Cruel Vows

By K.J. Devoir

Majesty International is more than a premier matchmaking service, securing the fortunes and power of world elites via carefully calculated marriages. Majesty is a lifestyle club with a range of exclusive benefits requiring an oath of secrecy from members to its governing Crown and a pledge to uphold its motto Once & always. Once a member, always a member.

 

THE GROOM

He is a dangerous mafia billionaire they call Frankenstein. I am his mail-order bride.

 

THE BRIDE

The writing I spied on that gold-embossed paper inside Father's office was a tiny window into the twisted darkness that would become my future. It said nothing about arranged marriages sealed with blood oaths, or death threats over broken vows. Father would only say that marrying me off was for the benefit of the family legacy. Mother let it slip that Father was being blackmailed. I put two and two together. Father was desperate. His mafioso dealings had caught up to him. I was his last bargaining chip. Mother convinced herself that I would be happier finishing college in California. She promised I only had to endure the marriage for three years. My choices have been made for me. All I can do is make the best of it until I earn my freedom. But I've learned that some vows can never be broken, and the only way out is death.

*check TW's

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gothika Books
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224633388

Book preview

Introduction

Welcome

ELIZA

Hello Hell

Hell is beautiful.

Sunburst streaks of cotton candy clouds over a violet sea, pink and gold along the foam gliding over gingerbread cookie-colored sand. Salty air breezes through the cracked window.

So, here I am. The man sent a limo to collect his prize from the airport. Right on cue, that word again—bride—sinks me deeper. Goosebumps cover my naked legs as I smooth the frayed edges of my cut-offs.

His.

It doesn’t matter what the law says—a mere contractual agreement. What matters is what the word—the icky word—means to him. He has leverage. I’m on his turf. He’s at least twice my age. But more than anything, this arrangement happened through Majesty.

The way Mom and Father speak about it, you’d think Majesty was above the law. But in our world, that is the case with many things. For elites, there is always a legal loophole to be found—that’s what the pricey lawyers are for. And someone can always be bought off when status, money, and power are threatened.

Elites can burn a thousand bridges and walk away unscathed. They don’t need bridges; they’ve got private airplanes. So the question is, how do you take one down?

This year, I learned the answer to that. My father’s weakness. The one thing that could grab him by the balls off his high-horse, dragging his ass down to humble-valley. It’s the reason I’ve been married off like a pauper, ripped from boarding school, from Europe, destination fucking hell.

One word. Blackmail.

Mother reminded me what ruin would mean for us. Our identities and everything irreplaceable we hold dear would be stripped bare. Our estate isn’t just a house; it’s a historical family mansion dating back generations and sits on a hundred acres. Local fishermen compete for fishing prizes in the estate waters, and winning horses of the English Classic have their stalls there. And let’s not forget the charities that depend on us, our financial holdings, and my brother’s education, as well as mine. The list goes on.

So marrying me off, you see, is utterly justified. I am taking one for the team, not just the living, but for the Worthington name. Ours is the family that looks back more than it looks ahead. We aren’t making new traditions; we are protecting old ones.

My coming to California is an act of preservation. I’m expected to keep this in mind and focus on the task—one year. I only have to get through one year. Once summer is over, I’ll have college to distract me, and the rest of the year will fly by. I can then divorce and move on with my life.

One year.

Then freedom.

Warning

ELIZA

I hold my breath as the limo passes through the big iron gates, with an eerie feeling coming over me. It isn’t the palatial, glitzy, new-money cliff mansion that takes my breath away. It’s him and the absolute hardness in his smokey-eyed gaze.

The virtual meeting didn’t do him justice. He’s more everything in person.

More attractive.

Ivy League good-looking, like he’s crossed with a fashion model mother and a pro athlete father, or vice versa. The man is tall, wide-shouldered, and perfectly built, with gorgeous bones and a golden tan.

More cruel seeming.

It’s the angry slant of his dark blonde brow and the aggressive clench of his jaw like he wants to hurt someone. Then there’s the case of his mouth—a bitter pout wrapped in a smirk, promising words that bite, sting, and linger.

I don’t want to get on his bad side.

But as I climb from the limo onto the stone courtyard and his hard stare holds mine, I’m sure I already am. But what the hell did I expect? These people are filthy, billionaire rich beyond the old-world modest luxury I come from in Britain.

