Page 8 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

CHARLOTTE

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, I was unraveling—panic seizing my lungs, memories slicing through me like blades. And the next, I was waking up in his bed.

But something was different.

The room still looked familiar on the surface. Same moody gray walls. Same view of the estate grounds through the arched windows. But the atmosphere—the very air—had changed.

The curtains were new. Light now, gauzy, filtering in a soft morning glow instead of suffocating darkness. The harsh leather headboard had been replaced with a carved wood frame, smooth and warm-toned. The silk sheets were gone, too—replaced by breathable cotton that didn’t stick to my skin.

It felt... safer. Not entirely. But enough that I didn’t immediately reach for the walls.

Just as I was pushing myself upright, the door creaked open.

Cassian stepped inside slowly, as if afraid to startle me. His voice was quiet. Careful. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I said, blinking hard. “You... brought me here?”

He nodded once. “You fell asleep on the couch. I didn’t want to leave you there.”

I remembered how he used to be. Back when every act of care came with a cold silence, or worse—denial. Now he said it plainly. As if the admission didn’t burn him anymore.

My eyes scanned the room again. “You changed everything.”

His gaze followed mine, then dropped to the floor. “Yeah. The doctor said it might help with the trauma. Make it feel less like... before.”

My throat tightened.

He took a few slow steps toward the armchair across the room, keeping a respectful distance. “Are you hungry?”

I hadn’t thought about it until now. I nodded.

“I made something simple. Do you want me to serve you?”

“I can do it myself.” I slipped out from under the duvet and stood. “I just need a shower first.”

He hesitated, then said, “Go ahead. I’ll finish setting the table.”

He hesitated before speaking again, quieter now—almost like he was testing the weight of each word before releasing it.

“There’s someone coming by in about an hour,” he said, gently. “His name is Angelo. He’s a friend of mine.”

I stilled. Just the tone he used—soft, deliberate—sent a warning bell through my chest. My fingers froze in the towel.

I turned slowly. “Who is he?”

Cassian’s throat bobbed. “He... helps people. With trauma.”

My stomach turned. That sounded dangerously close to a doctor.

He stepped closer, hands raised slightly like he was approaching a wild animal. “Charlotte, listen to me. He’s not from a hospital. He’s not here to medicate you or lock you away.”

I didn’t move.

“He’s not a psychiatrist,” Cassian added quickly. “Not a doctor. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“Then what is he?” I asked, voice shaky.

“He’s trauma-informed. He works privately and quietly. He’s helped people I know get through things they thought they’d never recover from. But he’s only here to talk. And only if you want to.”

I stood frozen, breath caught in my throat. “So you didn’t call some white-coat expert behind my back?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Never again. I told you—nothing happens unless you say yes.”

The panic curled in my chest, but it didn’t spill over this time. Cassian’s voice—steady, grounding—was the only thing holding me there.

I took a breath. Then another.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Okay?” he repeated softly, like he couldn’t believe I said it.

I nodded once. “But if he talks to me like I’m a patient—I’m walking out.”

“You won’t need to,” Cassian said. “He’s not here to fix you, Charlotte. He’s here to remind you that you’re not broken.”

He stepped back, giving me space without a word.

I turned away, my hand grazing the edge of the neckline—fingers brushing against the faint scar beneath the fabric. A ghost of pain flickered there, more memory than sensation.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind me.

And only then, in the silence, did I let myself exhale—shaky, shallow, like I’d been holding my breath since the moment he said “Angelo.”

The mirror didn’t scare me this time. It startled me—but didn’t scare me.

The woman reflected back at me wasn’t the ghost I’d seen so many times before. There was color in her face. Her eyes weren’t empty. Frightened, yes. Hesitant, yes. But alive. And that had to count for something.

I stepped into the shower. The water was warm, grounding. It traced over the scar near my chest—an old wound, nearly faded now. I no longer flinched when I saw it. It was just... part of me.

After drying off, I scanned the wardrobe. My clothes weren’t here. Just Cassian’s—lined up with almost obsessive precision. I reached for one of his oversized button-down shirts, soft cotton in pale slate blue. The sleeves swallowed my wrists, but it was clean, comforting.

I stepped into the living room.

The scent of something warm and savory lingered in the air, but my attention shifted to the man standing near the windows.

He wore a tailored suit, but there was nothing clinical about him. No cold detachment, no watchful judgment. Just a quiet, grounded presence.

