Page 64 of Crushed Vow

My hands trembled as I stirred the pan, the yolk bubbling, spitting grease. The sun had barely risen, but rage had already settled in my bones like rot.

Cassian fucking lied to me.

I stood stiff, barefoot on the cold tile, my fingers curling around the spatula like it was a weapon. My chest burned, not from the heat—but from the call I’d received last night.

A doctor had called. Through the central estate line. Said he was from one of the top psychiatric hospitals in New York.

He said he used to treat my mother.

He said Cassian brought her in after the last violent episode, after she clawed a nurse’s eye, after she tried to bite through her restraints.

He said Cassian signed the order to put her to sleep. Quietly. Legally. Discreetly.

“She wasn’t going to survive the month,” the man had said gently. “But the pain was out of control. She begged. And Mr. Moretti... he did what any son would do for his mother.”

Except she wasn’t his mother.

She was mine.

And he never told me. He let me believe she died naturally—after the madness had taken her. But no. He’d chosen for her. Like he always chose for me. Like I was too small, too fragile, too broken to deserve the truth.

He took that decision from me. Like he took everything else.

I was so angry I could barely breathe. It felt like betrayal stacked on top of betrayal, like the weight of every lie he ever told was finally crushing me.

My hand slipped. The spatula clattered against the stovetop, egg sliding off the pan, sizzling on the flame.

I snapped.

I grabbed the pan and smashed it against the counter.

Once.

Twice.

Over and over.

Egg and oil and porcelain splattered the tiles, a storm of mess and fury.

“I hate you,” I hissed under my breath. “I hate you. I hope the fire swallowed you whole.”

I stood there panting, hands braced on the counter, shaking uncontrollably when I felt something shift behind me—a shadow falling across the wall.

I turned.

Cassian.

Standing just a few feet away.

He wore dark clothes and a pair of sleek, medical glasses tinted like shadows. His skin was unburnt. He wasn’t a ghost. He was alive.

My mouth went dry.

“You made it out,” I said flatly.

He didn’t answer. Just stood there like a statue, and I realized... he was looking toward me, but not at me.

Something was off in his eyes.