Page 112 of Crushed Vow
I chose a silver convertible, and slid into the driver’s seat.
As I drove toward Cielo Rosso, the city lights streaked past the windshield in a blur of gold and red. But none of it registered.
My fingers clenched the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale against the leather.
In my chest, something pressed—like dread coiled too tightly to name.
My mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.
What if the restaurant was crowded?
What if the laughter started again? The taunting?
What if someone saw through me—through the fabric and the fake composure—straight to the hollowed-out shell I was trying so hard to glue together?
Would they laugh like those boys from days ago
Would I hear it again—
“chestless bitch?”
“If I had a chest like that, I’d lock myself in a fucking basement.”
No, I told myself. Not tonight.
The breast pads were in place. My dress carefully chosen. Every layer of fabric, every contour, every illusion sculpted to conceal the truth. To mask the incisions. To bury the absence.
They wouldn’t know.
But it didn’t matter, did it?
Because I knew. And somehow, that felt worse.
The wheel jerked slightly in my hand as I took a breath. My vision swam.
This wasn’t just a dinner.
It was a battlefield. And I was showing up wounded, stitched together with shaky hands and hope that barely held.
When I arrived at Cielo Rosso, the parking lot shimmered with luxury—sleek black sedans and imported sports cars lined in flawless symmetry, their polished bodies reflecting the warm, opulent glow of the restaurant’s golden facade. It looked like something out of a dream. But my heart was anything but steady.
I sat still for a moment, hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel.
You’re fine. It’s just dinner.
But my body wasn’t convinced. My skin itched under the dress, nerves crawling like a second heartbeat.
I stepped out, forcing my posture into poise. I smoothed the fabric over my hips, adjusted the breast pads beneath my neckline for the hundredth time, and walked toward the entrance.
The scent hit me first—rosemary, roasted garlic, hints of aged wine. Inside, the restaurant was intimate, like a carefully curated fantasy.
Candlelit tables flickered under gold chandeliers. Soft jazz murmured through hidden speakers, a gentle seduction meant to dull the senses. Couples leaned in close, fingers grazing wine glasses, laughter low and confident. Every detail screamed old money, refinement, power that never needed to announce itself.
And me?
I felt like a ghost crashing a world that had no place for scars.
I paused near the hostess stand, resisting the urge to clutch my chest.