When he smiled, it wasn’t forced. “Mrs. Moretti,” he greeted, stepping forward slowly. “I’m Angelo. A friend of Cassian’s.”

I gave a small nod, cautious but composed. “He mentioned you.”

Cassian appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a cloth. His gaze never left me. “She needs to eat first,” he said, his voice calm but edged with protectiveness.

“I’m fine,” I said, surprising even myself. “Let’s just start.”

Cassian hesitated, jaw flexing like he wanted to argue—but he didn’t. He simply nodded once, then guided me to the couch with a gentle touch on my back. He sat beside me, close but careful.

His hand reached for mine—hesitant, testing the waters—but I pulled away after a beat. Not out of spite. Just... reflex. My skin still hadn’t forgotten what fear felt like.

Angelo settled across from us in the armchair. His posture was relaxed, legs uncrossed, hands resting on his thighs. Not a threat. Not a rescuer. Just someone who seemed to know how to be still in heavy moments.

I met his eyes. “Tell me the truth,” I said softly. “Am I mentally ill?”

“No,” he replied, his tone calm and certain. “What you’re experiencing isn’t madness. It’s trauma. The panic, the disorientation, the dissociation—they’re not signs that you’re broken. They’re signs that you survived something your body wasn’t meant to endure.”

My breath caught.

“Your brain adapted to keep you alive. That’s not dysfunction. That’s resilience.”

I glanced at Cassian, who was no longer looking at Angelo. His gaze was locked on me, like I was something sacred and fragile all at once.

“I get triggered by everything,” I whispered. “Especially this house.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Angelo said gently.

“It means your nervous system is sounding alarms where it once wasn’t safe.

This house carries history. So do the people in it.

But that reaction is your body trying to protect you.

We can work with that. The goal isn’t to forget—it’s to make remembering less painful. ”

I swallowed. “So what? Do I need more drugs?”

He shook his head. “No. What you need now is the opposite of what they gave you. You need stability. Safety. Space where you’re not touched without consent. Where you’re not punished for emotion. You need to be seen as human again.”

My eyes blurred for a moment. I blinked hard.

“Whatever facility you were in,” he continued, “they likely used heavy sedatives. Antipsychotics. Possibly even medication designed to suppress memory. We need to run a blood panel to see what’s still in your system.”

“That’s why everything feels so... tangled,” I murmured. “Like I’m floating in someone else’s head.”

He nodded. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. And you’re not imagining the confusion. Flashbacks, numbness, hallucinations—those are all normal reactions to both trauma and withdrawal.”

I sat quietly for a moment, absorbing his words. Then: “What happens next?”

“If you’re comfortable,” he said, “I’ll take a small blood sample. It’ll go to a private lab. From there, we can make informed decisions—together. Nothing happens without your permission.”

I looked to Cassian. He gave the slightest nod, a silent promise not to interfere.

“Okay,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Do it.”

Angelo opened a slim medical kit and moved to my side. “I’m going to tie this around your arm. It’ll feel snug for a few seconds. You let me know if you want to stop.”

I nodded stiffly, heart racing.

He moved slowly, like he’d done this a thousand times but knew each time mattered. As the tourniquet tightened, my pulse surged. When he pulled out the needle, my body tensed.

Images from the ward flashed in my mind—cold metal beds, locked doors, the sting of sedation. I gripped the couch cushion beside me to stay grounded.

“Small pinch,” he warned, and then it was over. Quick. Clean. The vial began to fill.

He pressed cotton to the site, taped it gently, and packed everything back with quiet efficiency.

“All done,” he said with a reassuring nod. “You did well. I’ll be in touch soon with the results.”

He stood, pausing briefly as if to give me space to ask anything else. I just nodded again, too drained to speak. Cassian didn’t move or say a word.

Angelo gave me a final, kind look, then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

I glanced down at my lap, then at the soft cotton sleeve of the shirt I wore.

His shirt.

“I borrowed this,” I said, barely above a whisper.

Cassian turned his head, his gaze trailing over me with something unreadable. “It looks better on you.”

A flicker of heat rose to my cheeks, but I pushed it down. I shifted slightly on the couch, giving us both room to breathe.

“What did you make?” I asked, nodding toward the kitchen. My voice still felt too tight, like it hadn’t been used in years.

“Pasta,” he replied, his tone softer now. “Tomato basil. Light. I remember you liked it.”