Page 155 of Outcast’s Vow

“Look, I’ve been meaning to give you this,” she says, pulling out a card. “It’s nothing, but I thought you would appreciate it.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know if Baptiste told you, but I’m a manager of a gym.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Opulence, right? That’s one of the best gyms in the city. I’ve always been meaning to visit.”

“I was, but now I’m setting up my own place. It’s been a pain in the butt to get going, but I’m loving it.”

“No way, that’s incredible!”

“Well, here’s a year’s free membership,” Elise says, handing over the card. “On me.”

“Really? No. You really don’t have to do that.”

Elise smiles.

“I wanted to. Take it as a bribe to make you a friend.”

“Well, consider the bribe successful,” I reply. “You have a friend in me. I’ll let you know when I plan to come in, and we can grab a coffee.”

“That sounds perfect.”

She gives me another hug, and I’m filled with the warmth of knowing I’ve got a new sister.

Men have tried to cage me for my whole life and today, it seems like I’m being held up by women.

61

SYLVIE

“Is this it?” I ask Baptiste as we pull up to the grand old, weathered mansion in the heart of New Orleans.

Looking up past the gates, I see columns holding up a long balcony like spires growing from the ground. Vicious, gnarled ivy wraps around the entire façade of the mansion. The air here is wet and thick, a total contrast to the crisp New York chill. The mansion hails from a different time – at least two hundred years ago – built by an eccentric and enigmatic European businessman for his twisted pleasure.

“This is it,” Baptiste tells me. He’s much, much calmer than I am.

Once we’ve come to a complete stop, the gates slowly swing open for us, and we drive inside. Baptiste parks us on the grounds inside the mansion’s walls. There are a few other scattered cars here, evidence of something far bigger happening inside.

A man in a red suit emerges, seemingly out of nowhere, once Baptiste chivalrously opens my door.

“Enter this way,” the guard commands us in a hushed tone.

Baptiste is wearing a black suit. Funeral wear, even though it is still incredibly expensive and European-tailored. I’m in a dark blue dress. I grip my husband’s hand as we’re led inside the imposing mansion by the red suit.

“Spooky,” I mutter to Baptiste, trying my best to conceal my terror.

The usher takes us through the darkened interior. It’s foreboding, dusty, and full of ghosts. No signs of life in here. We make our way into a cavernous library, with shelves lined with ancient books, where the guard in the red suit steps toward a thick tome and presses hard against the book’s spine. A long groaning sound, like gears slowly turning, echoes through the room, and suddenly the entire shelving unit in front of us pulls away, and we’re left staring at a secret entrance. A set of stone stairs leads, twisting downward into a pit.

“Down there,” the usher in the red suit says, nodding into the basement.

Yep, I’m on the verge of peeing my dress.

Baptiste, ever the confident, ballsy scoundrel, merely tightens the grip on my hand and smiles.

“Follow me,” he says.

“Baptiste, I don’t like...”