The shade of an oak tree casts shadows along his chiseled face. Jeans and a fitted tee hug his statuesque frame. His tee says TBU. As in Topanga Beach University, where I’m attending? He has a professional-style camera hanging from his neck.

Are you just going to fucking stand there? he snipes, his deep voice low as his gaze dips to my legs before returning to my eyes. There is an almost approving flicker in his eyes for a fleeting second, but then he shakes his head with a frown.

What? Do I not live up to his standard?

Whatever. Like I care.

I raise an offended eyebrow, my lips tightening into a frown. If I hadn’t seen him in the virtual wedding ceremony, I might think I was in the wrong place.

He didn’t say a word on camera but served as a witness. It was the older man—his father?—who uttered the two fateful words I do with a graveled voice. There was no light in his dark eyes, no smile on his lips. This was a business transaction, just as Father said it would be.

The minute the ceremony ended, I collapsed on my bed in tears. How would I ever stomach being married to a strange man with a head of grey hair, mean eyes, and a weirdly scarred face? It’s not a normal type of scar that you get when you’re younger and fall and split your skin open and need a row of stitches. But a vicious, uneven scar that, paired with his cold eyes, screams gangster. Jaggedy like he was pushed from a window or got into a knife fight.

Maybe that’s just my imagination getting the best of me. Too many movies and not enough reality beyond the tiny bubble I’ve spent my life in.

Regardless. Mother attempted a failed heart-to-heart with me. She reminded me that people like us have always formed alliances via arranged marriage. This is still a common practice, but elites are good at making these arrangements look organic because they understand optics. A favorite word of fathers.

In a nutshell: it’s all a fucking sham.

The guy adjusts the strap of his camera. "You can go in now," he orders sharply.

My gaping mouth snaps shut. Wow, okay. I keep my cool, slinging my designer tote over one shoulder. Then I grab the handle of my matching suitcase—one of five pieces of luggage sitting in the drive.

Can someone please…help with those? I ask politely.

Jamie, he shrugs, reaching up to a thick, dangling branch, which he snaps violently into pieces.

I nod as if that’s an acceptable answer. Maybe this guy will warm up to me. Then again, maybe not.

Rolling my luggage across the concrete drive, I note how his trailing footsteps sound unfriendly. He quickly catches up but stops before a row of sports cars outside open garages as if they’re about to be washed.

He raises his camera, hunching his broad shoulders as he snaps a picture of a silver Lamborghini.

I head up the stone steps and knock on the door, watching him while waiting. After getting a few pics, he moves on to a black Bugatti and a blue Aston Martin parked near a sparkling sky-blue Rolls-Royce. He returns to the Lamborghini, opening the door.

Who is Jamie? I finally ask, attempting small talk.

He glances over. The help, he shrugs.

And who are you? Sorry, what is your name?

He snaps a pic. Derek.

Nice to meet you. So-uh, what are the pictures for, Derek?

Let me guess: this guy is an influencer. Probably, every somebody within a radius of this near-Hollywood beach town is.

Snap. My catalog, he mutters. I can tell he doesn’t want me to talk to him, but I have more questions.

A car catalog? Maybe he’s a car dealer.

He sighs like I’m getting on his nerves.

Snap. No.

What is it for? I ask too quickly, knowing I’ve already exceeded my questions limit.

Not that it’s your business. Snap. I like to photograph things that I own.

He lowers his camera, eyes burning at me. Now go inside and leave me.

"Yeah, I would. But nobody has answered."

Derek shakes his head, and I shrug at him. What does he expect? I haven’t been properly greeted, let alone invited in. I feel like a fish out of water, and nobody seems to remember that I was traveling across the pond to arrive here today.

He joins me on the steps, his masculine scent wafting from his tall frame as he shoves the door open.

"There. Go in," he orders.

What a prick.

A hurried, petitely stocky woman appears, and I sigh in relief that it is not him. Frankford. My…ugh…husband.

Oh, my apologies, Mrs. Blackburn! Let me take your luggage, she says, reaching her hand to me. She has a slight Spanish accent.

I follow her inside the white marble foyer. You can call me Eliza, I smile.

Yes, Ma’am. I’m Jamie.

