Vow of Hell by Clara Elroy

Ariadne

“Ihad a dream last night.” Was the first thing my sister said after I picked up and set her on speaker.

I lived out my dream last night.

I almost answered with that, and the unexpected turn of my brain had me pricking my finger while hand-pinning some flower motifs on the bodice of my launch dress. It was a month away, and I had to pull some all-nighters and drink copious amounts of Red Bull to make it on time.

I was a master procrastinator with a short attention span, and the nasty words Saint had whispered in my ear last night didn’t help me out one bit today. He was so attentive and cradled me with gentleness and wanton desire I didn’t expect from him. Although we didn’t spend the night in the same bed, he drove to the pharmacy, got me my no-babies before I’m thirty pill, and kissed me goodnight, stretching out the connection long enough to make me want to pull him back down again. I would've if my body didn't need a break.

Having sex with Saint Astor was exhausting. I was sore all over, buzzing like a harp that had gotten all its strings tugged. Some parts hurt more than others, but the pain was as delicious as it was bothersome. Probably feeling bad for the workout he put me through yesterday, I’d found an Advil and a bottle of water on my nightstand when I woke up.

“Will you tell me what it was about, or are you going to leave me hanging?” I asked, licking the blood off my finger, and continuing with the meticulous work that ensued. I didn’t like this part of bringing something to life, worsening your eyesight just to make sure everything was evenly placed.

“You lost your V-card, didn’t you?

Another prick and I decided to stick my pins in the cushion for the remainder of this unpredictable phone call. Abandoning the mannequin, I settled against the window, staring at the sunlight weaving its way past the branches, and brought the speaker closer to my mouth.

“Wha—” I cut myself off. “Don’t tell me that’s what you dreamt of.”

“Did you?” Ina pressed, and my silence spoke enough for me. “Oh my god, you totally did, you whore.”

“Irena!”

“Oh, you know it’s a term of endearment.” She scoffed. “I want to know everything. Did it hurt? Was there blood? Did you come? How many times did you come if you came?” She spewed out a tongue twister that I could tell, confused even herself, seeing as she repeated the last sentence a few times over the static of the phone.

"Why should I tell you anything when you don't?"

“Ugh, don’t make me drive there. I just got my license, and you know damn well I’m not afraid to use it.”

“You’re not, but the drivers on the road will be when you start swerving in and out of traffic. I lost count. You got it on your sixth try, right?” I teased.

“Fourth. Okay? It was the fourth, and it’s not my fault the world is not ready for my Vin Diesel level of awesomeness.”

“Toretto would kick you off his team in zero point two seconds.”

“Says you the miss with the dusty, crusty hundred-year-old Prius. You have billboards up on Sunset Strip and Piccadilly Circus. My ice-skating friends sent me real-life pictures of them standing under your half-naked picture. It’s time for an upgrade, sissy.” Irena had friends spread all over the world from the competitions she attended. I knew a few, I'd never heard of one in California, though.

“Which ice-skating friend lives in Cali?” My brows knotted. “And also my Prius does its job just fine, thank you very much. It drives me from point A to point B, safe and sound.”

“A bus can do that too, yet I don’t see you hopping in one.”

“God, I’ve left you alone with mom for far too long. You’re starting to sound like her.”

Meaning she had a response for everything. Irena had a razor-sharp mind and mouth. She could figure out what made someone tick in under five seconds.

“Are you accusing me of being unnecessarily sarcastic and remarkably witty? Because that sounds like a win to me.” She snickered. “Do you know who you remind me of?”

“Who?” I bit the bullet.

“Grandma Chloe,” she said, and any trace of humor wiped off my face. “Before you freak, you remind me of her in a way that both of you are super secretive and masters at changing the subject whenever you’re pressed on a topic. Now spill, Ariadne. I need to know all the details.”

Secretive.

Her voice was light and airy, with a hint of frustration eating at the edges. We were all hiding the truth from Irena, the baby of the family, even though she acted anything but. I knew she would blow up on my behalf if I told her the truth and invited her over and she saw that my husband and I lived in entirely different parts of the house.

“I thought you already saw them in your dream.” I almost retched.

“I didn’t see you actually doing it, that would be hella incestuous and creepy as fuck.” She paused. “We gossiped about it. Dream Saint took you out on a picnic with chocolate-covered strawberries and all, made love to you while the sun was setting over the Atlantic.”

