Page 13 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

CHARLOTTE

Three days passed, slow and strange.

I barely moved. I didn’t speak unless I had to. I let the days blur, but I wouldn’t let him blur with them.

Cassian tried to sleep beside me every night. But each time, I pushed him away.

A hand on his chest. A whisper of “Don’t.” Sometimes just a silent stare. He always obeyed—leaving the bed like it was laced with thorns—but I knew he never truly left.

The security camera light never blinked. The hallway light never went off.

He brought breakfast in the morning. Dinner in the evening. Always served by hand. Always silent. Always with that look like he was starving and I was the only thing that could feed him.

But I wasn’t hungry for him anymore. Not his gestures. Not his guilt. Not his half-redemptions.

I lay on the bed now, staring at the ceiling, and finally, I sat up.

I needed to breathe outside his world.

By the time I stepped into the shower, the water felt less like cleansing and more like exorcism. I dressed simply: jeans, a dark sweater, no makeup. No silk. No jewelry. Nothing he gave me.

Sophia—his motorcycle—was gone from the garage. Which meant he was out.

I didn’t hesitate.

I took one of the sleek black cars and drove, hands tight around the wheel, heart even tighter.

The address burned in my phone like a sin.

Dawson & Adler Family Law Group.

Lower Manhattan.

A discreet brownstone wedged between a juice bar and a tailor’s shop. The sign was barely visible—etched in matte black steel beside a keypad entrance.

No plaques. No business cards in the window. Just a doorbell for those who knew exactly what they were here to do.

This wasn’t where everyday people came to untangle marriages.

This was where people like me came.

Wives of men with power.

Women who wanted out without causing war.

I gave my name, showed ID, and was escorted into a minimalist office—marble floors, dark wood walls, soft lighting.

“Since this was pre-drafted, and uncontested—at least on your end—the process should be swift,” she explained gently. “You’ve been married for over a year, and New York is a no-fault divorce state. We’ll file under irretrievable breakdown of the marriage.”

Irretrievable.

God.

She slid the final page toward me and placed a Montblanc pen beside it.

I signed slowly.

Like the ink was blood. Like I was murdering a ghost.

“The papers will be filed electronically with the Manhattan Supreme Court today. You’ll receive confirmation when your husband signs. If he doesn’t respond within 20 days, we proceed by default judgment. Either way, you’ll be officially divorced in six to eight weeks—sometimes less.”

I nodded, lips trembling. “What if... he fights it later?”

She paused. “Then he’d have to prove coercion or fraud. And judging by the documentation—he won’t. Or can’t.”

My hand lingered over the copy she handed back to me.

Cassian Moretti would see that signature. My name, clear and final.

Maybe that would break him.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

I left the building without looking back.

The receptionist didn’t say goodbye.

The wind outside didn’t feel like freedom. But it was a start.

On my way out, I thought I saw someone watching me. A glint in the reflection of the glass. A pair of eyes, maybe. I spun—but whoever it was had vanished. My pulse jumped. I got in the car and drove home with one eye on the mirror.

The estate was silent when I got back.

I walked into the kitchen like a ghost and placed the signed divorce documents on the counter.

My hands hovered there for a moment, fingers trembling slightly.

I stared at the papers—my freedom, my final say.

And whispered to myself,

“It’s the right thing.”

But the papers didn’t answer back.

They just sat there. Cold.

Unbothered by the war they’d started in my chest.

I didn’t wait for him to come home. I packed nothing—just a phone, a charger, and the will to leave. I slipped out like a ghost and booked a high-security hotel two neighborhoods away. The kind with keycard elevators, surveillance at every hallway, and anonymous check-ins.

My name didn’t matter anymore. Safety did.

Once I was settled, I finally called Vincent.

He didn’t pick up immediately, but he called back within a minute. “Charlotte?”

“Vincent, are you okay?”

“I am,” he said quickly. “I heard you’re back with that monster?”

I bit my lip. “He’s still my husband.”

“That doesn’t mean you should go back.”

“I didn’t call for your opinion,” I said tightly. “I just wanted to check on you.”

He hesitated. “Father owed the Volkov Bratva. They took me as collateral, but it’s paid now. I’m out. We need to meet.”

“I’m busy.”

“I—Charlotte, please. Let’s talk.”

“I just need space. You may not be able to reach me after this.” I hung up before I could change my mind.

The silence that followed was strange—not comforting, but necessary.

