

“Favorite color?”

I gave her a look that said she couldn’t be serious. We weren’t going to play twenty questions with her grandparents. She shot one back that had me swallowing my tongue.

“Blue.”

“Mine’s pink.”

“Look at us. We’re walking cliches.” I deadpanned.

Her chatter grew comforting as we ate. I told her about my first job at MacDonald’s (courtesy of my father, who wanted me to know how money was earned), and watched her eyes widen in horror when I rehashed the story about how the girl, who was in charge of the fries, got third-degree burns. Someone rushing down the aisle hit her in the back accidentally, causing her glasses to launch off her face and plop into the fry grease. Nonchalantly, she thrust her hand into the boiling fry grease to retrieve her glasses. A second later, she withdrew what looked and smelled like a cooked hand.

“Did she at least get her glasses?”

I shook my head. “No, they were made of plastic.”

I reached the bottom of my Styrofoam container way faster than I thought, having to balance answering her questions, and eating. When I did my stomach was close to bursting. Not close enough, though, seeing as I all but scarfed down the Chinese sesame balls, Aria handed me over when I was done.

“What about pet peeves?” She continued.

“I hate loud chewing, breathing… anything loud in general.”

Sudden smacking or popping sounds reminded me of the last time I was in the field.

“Do you have misophonia? My grandparents can get very loud.”

“People should come with warning labels,” I groaned. I already knew her whole family was loud and dramatic if Lydia Fleur was anything to go by.

“Well, what would your warning label say?” She dished back as if knowing where my thoughts had gone.

I didn’t have to think too hard about it and replied with a smirk. “Caution: may cause pregnancy.”

She choked on a ball. “You’re so damn cocky.”

“Hey, women have actually tried to steal my sperm before.”

“Oh my god, how?” Second choke.

“You don’t want to know.” I handed her a water bottle. “What would yours say?” I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea.

“Highly addictive.”

She sure was, to the point, I wished she was shoving different balls down her throat and licking white honey off her fingers.

“I think flammable would be more accurate.” I stretched my legs to relieve the ache in my groin.

“No one asked for your opinion. Okay, last question for tonight; favorite childhood memory?”

Well, if that didn’t clear the lust-filled smog around my brain, I didn’t know what would. I had a cushy childhood, but I also wasn’t farting rainbows. I had a ton of good moments—mostly with Killian, not nearly enough to overshadow the bad. My father was neurotic as ever, ruining every achievement with his perfectionism, and mom was the polar opposite. She didn’t care what we did as long as we didn’t bother her.

“You go first,” I said as I dumped the now-empty boxes back into the brown paper bag.

“Hmm…” She pondered over it, her eyes lighting up with a newfound fondness. “When I was little, my mom was having an all grown-ups party, and all my cousins and I did was run around, hide under tables, play tag, etcetera.” Aria made a dismissing motion. “Of course, she got mad that we wouldn’t sit still for a single second, so they banished us outside, and we all sat down on top of a hill and talked. Then after a while, when she came out to check on us and saw us, she declared, ‘that’s not how you play!’, and barrel-rolled down the hill, in front of half her guests.”

“I know it might sound stupid, compared to all the Amalfi coast boat rides, and Paris trips. Being carefree has always been my biggest weakness, though, and I’m sad I didn’t take more from my mom on that aspect.” Her slender throat bobbed with a swallow as she let out a nervous laugh, searching my face for any kind of reaction.

Whatever she found wasn’t what she was looking for because her smile dropped.

I was jealous.

I was jealous she had something I didn’t have, and never would.

A happy family.

“Are you sure you should be telling me your biggest weakness?” I leaned forward, probing her fragile trust.

“Would you use it against me?” Aria raised a disbelieving brow, crossing her arms. I was proud of myself for holding her gaze.

“It depends. Are you just trying to get on my good graces so I can talk to Ares about Larson? Because that’s still not happening.” I drawled, choosing ruin to avoid turning the evening even bleaker.

