Page 21 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

CHARLOTTE

When my eyes fluttered open, I realized I was still on Cassian’s chest.

His heartbeat was steady beneath my cheek, a rhythm I hadn’t heard in a long time. I lifted my head slowly, trying to see if he was asleep, but his eyes were open beneath the concave lenses of his glasses.

Still and unreadable.

I pulled away gently. “Hey...” I whispered, stepping off the bed.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” he replied, his voice that quiet, dangerous calm that always made me unsure whether to run or reach for him.

I paused for a second, watching him from the doorway, before I turned and went to the bathroom. Waking up next to him—after everything—should have felt like betrayal to myself. And yet, there was something dangerously comforting about it.

The water was warm against my skin, but it couldn’t wash away the storm in my chest. As the steam rose around me, so did the memories—his betrayal, the truth about my mother.

The endless years I spent searching for her.

The countless nights in that psychiatric ward, clutching to the hope that one day I’d see her again—even just once.

I used to imagine it a thousand different ways: I’d look her in the eye and ask if it was all true, if she really was the villain everyone claimed she was.

If she had truly made Cassian and his mother’s life a living hell.

And in my mind, she always said no. In every version of that daydream, she denied it.

Said they were lying. That she had suffered too, maybe even more.

I’d imagined holding her, helping her heal, making up for the ten years we lost. I held on to the belief that our reunion would be our beginning again.

But no one tells you that the future you pray for can be ripped from your hands without warning.

Cassian had already decided her fate.

He had no right—but he gave the order anyway.

“She’s in too much pain ,” he said, as if that made it merciful. As if that made him God. As if he had any fucking right to end her life like that—to choose for her, to choose for me.

He didn’t just kill her. He killed the hope I lived on.

I closed my eyes under the stream and leaned against the tile, letting the guilt of wanting him battle the rage of remembering him.

Yes, the sex had been incredible—aching, raw, consuming—but it was not enough. It could never erase what he did to me.

When I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, the bed was empty.

He was gone.

The room felt colder without him. But I told myself it was good that he’d left.

That was—until I saw the bouquet sitting on the center of the bed.

A vibrant arrangement of deep red roses and tiny, silvery blooms. Something romantic. And understated. The kind of thing Cassian would never send in the past.

Too thoughtful.

I walked over slowly, the scent hitting me before I touched them—rich, velvety, painfully clean.

It was the second bouquet he’d given me in less than a week.

When we were married, he never once brought me flowers. Not even after he broke me.

Only pain. Only silence. Only chains and all the cruel ways... he called that love?

My throat tightened unexpectedly. My fingers brushed the petals as I sat on the bed, and nestled among them was a folded piece of paper.

His handwriting. Slanted, sharp—but legible.

“ Our biking championship for this year is starting again. If you’d like to join me at training this afternoon, call me.

Cassian.”

A breath caught in my throat. He could’ve told me before he left. But he didn’t.

He wrote it down.

I traced the letters with my thumb, the lines neat—surprisingly neat for a man with barely any vision left.

How had he even managed that? Were his hands still so trained by memory that he could write blind?

And the bike? My heart clenched at the thought.

How could he still race like this? He couldn’t see. Not fully. His world was blurry shadows and fractured light, and yet... he was going back into the one place that required perfect focus, precision, speed.

Why?

To prove something? Or was it penance?

I didn’t know if I could go. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want anything to do with him right now—not after the mess he left behind in my life.

But I also didn’t want to sit here alone. Waiting. Thinking. Drowning in silence.

My stomach grumbled, pulling me back to the present. I stood and walked to the kitchen, needing something simple to fill the emptiness.

I ground some coffee beans, the familiar rasp of the grinder calming my nerves. Boiled water. Watched the dark swirl as it filled the mug. I didn’t add cream. I wanted to feel something raw today.

With the hot cup in my hands, I moved to the living room, settling on the couch. The house was too quiet. I couldn’t sit still.

I needed to hear from Ethan.

I hadn’t heard from him in days. No calls. No updates. And Cassian—Cassian could give me answers, but every time I brought up Ethan’s name, he turned cold. Distant. Or worse—furious.

But I couldn’t just sit here and wait. Not after everything Ethan did for me. He had pulled me from that hellhole when no one else would. He got me out of the psych ward. Risked his life.

If Cassian wouldn’t tell me where he was, then I’d find out myself.