I lay back on the hotel bed, body sinking into the stiff mattress with a kind of exhausted relief.

No cameras watching me from the corners.

No footsteps pacing outside my door.

No husband with guilt in his eyes and a tray of carefully arranged apologies.

Just me.

My breath.

My decision.

And the faintest tremble in my hands that refused to go away—like my body still remembered what my mind kept trying to forget.

My mind drifted—unwilling, to Cassian.

That first kiss at the club. Unexpected. His hand gripping my jaw. That haunting taste of danger I didn’t yet know would cost me everything.

Then came the second time. Dinner at the Moretti house. And then—the altar.

The memory slams into me like cold water.

The way he forced me into vows I never fully understood. The grip of his hand around mine.

And now here I am—his wife in name only, hiding in a hotel, signing divorce papers with trembling fingers like that could erase what he did to me.

But nothing would ever erase what came after. The real cruelty. The way he looked at my chest. The way he mocked my scars. The way he used my body.

He treated me like something shameful. Like something to avoid looking at.

Like I wasn’t human.

A sharp buzz jolted me from the spiral.

I blinked, confused, as the hotel phone rang once. Then twice.

It wasn’t my room phone. It was the intercom.

Someone was at the door.

I assumed it was a staff member—maybe room service, or one of the guards doing a sweep, so I tightened the tie on my robe and crossed the room slowly, heart still heavy with ghosts.

I opened the door slightly—

And froze.

Cassian.

Standing there in the hall like a phantom pulled straight from my chest.

His suit was wrinkled, shirt half-untucked, his face pale beneath the golden lighting of the corridor. He didn’t look polished or terrifying or cold.

He looked wrecked.

How did he even get here?

Wasn’t the front desk supposed to call me if I had a guest? And how the hell did he know what room I was in. There were over two hundred rooms in this hotel.

Then it hit me.

Cassian Moretti. Of course.

He wasn’t just a man. He was an empire. He didn’t need permission. He didn’t need a key.

He was the kind of danger that slipped past locked doors and security systems. The kind of man who didn’t knock unless he already owned the room.

“You left the divorce papers,” he said. His voice was low, barely more than a rasp. “And vanished.”

“That shouldn’t surprise you.”

He blinked once, slowly, like it pained him. “I should’ve expected it. But I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, gripping the edge of the door harder. “Like consequence?”

His jaw ticked. “Like I’m being gutted. Charlotte—”

“Don’t. Whatever speech you’ve prepared, don’t.”

His throat bobbed. “You’ll get your divorce, I swear. But not like this. Not on paper. Not like we’re strangers.”

“That’s exactly what we are,” I snapped. “Strangers who just happen to share a last name. You don’t know who I am anymore. And I don’t recognize you at all.”

He stepped forward an inch. I stepped back just as fast.

“I’m not waiting for your permission,” I said coldly. “If you respected me even a little, you’d sign them.”

“Of course I respect you,” he said, voice raw now. “That’s why I’m asking. I’m not dragging you back. I came to beg.”

I laughed bitterly. “Hell no. I couldn’t even bear to sleep beside you. What makes you think I’ll let you into my room?”

“Because I need to see you. Because I miss the sound of your voice. Because I haven’t slept since you left and I can’t breathe knowing you’re somewhere else—thinking I wouldn’t come.”

My grip on the door faltered. But not enough to open it wider.

His next words came quieter.

“I’ve done monstrous things, Charlotte. Things I can’t even say out loud. But hurting you? That’s the only one that makes me want to rip myself to pieces and never stop.”

He reached for the edge of the doorframe. Not forcefully—just to hold it. Steady himself.

“I know what I did. I know what I said. About your scars. Your body. About who you are. And I’ve spent every second since then trying to become someone who deserves the right to even speak your name again.”

I didn’t respond.

He exhaled a shaky breath. “Please. Don’t proceed with the divorce. Not yet. Just give me a chance to prove it can be different.”

“It’s too late,” I whispered.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

My voice cracked. “You chained me like a rabid animal. You mocked my chest. Took me from behind because the sight of me ruined your illusion.”

His face twisted like the words physically cut him.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know. And it kills me every second.”

I stood frozen.

“ Flat as a boy. Scarred like a battlefield. ,” I whispered. “That’s what I remember.”

His knees almost buckled. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“Because I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

I slammed the door in his face.

And then everything shattered.

My breath came in jagged bursts. I stumbled backward, my hand still gripping the door handle like it was the only thing holding me upright.

Then I dropped.