Page 10 of Stolen Vows

Instead, I feel nothing.

Nothing except the heavy, aching kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones when grief has worn you down to the marrow.

I haven’t been back here in five years. Not since the night I let my sister drag me out of my one and only college party. It took months for me to stop thinking about that guy I met.

Graham.

After one particularly bad night at home, I caved—I looked him up. Turns out, searching Graham, baseball, and Sterling University was enough. Three clicks, and there he was—stone-faced and serious, staring back at me from a roster photo.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reach out strong. But I stopped myself before I could go through with it.

What was the point?

I was stuck on the other side of the country with a fiancé I didn’t want, living a life that wasn’t mine.

And now, I’m here. And the weight of everything I lost, everything I tried to outrun, everything I thought I’d never have to face again presses against my ribs, threatening to crack me open.

The loss of Aunt Miriam isn’t just the loss of an incredible woman. It’s the loss of the last, fragile thread of hope I had.

My mother’s sister never played by their rules. She carved her own path, refused to be just another Carrington heiress, and when she finally broke free, they cut her off without hesitation.

She packed up, moved across the country, and married a man ten years younger, a musician with calloused fingers and a devil-may-care grin. She opened a bookstore instead of hosting charity galas, spent her days surrounded by stories instead of stock portfolios, and never once looked back.

She was the only person who ever looked at me and saw something more than an Ashburn daughter, more than a pawn in a carefully arranged future. The only one who ever made me believe I could have more.

And now she’s gone.

The thread has snapped, and I’m free-falling.

I slow to a stop in front of a familiar brick building, its large display windows reflecting the dull gray sky above. Gold lettering, once crisp and bright, is now faded across the glass, spelling out the name of a place that should feel like home.

847 Main Street.

Aunt Miriam’s beloved bookstore.

Now, it’s mine. Or at least, it should be.

I clench my jaw, the lawyer’s words replaying in my head like a sick joke.

“The estate has been placed in a trust until you meet the conditions of the will.You are the primary beneficiary, but your parents have been appointed as executors until you turn thirty.”

A bitter laugh catches in my throat. Of course they have.Of coursemy parents found a way to control something that was never supposed to be theirs.

I shift my weight, my pulse drumming beneath my skin.

“You need to prove you’re capable of handling the estate before you can claim it.”

Which is bullshit. If Aunt Miriam wanted me to have it, if she trusted me with her legacy, why does a court need to agree? Why do my parents get to stand in the way?

Why does my mother need to control everything?

My eyes burn as I stare at the bookstore that should belong to me. They’ll never let me have it. Not really. Not unless I play their game.

Shame swells inside me, a tidal wave crashing against the overwhelming grief.

Five years ago, I talked a big game. I was so sure I’d get out, carve out a life on my own terms. Follow in Aunt Miriam’s footsteps. Prove that I could be more than the daughter my family groomed me to be.

But I’m still right here. The exact place I swore I’d never be, drowning under the impossible weight of their expectations.

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