I couldn’t think of a single happy memory that wasn’t destroyed, later on, one way or another. Be it catching my mother sneaking around with the gardener, or overhearing dad on the phone with one of his mistresses, ordering her to get an abortion. The irony was that he claimed to be pro-life. To me, it seemed more like he was more pro-controlling women.

Heat rose up my spine when her eyes sparked immediately, and she pointed a manicured finger at me. “You’re such a hypocrite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to know what story your little friend Jane was rehashing before you walked in?” The question was rhetorical, and she paused for dramatic effect. “She was telling me all about your business trip in Milan and how the hotel had miraculously made the mistake of booking only one suite. I don’t suppose you took the couch.” Her voice held a nasally quality, imitating Jane’s baby voice.

“That was years ago.” I retorted, eerily calm.

“She’s still hung up on you, and you’re working with her, but you don’t see me throwing fits because of it, even though she was undoubtedly rude.”

No, she wasn’t.

A cool settled over her like a protective layer as she dabbed her lips with a napkin before retrieving a red lipstick from her bag, painting her ample lips scarlet as if we were discussing the weather, and popping in a mint.

“Our situations are very different because I couldn’t give a rat's ass about her.”

Whereas you’d bleed on the side of the road for your loser ex.

To the employees outside that were surely trying to peak at their new bosses, it looked like we were having a normal conversation after finishing our food. They couldn’t detect the silent anger and disappointment pouring out of us in waves.

I hadn’t predicted such a tranquil reaction from Spitfire, but this time the burn was contained in her eyes when she also leaned forward, our faces inches apart.

“What are you doing?” I couldn’t help the dive of my eyes to her perfect rosebud mouth, breathing fresh air to my face.

“Sending a message.”

She elaborated further by breaching the gap between us and pressing her lips on mine, in a sweet peck that had molten lava swirling in my gut and stirring the beast in my pants.

I hated the jealous kind. The clingy ones that went apeshit after no promises were made, but apparently, the same rules didn’t apply to Ariadne. She was like an autonomous community, trying to break away from the norm and succeeding by finding the chips in my armor.

Good food, and a body made for sin.

I returned the kiss, splitting her legs so my thighs nestled between hers, and let her set the pace. It was slow and torturous. I was hyper-aware of all parts of her. Those taunting fingers, toying with my scruff, her nails biting slightly in my skin. Her mouth clinging to mine like a sponge as she slipped her tongue inside leisurely like she wanted to enjoy the ride and not rush to the gold instantly.

She was decadent in her exploration. Licked, sucked, nipped, and soothed the sting of her teeth by lapping up my lips like I was a wounded animal in need of tending. And fuck if I wouldn’t play dead for her open-mouthed kisses. There was an inherent innocence behind Ariadne’s every move that craved to be corrupted.

With one last tug of my lower lip that had the back of my throat vibrating with unparalleled lust, she pulled back, resting her forehead to mine, both of us dry-heaving like we’d run a marathon.

If only a kiss from her had me—a thirty-year-old man—melting in a pile of hormones, then I couldn’t fucking imagine what getting in between her legs would be like. We humans surely loved the forbidden, whatever you couldn’t have, tasted sweeter when you found a way to eat at the edges. But with Ariadne, I found myself wanting to taste more than just the surface level of what she had to offer.

And wasn't that a fucking swerve from my original plan?

“Jane can keep her job. I’m not feeling like ruining a pick me girl’s life, she’ll do that all by herself eventually, but do me a favor? Don’t look into a mirror before you leave here.”

“Two things; one, what’s a pick me, girl? And two, why the fuck not?”

Done with the physical contact, she leaned back into her chair again, a drunk haze in her eyes. I didn’t let go of her completely, trapping her legs with mine.

“Google it, golden boy,” Aria said as she left my legs cold too, getting on her feet. I arched my neck back, catching a vixen smirk on her face. “Because I like my mark on you.”

Her words fleeted through my ears as she winked and strutted out of the office in those fucking boots I’d most probably have dreams about. My chest squeezed with the effort it took not to follow, bend her over, and take her from behind while the whole floor watched open-mouthed.

Rules.

We needed ground rules.