I left my coffee half-full on the table and stormed out the door. Crossed the estate grounds barefoot. Anger coiled in my chest as I approached Cassian’s house.

His bike—Sophia—was gone. He wasn’t home.

I called his line.

He picked up after the third ring.

“Hey, Charlotte,” he answered, voice low and unreadable.

“Hi. I didn’t mean to bother you, but I need an update. About Ethan. I’ve been really worried. Can you please—”

There was a long pause. Tense. Heavy.

“I just walked out of a high-stakes meeting to take your call,” he said, voice low and tight. “And the first fucking word out of your mouth is his name?”

I sucked in a breath, my fingers tightening around the phone. “He’s just a friend—”

“Yeah?” His voice was cold now. “That’s what they always say. ‘Just a friend.’ Until they end up in each other’s bed.”

His words stabbed through me.

My voice trembled. “You think I’m just some whore who sleeps with anyone who shows me kindness?”

Another pause.

Then a threat, low and sharp: “Don’t say his name again. If I hear it from you one more time, I’ll kill him for good.”

“No. You wouldn’t,” I snapped, anger flaring. “You wouldn’t dare touch him. He’s done nothing wrong. And even if I did sleep with him—or anyone—it wouldn’t matter. We’re divorced.”

“Then stop calling me,” he said, voice like ice. “Let me fix the mess I created... because of you.”

And then—he hung up.

The silence afterward was deafening.

I stared at the screen, my heart thudding.

Rage curled in my chest like smoke.

He wouldn’t even tell me if Ethan was alive.

Fine. I would find out myself.

I walked toward the garage and grabbed the keys to one of his cars. We were divorced. I didn’t have a claim to anything that belonged to him. But I didn’t care. He owed me at least this.

No one stopped me at the gates.

The nearest hospital wasn’t far. I drove with my hands trembling on the wheel.

If Ethan wasn’t there—if he was gone—

No. I wouldn’t let my mind go there.

At the reception desk, I tried to stay calm. “Please,” I asked the nurse, “do you have a patient named Ethan? He was shot. In the back. And the leg.”

She frowned slightly, tapping at her keyboard. “We’ve got three Ethans admitted recently. Do you know his surname?”

I froze. My mind scrambled—God, I couldn’t remember it. I’d always called him Ethan. Always. He never gave me anything more.

“He got shot trying to save someone,” I said instead, desperation creeping in. “He should still be in serious condition.”

The nurse raised a brow. “Any ID?”

“I don’t have one on me. But if he’s conscious, just ask if he knows me. Charlotte.”

She stared for a moment. Then sighed, picked up the phone. “Your name?” she whispered.

“Charlotte,” I repeated.

She nodded and relayed it into the call. “Hi, there’s a Charlotte here to see you... yes... Okay.”

Then she hung up and looked back at me. “Ward 12. He’s conscious.”

My knees nearly gave out.

“Thank you,” I breathed, clutching my chest as I headed quickly down the hallway.

I didn’t know what I’d find when I saw him. Didn’t know if he would still be the same.

But I was going to find out—for myself.

The moment I stepped into Ethan’s hospital room and saw him—alive, upright, breathing, I gasped.

Relief rushed through me like a wave, knocking the breath right out of my chest. I almost ran to him, despite everything still raw between us. But before I could reach him—

A hand.

Hard. Unforgiving.

It yanked me backward so fast I slammed into a wall of muscle, my back colliding with a body I knew too well.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cassian’s voice growled into my ear.

I whirled around, heart thudding. “Are you following me?”

“It seems you ache to throw yourself into his arms every chance you get,” he said, his jaw tight, his eyes burning behind those distorted glasses.

I yanked my arm free. “And how exactly is that your business?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared over my shoulder at Ethan, expression unreadable but cold enough to freeze bone.

I blinked. “Wait... how are you even here this fast? You were trailing me. You knew I’d come.”

His hand slipped into his coat pocket—and before I could even scream, a silver flash flew past me.

A knife.

It embedded itself into the headboard of Ethan’s bed—mere inches above his head.

Ethan flinched violently, his eyes going wide with terror, his body rigid under the hospital blanket.

“Cassian!” I shrieked, spinning toward him. “Are you out of your mind? You could’ve killed him!”

“I meant to miss,” he said calmly, walking forward. “Barely.”

He gripped the knife’s hilt and yanked it out in one smooth motion before sliding it back into his pocket like it was nothing more than a pen.

“You’re insane,” I breathed, my voice shaking.