So, this is Jamie. I suddenly feel guilty about her having to haul all my luggage. Derek can’t be bothered to do that.

I can help you with the luggage, I offer, and she shakes her head with a frown. "No, no. Don’t worry!"

Derek passes me, and when the solid strength of his arm brushes against me, chills fan over my shoulders. He stops, adjusting the frame of a large photograph on the wall.

Don’t be late for the party, he warns, glancing at me.

I blink my eyes.

Oh, yes, about that, cuts in Jamie. Mr. Blackburn asked me to tell you he won’t see you until the party. He has a very nice gown for you to wear.

Huh? Okay, so there is a party. But why don’t I have a say in what I wear?

Better get used to it, smirks Derek, as if reading my mind.

I watch him walk—damn, the rude bastard’s back is all muscle as he saunters off with an entitled swagger. His masculine scent trails, lingering like a threat circling the space around me.

No doubt, this guy is trouble. I can’t imagine how much worse his father is. My gut twists with dread as I imagine him appearing any second. I don’t know what awaits me on the other side of the towering archway at the end of the foyer. Deep in my core is fear of the unknown of being somebody’s…wife.

I have no idea what will be expected of me beyond sex. But it’s the sex part that I’m dreading the most. I’ve had sex with one boyfriend on a few occasions, and he was just as inexperienced as me. Very wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. I get more relief from my trusty vibrator.

I will show you to your room, says Jamie, leading the way. She keeps looking back as I get distracted by the art hanging on the walls throughout the sprawling mansion. It consists of black-and-white photographs of places, cars, and people—some wearing masks, latex, and lingerie. Another is of a group of young women in swimsuits sitting in a circle in chairs with their hands tied behind their backs. Weird af.

At least in the bedroom, there is only abstract art on the walls and a large black-and-white photo of the ocean—which seems depressing. Like all that beautiful color I witnessed from the limo has had the life sucked from it, reduced to contours and shadow.

But no weird photos, at least. A large, Spanish-style dark wood four-poster bed is at the back of the room. The rest of the space is minimalistic, with white fabrics and a grey rug over the wood flooring. An armoire and a vanity match the bed, and a grey upholstered chair fills a corner. Three small wall shelves have cactus plants on them. Other than that, there is no other decor.

Is this…Frankford’s room? I ask, and my mouth turns dry at the thought of sharing it with him.

No, Ma’am.

Eliza, I correct with a smile.

"Sorry, Eliza. Mr. Blackburn’s room is in the West Wing."

So then, I get to have my own room? I puff out relieved air.

She points toward the open door of a walk-in closet. Your dress is hanging in here. Hors d'oeuvres and cocktails will be served at eight. The kitchen is just down the hall on the right if you need it. But I can bring room service. If you have any questions, ring the buzzer. I’m happy to help you get settled in!

She turns to leave.

Excuse me, Jamie? One more question. Who…is Dereck in relation to Frankford?

She cocks her head, seeming surprised by my ignorance. I wonder how much she knows about this arrangement. Maybe the lies extend to the employees. She might think I’ve been his girlfriend overseas for years. Surely, she must be surprised by my age. But she isn’t letting it show.

Dereck is his nephew. Frankford became his legal guardian after his parents died.

Mm, I nod sympathetically, masking how awkward I feel over the topic. Derek is close to me in age, and it seems we are attending the same college, but at least he is not technically my stepson. That would be bizarre.

Jamie leaves, and I go to the wall mirror, inspecting myself and wondering if there was a good reason for Dereck to frown at me. Maybe I’ve got food on my face or something.

My long, light brown hair could use brushing, and the mascara lining my hazel eyes is slightly smudged. Other than that, I look alright, considering. I follow my nose to the open window. I do love the smell of the ocean.

The balmy, fluffy air wafts as I study the grapevine-covered hilltop overlooking the sea. To the left and right are mountains and valleys under a cloud-streaked sunset sky. Straight below is a sundeck and infinity pool, and a lawn and gardens are below.

At least, I’m luckier than some so-called mail-order brides. Others have to wait three years—long enough to get their citizenship—but I already have dual citizenship from my Mother’s side. That’s not what this is about.

Suddenly, the door slams open, and two kids race in, followed by a red-haired girl wearing a