Page 23 of Crushed Vow

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.”