Page 31 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

CHARLOTTE

I grabbed my phone again and dialed Ethan, my fingers trembling slightly. He picked up on the second ring, his voice warm but laced with the fatigue of his hospital stay.

“Ethan, how are you doing?” I asked quietly.

“Same as you left me,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “What’s up? Why’re you calling?”

“Well,” I crossed the room and stared at the window. “You gave a stranger my number,” I said, my voice sharp but not unkind, waiting for him to explain himself.

He chuckled, the sound unapologetic. “A hot stranger, Charlotte. Dr. Manuel’s one of the doctors here, and he’s not exactly a stranger to me—he’s Genevieve’s uncle.”

“Still,” I said, my tone firm, “you could’ve asked for my consent before handing out my contact.”

“My bad,” he said, his voice softening with sincerity. “But he told me you approached him first, even took his card. I figured you were playing around, maybe testing the waters with someone new.” He paused, his tone turning teasing. “But seriously, I’m sorry, okay? Won’t happen again.”

I swallowed, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. “It’s okay.”

A beat of silence passed before I continued, my voice quieter. “He’s invited me to dinner. I don’t want to go, but now that you say he’s not a total stranger, I’m... I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Ethan said, his voice steady and reassuring. “If he’s pushing, just block his number. If he asks me about you, I’ll tell him you’re not in the right headspace. No pressure. No harm done.”

His words were gentle, without judgment.

I stared at the floor, my thoughts tangled. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted.

“Charlotte...” Ethan’s voice softened. Like he could feel me unraveling on the other end. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

I swallowed. My throat was dry. My chest too tight. “Okay,” I said finally, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t press further.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Talk to you later.” I hung up, the phone heavy in my hand as I stared at it, the weight of indecision pressing against me.

My gaze drifted to the drawing materials scattered across the floor, pencils and sketchpads strewn from Cassian’s earlier outburst.

I knelt, gathering them with care, my fingers brushing over the rough texture of the paper.

I tried to focus, sketching absentminded lines—a curve here, a shadow there—but my mind kept slipping back to Manuel’s voice, smooth and inviting, and the way Cassian’s touch still lingered on my skin.

The pencil trembled in my hand, my strokes faltering as my thoughts darted between the two men, one a fleeting distraction, the other a storm I couldn’t escape.

I pushed the sketchpad away, frustration bubbling up, and stood, pacing the room. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second pulling me closer to evening.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, my voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ll go. It’s just dinner. What could go wrong?” The words felt hollow, but I clung to them, needing something to break the cycle of my thoughts.

I headed to my room, my steps purposeful but heavy.

In front of the mirror, I hesitated, my reflection a reminder of the scars I carried.

I chose a sleek black dress, its high neckline offering coverage, and slipped on a breast pad to mask my insecurities.

The memory of Manuel’s gaze lingering on my chest during our last encounter made my stomach twist—I wouldn’t let him see me exposed.

I smoothed the dress over my hips, applied a touch of makeup to brighten my tired eyes, and stepped into a pair of heels, their click against the floor a small boost of confidence.

Before leaving, I texted Manuel: I’ll be at Cielo Rosso for dinner.

His reply came almost instantly: Can’t wait to see you. I’ll be there.

I crossed the estate to Cassian’s garage, the cool evening air nipping at my skin.

I chose a silver convertible, and slid into the driver’s seat.

As I drove toward Cielo Rosso, the city lights streaked past the windshield in a blur of gold and red. But none of it registered.

My fingers clenched the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale against the leather.

In my chest, something pressed—like dread coiled too tightly to name.

My mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

What if the restaurant was crowded?

What if the laughter started again? The taunting?

What if someone saw through me—through the fabric and the fake composure—straight to the hollowed-out shell I was trying so hard to glue together?

Would they laugh like those boys from days ago

Would I hear it again—

“ chestless bitch?”

“If I had a chest like that, I’d lock myself in a fucking basement.”

No, I told myself. Not tonight.

The breast pads were in place. My dress carefully chosen. Every layer of fabric, every contour, every illusion sculpted to conceal the truth. To mask the incisions. To bury the absence.

They wouldn’t know.

But it didn’t matter, did it?

