Page 41 of Crushed Vow

He nodded slowly, like the movement scraped against bone.

Then he said, quietly—almost to himself, “I’ve ripped my soul apart to stitch yours back together. But it’s not enough, is it?”

I couldn’t answer.

His voice broke like glass. “I can survive your hatred. Your silence. But not your absence. Not the thought that I destroyed the only thing that ever made me want to be more.”

He looked away then—shoulders tense, but it was the way he turned that shattered something in me.

Because no matter how much he gave, how much he bled... It just wasn’t enough to unburn what he’d already set on fire.

Chapter 8

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.