Vow of Retribution

by Emma Renshaw

  Vow of Retribution

  Emma Renshaw

  Contents

  Vow of Retribution

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For More Info

  VOW OF RETRIBUTION

  EMMA RENSHAW

  Vow of Retribution

  Copyright © 2018 by Emma Renshaw. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Lisa LaPaglia

  Evident Ink

  www.evidentink.com

  Proofreader: Traci Finlay

  Traci Finlay

  www.tracifinlay.com

  Editor & Proofreader: Karen Boston

  Karen Boston Editing & Proofreading

  www.facebook.com/kbostonedit

  Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake

  Champagne Book Design

  www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  By Hang Le

  www.byhangle.com

  Cover Photo: Shutterstock

  Photographer: Halay Alex

  Photo ID: 492644236

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website: www.emmarenshaw.com

  Created with Vellum

  To my mom,

  Thank you for always being my first reader. When I declared at age seven I would be an author one day, I knew my first dedication would be to you. I couldn’t do this without you. I love you, Momma Mia Sopapilla!

  To my husband,

  You’re better than all my book boyfriends. I’d choose you every time. I love you endlessly.

  1

  SAVANNAH

  “I’m a partner at the largest financial firm in the city. Did I mention that?”

  Only about a thousand times. “Mmm-hm,” I reply, not that he needs any reply to continue the conversation.

  “Yes, it’s very prestigious. I’m the youngest partner at the firm. I rewarded myself with my dream car, an Aston Martin, when I received my last bonus check.”

  “Mmmm.” I’m not even pretending to listen anymore. The appetizers were just taken away from our table, and my date, Benjamin, has mentioned his net worth multiple times. I haven’t contributed to the conversation since the initial greeting.

  “I’m sure you don’t see that type of money in your line of work.”

  I roll my eyes, which he misses completely because he’s talking to my boobs.

  “Pretty thing like you? I’m sure you can find a husband who can provide.”

  “I wouldn’t leave my job,” I reply.

  “We’ll see about that. If you play your cards right, that man could be me.” He winks. I roll my eyes again. “This date is going so well, I think we may be seeing a lot more of each other. I would need anyone I’m with to be available to me. I often host dinner parties for partners at my firm.”

  “Do they even allow women to work at your office?”

  “My secretary is a woman,” he says, completely missing my sarcasm. He continues to drone on about how he’s so very important and loaded. Eye roll.

  I look around the dimly lit restaurant. The Italian bistro is cozy, warm, and romantic. This is my first time here, and I felt excited when I walked through the door. A perfect atmosphere for a first date. The exposed brick walls are the ideal backdrop for the tables covered in crisp white linens, and Edison bulbs hang in black metal pendants. Sensual, soft beats play over the speakers. Behind the large oak bar is an immense wine selection.

  I spot our waitress heading toward our table, and she catches my eye and smiles. I plead desperately with my eyes for her to save me. I know it’s ridiculous; she doesn’t know me. How would she even get me out of this awful date? She gives me a strange look as she approaches the table. I must look like a wild, caged animal. Wide, fearful, unblinking eyes.

  “Are you okay, miss?” she asks. Benjamin finally looks at my face.

  “Susanna?” he asks.

  “Ben, it’s Savannah, not Susanna,” I say with a sharp bite in my tone. I can feel my lip starting to curl in annoyance.

  “Don’t call me Ben. It’s Benjamin. I’m an important man. I don’t like nicknames.”

  He steamrolled me. He’s calling me by the wrong name, and has the audacity to correct me? I look toward the ceiling, shaking my head and grinding my teeth, willing myself to maintain composure and get through this date.

  Now she is ignoring me, too. She’s staring at Benjamin. I get it, he’s very handsome—blonde hair perfectly coiffed, a bright white smile ready to charm, magnetic and fierce blue eyes. All great reasons why I agreed to go out with him. He was getting a trim at the salon next to his office, which happens to be my hair salon, as well. He stared at me with those piercing blue eyes from across the salon, exuding confidence. When his trim was finished, he stood up from the chair, never breaking eye contact, and strutted across the salon. He asked me out and I agreed without skipping a beat. I hadn’t been on a date in seven months, and I thought it was time. And why not? The guy was hot.