Dream Saint didn’t sound half-bad, a true romantic through and through, whereas Real Saint would more likely pour chocolate on me than feed me it and take his time licking me clean. I shivered at the idea, liking it more than I should, when an email notification spread over my screen, dousing any previous flowery thoughts away with a cold dose of reality.

“Tell you what, how about we go out for a walk at Bella’s Pier and grab some popcorn like we used to after you're done with skating. I’ll pick you up, and I promise I’ll give you the PG-13 version of the story, not going full throttle with R, though.”

The idea sounded appealing despite starting out as an excuse. My life was a revolving door consisting of Arachne, Saint, Harry, and keeping my family happy. I needed a break from getting hit on the face repeatedly.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Irena agreed, and I wrapped up the conversation with her, heading to my inbox with bated breath.

The encrypted email stared back at me like the answer to all my questions after browsing through enough questionable websites to put me on the FBI’s most-wanted list. When you primarily hung out with nerds throughout your life, it taught you a thing or two on how to browse the internet safely, and where to look to find services that fell under the morally ambiguous category by the US government, particularly on the middle-end of the web iceberg.

I pressed on the attachment present and was delighted to see all the proof I needed. A picture of Harry, in his apartment, filmed by his own cameras. A poison that came back to bite him in the ass. He was lounging on his bed, a new girl by his side that had my heart squeezing with worry. She probably thought he was charming and sweet and all the bullshit he presented himself as when you first met him.

He was going to do it again. I didn’t know in which other ways he was using this footage of girls he was collecting, but I was doubting it was only for money. He used it that way with me because he knew I had plenty. Not everyone was as blessed, though.

A current of determination ran through my veins. Harry wouldn’t get anything more from me other than a wiped hard drive and afterward, a trip to the local police department to rot inside a jail cell he was acquainted with already.

Pressing on my screen, I sent the deposit to the hacker I’d hired, who would take care of any leverage Harry had, which was required once I was convinced he was legit and prayed for the best.

* * *

Saint

“You have to take him back.”

My mother burst into my office without bothering to knock. Her hair was all over the place, as if she was so desperate she ran here. She was holding on to her white designer bag tight, like she was ready to throw it at me if I refused her.

I didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.

Smoothing a hand over my tie, I settled back on my seat, abandoning the report I was looking over. “Why did you marry him if you can’t stand him?”

Out of the two, Celia Astor was the better-looking one, the kinder one, and the one people actually gave a damn about. A beauty even in her late forties, with expressive blue eyes that reminded me of Killian.

“Because he was shoved down my throat by my parents like he did to you.” Sighing, she fixed her skirt and took a seat on a leather armchair. At least she was self-aware. “Take my advice and divorce that girl once the contract permits you. It’ll still be fairly easy to find another serious relationship at that age.”

That was the plan.

Aria was nothing like Noah. Placing them in the same wavelength was alien to me, so I wasn't worried she’d end up like a watered-down version of a Disney villain.

It wasn’t me I was worried about. Period.

If we decided to go two separate ways, and that was a very big possibility, it would work more to Ari’s advantage. She deserved a life of her own choosing.

So why did chugging a gallon of piss warm milk sound more appealing than not seeing my ring on Ari’s finger?

“Thank you for your unsolicited relationship advice mother, I think I’ll pass, seeing as you’re not in a position to hand it out.” Her eyes narrowed, but I kept going. “And to answer your request, no. It’s been blissful around here without him, and this merger is stressing me enough as it is.”

“He’s going on and on about how Darian is stealing his son and company away from him.” Mom’s eyes fleeted about the clinical space of my office, and out the hallway, hoping to catch a peek of my father-in-law.

Unease churned in my stomach at her old infatuation. I was dicking down his daughter less than twenty-four hours ago and couldn’t leave without dropping by her room today with the cheap excuse of getting her some painkillers.

She looked blissful in her sleep, lips slightly parted, producing soft exhales. I got the stupid urge to skip work while watching her, so I could wake her up with my head between her thighs. Edward Cullen would be proud.

“He’s delusional,” I said extra loud, snapping her attention back to me. “He handed everything over with his own two hands.”

“I guess he assumed you'd take his side and fire Darian. He doesn’t like him much, but he has always respected Chloe.”

Knowing my father, that didn’t sound too far-fetched. I had better things to do, though than psychoanalyze his behavior. Flipping through the files on my desk, solely to look busy, I cut my gaze to hers.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? I was in the middle of something.”