Because I knew. And somehow, that felt worse.

The wheel jerked slightly in my hand as I took a breath. My vision swam.

This wasn’t just a dinner.

It was a battlefield. And I was showing up wounded, stitched together with shaky hands and hope that barely held.

When I arrived at Cielo Rosso, the parking lot shimmered with luxury—sleek black sedans and imported sports cars lined in flawless symmetry, their polished bodies reflecting the warm, opulent glow of the restaurant’s golden facade.

It looked like something out of a dream. But my heart was anything but steady.

I sat still for a moment, hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel.

You’re fine. It’s just dinner.

But my body wasn’t convinced. My skin itched under the dress, nerves crawling like a second heartbeat.

I stepped out, forcing my posture into poise. I smoothed the fabric over my hips, adjusted the breast pads beneath my neckline for the hundredth time, and walked toward the entrance.

The scent hit me first—rosemary, roasted garlic, hints of aged wine. Inside, the restaurant was intimate, like a carefully curated fantasy.

Candlelit tables flickered under gold chandeliers.

Soft jazz murmured through hidden speakers, a gentle seduction meant to dull the senses.

Couples leaned in close, fingers grazing wine glasses, laughter low and confident.

Every detail screamed old money, refinement, power that never needed to announce itself.

And me?

I felt like a ghost crashing a world that had no place for scars.

I paused near the hostess stand, resisting the urge to clutch my chest.

Then I saw him.

Manuel.

He was seated near the tall window, moonlight bleeding in behind him. His blazer was dark, expertly tailored, hugging his broad shoulders with practiced ease.

His hands rested on the white tablecloth, calm and confident. When he spotted me, his face brightened—an easy, practiced smile.

Smile back, I told myself. Act normal.

So I did.

But even as I moved toward him, something inside me whispered:

Be careful.

Not because of the way he looked at me.

But because I didn’t trust anyone who looked at a broken girl like she was whole.

“Good evening,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. The candlelight danced between us, flickering across the polished cutlery and the strained smile I forced onto my lips.

My heels clicked softly against the marble floor beneath the table.

“I’m so glad you came, Charlotte,” he said, his voice smooth and genuine.

He raised a hand and gestured subtly. A waiter appeared almost instantly, offering a leather-bound menu with both hands like he was delivering scripture.

“Shall we order?” he asked, watching me with calm interest.

I nodded, even though my stomach twisted. My fingers hovered over the embossed lettering as I scanned the menu, barely registering the words.

“I’ll have the grilled sea bass... with lemon herb sauce,” I said, forcing the tremor from my voice. It came out steadier than I expected. But inside, I was crumbling.

“Excellent choice,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll take the Osso Buco with saffron risotto.”

The waiter disappeared again, melting into the soft jazz and murmured conversation around us.

Now it was just the two of us and the candle burning slow between us like a silent clock.

Manuel leaned in slightly, elbows grazing the tablecloth. Not close enough to make me recoil, but close enough to feel it.

“I just think we could get to know each other,” he said, voice wrapped in warmth, but with a faint undertow I couldn’t quite name. “Ever since you walked up to me at the hospital, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

His eyes searched my face—not hungrily, not in the way men sometimes did. It was softer. Disarming.

“You’ve got this... fire,” he continued. “A presence that’s hard to ignore.”

I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do.

I swallowed, my throat thick with guilt and something heavier—shame, maybe, or fear of disappointing yet another man who expected more from me than I had to give.

“Actually...” I said, the word rasping out of my throat like it didn’t want to be spoken. “I need to be honest.”

Manuel looked up, pausing mid-sip of his wine.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.” My voice came out calm and even. “When I came up to you at the hospital, I was... I was trying to distract myself. I’d just been through something, and I guess I wanted to feel something else. Anything else. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

There. It was out. The truth. Even if it sounded pathetic, even if it made me look like a tease, or broken, or both—I couldn’t sit here pretending.

His expression didn’t shift. No flicker of insult. No tension in his jaw. Just that calm, unshaken demeanor.

“I understand,” he said after a beat, setting down his wineglass with a gentleness that felt... calculated. “I recently went through a divorce myself. Pain leaves strange holes in us, doesn’t it?”

I blinked. Divorce?