  Those five minutes at the salon did not provide the full picture. He stares at the waitress’s ass as she leaves our table, shaking her hips to hold his attention. Before she enters the kitchen, she looks back at him, bites her bottom lip, and winks. Benjamin smirks.

  He turns his attention back to my breasts. “Why is a sexy woman like you still single, Susanna?”

  “Savannah,” I reply with a sigh, hoping the food arrives soon, so I can ask for a to-go container and get the hell out of here.

  Walking up the wooden steps of the porch, I can’t help but smile even though the date was a complete disaster. A warm glow cascades off the house. Country music floats softly in the night
air. When I unlock the door, my smile grows even bigger. A sweet scent wafts through the house. It’s the perfect welcome home. Perfect. Just what I need after this night.

  The music cuts off abruptly. “Savannah?” a timid voice calls out.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  My roommate, Harper, appears in the kitchen doorway. Her honey blonde hair is piled on top of her head, dark brown eyes curious. She leans against the door jam, one long leg tucked behind the other. She looks glamorous even in loungewear. She owns a boutique and wears the cutest outfits, even to bed. “I didn’t expect you home this early,” she says cocking her head, asking me if I’m okay without uttering those words.

  “It was a disaster, Harper. Absolutely awful.” I scrub my free hand over my face trying to erase the memories of the awful date.

  “Oh, no. You were so excited. You’re home early. Did you even eat?” She asks, concern lacing her voice. Harper’s eyebrows scrunch.

  I hold up the to-go bag, barely lifting it high enough for her to see, sighing from exhaustion and defeat. “Nope, I got takeout.”

  “What happened?” Harper questions while turning back to the kitchen, waving for me to follow her. She goes straight for the wine glasses and pours a full glass of my favorite merlot without even asking.

  “Have you eaten yet?” I ask Harper.

  “Not unless you count cake batter.”

  “It’s a major food group,” I tell her, smiling, already feeling better. I split my meal in half, popping both sections of lasagna in the microwave. Grabbing silverware, I meet Harper at the table where she is already setting the freshly opened bottle of merlot between our glasses. She waits patiently, not saying a word. I feel it though, simmering around her—the desire to question. That’s the thing about Harper, she is unfailingly patient and willing to listen to her friends.

  We met a couple of years ago at her boutique, Harper Avenue. It started as mostly small talk between owner and shopper, but when I walked in one day to see her slamming her phone on the counter with tears streaming down her face, I did something completely out of the ordinary. I pried into her life, asking her questions about her bad day. Then I invited her to a girl’s night out with my best friend, Valerie and me.

  Not too long after, Valerie got engaged and married the love of her life, Gabe. She moved out of the house we shared, leaving me without a roommate. Harper showed up at a girls’-night-out a few weeks after I began living alone. She was frustrated her landlord was raising the rent in her awful hole-in-the-wall apartment. So I did what any good friend would do. I asked her to move in with me. It’s been wonderful to have someone helping with half of everything. And it doesn’t hurt that Harper supplies me with samples from her boutique.

  I stand up from the table to take the lasagna out of the microwave and grab plates. When I sit down and slide lasagna in her direction, she is staring at me, drumming her nails on the table. Her lips rolled into her teeth like she’s forcibly holding all of her questions in her mouth, and eyebrows drawn so deep into a v, they’re almost touching.

  I shake my head and roll my eyes, replaying the night through my head. I begin the story with the only positive moment of the evening I can remember. “Well, the restaurant is gorgeous and amazing. The garlic bread was to die for. I’d share it with you, but I ate it with an angry gusto on the way home.”

  Harper laughs, taking a bite of her lasagna. “Oh, God. This is wonderful,” Harper says, pointing her fork at the lasagna in front of her. “So, where did the date go wrong?”

  “First, he was fifteen minutes late––which I could’ve forgiven. It would have been nice if he texted to let me know, but he didn’t. When he showed up without apologizing, I decided I’d move forward and ignore it, hoping the evening would improve.”

  I dig into my slice, moaning when the flavor explodes in my mouth. The lasagna is a perfect balance of meat, sauce, cheese, and noodles. “Okay, we have to go back there,” I say, waving my fork over my lasagna. “It’s a total date place, but hey, we can be each other’s date for a night. Right?”

  “Totally,” Harper agrees around a mouth full of lasagna.