“Why do you hate your father so much, Saint? Has he done anything to you I don’t know about?” Mom’s eyes shone with crocodile tears. I’d seen her turn it on and off whenever she was desperate for something. “Have we done anything to both Killian and you to avoid us like the plague? He never stays at home when he visits.”

Projected your dreams and insecurities on us? Is that a good enough reason?

“He’s a teenager. Living with his parents is not his definition of cool,” I excused my brother. “Especially when one of them doesn’t even know what he’s majoring in.”

Being called out, put a pin to the waterworks, and she blinked at me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

I loved my mother, had a special place for her in my heart because I could see that she wasn’t well after years of emotional turmoil. Her heart was fragile by nature, but she relied too much on letting Dad take care of her problems, including us. She wasn't a bad mother. She cared for us, remembered our birthdays, bought us gifts, smacked me over the head the first day I got out of rehab, and was found black-out drunk on my bathroom floor. Yet those moments of clarity were rare and far between.

“I-I…” She stuttered before giving a definitive nod. “Of course I know.”

“Really? Refresh my memory then,” I challenged, spinning a pen with my fingers.

“Graphic Design,” she said after a few moments of stroking her chin in deliberation.

Not bad.

“Architecture,” I corrected.

“But he… he used to talk about graphic design all the time. I remember,” she remarked as if expecting a cookie for doing the bare minimum.

Stopping the pen mid-spin, I let the metal bite into my skin, calming down my inflamed thoughts. I was on a roll today it seemed, and mom was only throwing oil to the fire that already burned in the form of Ariadne’s steady presence in my brain.

I was annoyed at myself for losing control like I did. I never came inside a woman without a condom before. And I knew those Plan B pills had some nasty side effects. I fucked up royally, and the worse thing was part of me loved having that deeper connection with her.

“Dad deemed architecture a more appropriate field for Kill to pursue. And what Noah Astor wants, Noah Astor gets. Hence why we cannot work together if he keeps challenging my place of authority.”

She winced at my explanation, knowing full well that I was speaking the truth. Neither of us would back down—correction, I would rather shove a fork up my ass than make Noah happy. He deserved a dose of his own medicine, being controlled by someone else as opposed to having complete dominion. Watching your dreams wither away was a one-lane street to misery town.

A knock halted our conversation, and I waved my assistant in.

“Mr. Astor, this came in for you today.” She strutted over to my desk, dropping off the manilla folder I’d been dreading getting all week. I thanked her and rummaged through my drawers, shoving it deep into the last one, promising to take a look at it at the earliest convenience. Lying to yourself was inevitable when the probable outcome had your brain filling with all kinds of murderous scenarios.

Going to jail for patricide wasn't in my immediate plans.

“Look, Mom, if you’re miserable, you could always move out, go on a trip, hell even divorce him. Everyone can see that you two aren’t working, but you’re the only one who can do anything about it,” I told her when Cynthia left, unsure as to why I was bothering.

I'd played Mom's psychologist one too many times in the past. Talked to her for hours, but my words went in one ear and out the other.

“It’s not that easy. You wouldn’t understand, Saint.” She clutched her neck, blood-red nails popping against her ivory skin. “I’ll be branded as damaged goods, and people will start thinking there must be something wrong with me after three highly publicized failed relationships.”

Oh, I had an idea or two.

“They’ll prey on your weaknesses, so you never show any sign of them, isn’t that what you always taught us?”

“Precisely.” She nodded, remembering her ingenious words.

“And then you spend your whole life living for someone else,” I shot down her idea, but it was moot. The older we got, the chains around our souls became tighter, not allowing for us to see past the veil of our long list of experiences. “Anyway, this sounds like a problem you should discuss with your therapist. I need to finish up with this report. I have a date afterward.”

“Oh, anyone I know?” She perked up.

“I assume you’ve met my wife,” I said, my tone dry as a rice cake.

Our date wasn’t until tomorrow, but she didn’t need to know that.

She took me in with a flat expression. Her disapproval of Ariadne was obvious, even though Spitfire's only offense was being the byproduct of my mother's shattered juvenile crush. Celia Astor took petty and dumped it in a bucket chock-full of bitter.

“Don’t get too serious with her, Saint. The Fleurs are masters at manipulation.”

I smiled.

She clearly didn't know her own son.

“I’ll keep your words in mind, Mother.”