Page 2 of Stolen Vows

For two whole heartbeats, I’m suspended in a state of shock. My head buzzes like a hundred angry wasps are bouncing off my skull, their wings filling my head until I feel like I can’t breathe.

It’s not the first time I’ve been slapped. And I’m not naïve enough to think it’ll be the last. But somehow, I’m always surprised by it. The sound, the pain, the shock of it all.

My head whips to the side. My vision blurs for a second before snapping back into focus.

My cheek pulses in tandem with my heartbeat, the pain flashing hot, sharp, and electric—like I’ve stuck my finger into an outlet.

I don’t move to cup my tender cheek. I’ve made that mistake before.

Mom’s voice is like vodka poured into an open wound. “Don’t you ever disrespect me like that again. Do you understand me?”

I slide my tongue across my cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood. My stomach churns, but I swallow it down. I don’t respond, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I look at her through a sheen of tears, sadness sinking its claws into me just a little deeper.

“And for God’s sake, put some clothes on,” she sneers, stepping back with her nose held high and shoulders pulled back. “Your inappropriate clothing is a mark against this family. If you’d like for us to treat you both like cheap whores and let your father’s friends take what you’re so readily offering instead of creating meaningful betrothal agreements with men of standards, that can be arranged.”

Florence folds first. She always does. “We’re sorry, Mother,” she murmurs, head bowed, slipping into perfect obedience as effortlessly as breathing.

Grandmother tuts approvingly. “I told you it takes a strong hand to raise girls, Catherine. And you never did believe me.” Her lips curve into a pleased little smirk. “Maybe now you will.”

There’s nothing profound about today. Nothing different about this moment, or the way it unfolds. Not the violence or the harsh words or the threats.

But something inside me shifts. Like a metal door creaks open, revealing a yawning, bottomless cavern—a yearning so deep it terrifies me. A whisper from the back of my mind, encouraging me to jump into it. To let myself freefall.

And clarity comes to me all at once.

If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to become my mother. Just another cog in the maternal wheel of Carrington women.

In twenty years, will I stand in this same study as she slaps me again? And if I have children, will I fall into her footsteps and raise my hand to them?

No.Hellno.

I meet my mother’s gaze, resolve burning inside me like an inferno.

I take my time, letting my gaze roam over her. Her meticulously manicured face. Her lips still pinched, her cheek still splotchy with the evidence of Grandmother’s cruelty.

There’s so, so much hostility, and it’s been dressed up in silk and stamped in gold.

On that random Wednesday in July, I make my mother a silent promise.

I will never become you.

Even if I have to burn this entire legacy to the ground.

1

FRANCESCA

Ten years ago

“Honestly,Frankie, you’re acting like a spoiled brat. And it’s not cute in case you were wondering.”

My sister’s nasally drawl scrapes down my back like nails on a chalkboard. She sounds exactly like our mother, and I know if I glance over my shoulder at her, she’ll have the same pinched expression, like she just sucked on a lemon.

“I wasn’t, but thanks,” I murmur, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

“Time to end this charade and come home.”

My sister’s words wrap around my neck like a noose, and I struggle to breathe through the incredulity.Home. What a fucking joke.

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