  “Anyway, he sat down, and proceeded to tell my boobs how much money he was worth, bragged about his expensive cars, and how important he is at his firm. I don’t think he looked into my eyes one time. Just stared at my chest. He kept calling me Susanna, then scolded me for shortening his name to Ben.” I rub my brow, trying to rid myself of the tension and annoyance that is starting to seep back in at the memories.

  Harper rolls her eyes. “That sucks. He sounds like an asshole. I’m sorry.”

  I swallow a large gulp of my wine. “Oh, I’m not done.”

  “The asshole gets bigger?” Harper asks, mouth gaping open with her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

  “He basically told me he wanted a wife who would serve his every whim and asked how come a pretty little lady like me didn’t have a man to care for her. Sexist pig.” I took another gulp of wine. “I’d had enough at this point. I knew nothing would come from this date, so when the food arrived, I told him I’d be taking mine to go. I asked our waitress to bring me a box while I listened to him tell me that I need to adjust my attitude if I want to be married. I told him that if a man can’t handle me, he’s not much of a man.”

  Harper threw her head back in laughter. “I bet he loved that!”

  “He told me he bet my pussy wasn’t worth this trouble. Our waitress came back at this point. She stayed at the table, shamelessly listening to all this happen. I was boxing up my food when she piped up.”

  “Sister solidarity!” Harper says, raising her glass in the air.

  “Not quite.” I hold up one finger, shaking my head and chuckling quietly. “She tells Benjamin she knows how to care for a man. He puts his hand on her ass and tells me she’s a real woman. She knows her place. The waitress just giggles. She giggles, Harper. I felt like I landed in the middle of a bad sitcom. I got up from my chair, threw some cash on the table, and sashayed my ass out of there waving my middle finger in the air.”

  I laugh when Harper’s mouth drops open and her eyebrows shoot straight up. She keeps blinking as if trying to find anything to say.

  I sigh heavily and pinch my lips. “Yeah.” It’s the only thing I can say. I put my elbows on the table, my head falling into my hands. I look at Harper, shrugging my shoulders slightly, trying to find the silver lining. “At least that was only forty-five minutes of my life wasted.”

  “I’m still sorry, though. I know you were looking forward to this date. It’s too bad he turned out that way.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just over it, you know?” My shoulders sag as I look down at the table, tracing patterns absently with my finger.

  “Don’t let this stop you from trying to get back out there. It was one bad date.” Harper leans across the table, pushing our empty lasagna plates to side, and rests her hand over mine. I look up at her, and sympathy is written all over her face. She gives me a small smile.

  I straighten my spine and nod my head once. “At least wine will never treat me like an asshole.”

  “Cheers to that.” We clink our glasses, smiling at each other and laughing. Harper claps her hands together, sucking in a small breath. “I almost forgot, I have a warm cake calling our names.” Harper pops up from the table.

  This is another reason Harper is a great roommate. She bakes the world’s most fabulous desserts. She supplies my sweettooth constantly, but while I have to work my ass off in the gym, she lounges around, never gaining an ounce to her slender frame.

  “What kind is it?” I bounce in my chair and lean from side to side, trying to spot the cake in our kitchen.

  Harper brings a tall, beautifully frosted cake to the table. The light pink frosting is skimmed smooth, not a blemish in sight. Chocolate-covered strawberries circle the top. My mouth waters as I stare at the cake. I reach out a finger to sample the icing, but Harper slaps my hand away.

  “It’s a s
trawberry champagne cake,” Harper boasts with her shoulders back, chin held high, and a satisfied smile on her face. “It’s the first time I’ve tried this recipe and the batter tasted delicious.”

  She cuts a piece for each of us. I top off our wine, excited to dig in. After the first bite, I practically inhale the rest. The juicy strawberries enhance the delicate champagne flavor, and the cake is so moist and flavorful.

  After cake, we clean up in the kitchen. “I’m going to hit the gym early tomorrow morning. Want to join me?” I know it’s pointless to ask her, I ask almost every day and each day she says no.

  Harper snorts. “Even if I didn’t have to be at the boutique early, you know I wouldn’t go. Though, I do want to do one of those self-defense classes with you. You said you’ve been going to those for a few years, right?”

  “Four years,” I say quietly, looking away. Giving myself a mental headshake and forcing my spine to straighten again, I will not go down that long, dark path tonight.

  “They sound fun. Why have you been doing it for so long, though? Don’t you learn the same thing over and over?”