Page 111 of Crushed Vow
I grabbed my phone again and dialed Ethan, my fingers trembling slightly. He picked up on the second ring, his voice warm but laced with the fatigue of his hospital stay.
“Ethan, how are you doing?” I asked quietly.
“Same as you left me,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “What’s up? Why’re you calling?”
“Well,” I crossed the room and stared at the window. “You gave a stranger my number,” I said, my voice sharp but not unkind, waiting for him to explain himself.
He chuckled, the sound unapologetic. “A hot stranger, Charlotte. Dr. Manuel’s one of the doctors here, and he’s not exactly a stranger to me—he’s Genevieve’s uncle.”
“Still,” I said, my tone firm, “you could’ve asked for my consent before handing out my contact.”
“My bad,” he said, his voice softening with sincerity. “But he told me you approached him first, even took his card. I figured you were playing around, maybe testing the waters with someone new.” He paused, his tone turning teasing. “But seriously, I’m sorry, okay? Won’t happen again.”
I swallowed, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. “It’s okay.”
A beat of silence passed before I continued, my voice quieter. “He’s invited me to dinner. I don’t want to go, but now that you say he’s not a total stranger, I’m... I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Ethan said, his voice steady and reassuring. “If he’s pushing, just block his number. If he asks me about you, I’ll tell him you’re not in the right headspace. No pressure. No harm done.”
His words were gentle, without judgment.
I stared at the floor, my thoughts tangled. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted.
“Charlotte...” Ethan’s voice softened. Like he could feel me unraveling on the other end. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My chest too tight. “Okay,” I said finally, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t press further.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Talk to you later.” I hung up, the phone heavy in my hand as I stared at it, the weight of indecision pressing against me.
My gaze drifted to the drawing materials scattered across the floor, pencils and sketchpads strewn from Cassian’s earlier outburst.
I knelt, gathering them with care, my fingers brushing over the rough texture of the paper.
I tried to focus, sketching absentminded lines—a curve here, a shadow there—but my mind kept slipping back to Manuel’s voice, smooth and inviting, and the way Cassian’s touch still lingered on my skin.
The pencil trembled in my hand, my strokes faltering as my thoughts darted between the two men, one a fleeting distraction, the other a storm I couldn’t escape.
I pushed the sketchpad away, frustration bubbling up, and stood, pacing the room. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second pulling me closer to evening.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, my voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ll go. It’s just dinner. What could go wrong?” The words felt hollow, but I clung to them, needing something to break the cycle of my thoughts.
I headed to my room, my steps purposeful but heavy.
In front of the mirror, I hesitated, my reflection a reminder of the scars I carried.
I chose a sleek black dress, its high neckline offering coverage, and slipped on a breast pad to mask my insecurities.
The memory of Manuel’s gaze lingering on my chest during our last encounter made my stomach twist—I wouldn’t let him see me exposed.
I smoothed the dress over my hips, applied a touch of makeup to brighten my tired eyes, and stepped into a pair of heels, their click against the floor a small boost of confidence.
Before leaving, I texted Manuel:I’ll be at Cielo Rosso for dinner.
His reply came almost instantly:Can’t wait to see you. I’ll be there.
I crossed the estate to Cassian’s garage, the cool evening air nipping at my skin.
