Page 113 of Crushed Vow
Then I saw him.
Manuel.
He was seated near the tall window, moonlight bleeding in behind him. His blazer was dark, expertly tailored, hugging his broad shoulders with practiced ease.
His hands rested on the white tablecloth, calm and confident. When he spotted me, his face brightened—an easy, practiced smile.
Smile back,I told myself.Act normal.
So I did.
But even as I moved toward him, something inside me whispered:
Be careful.
Not because of the way he looked at me.
But because I didn’t trust anyone who looked at a broken girl like she was whole.
“Good evening,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. The candlelight danced between us, flickering across the polished cutlery and the strained smile I forced onto my lips.
My heels clicked softly against the marble floor beneath the table.
“I’m so glad you came, Charlotte,” he said, his voice smooth and genuine.
He raised a hand and gestured subtly. A waiter appeared almost instantly, offering a leather-bound menu with both hands like he was delivering scripture.
“Shall we order?” he asked, watching me with calm interest.
I nodded, even though my stomach twisted. My fingers hovered over the embossed lettering as I scanned the menu, barely registering the words.
“I’ll have the grilled sea bass... with lemon herb sauce,” I said, forcing the tremor from my voice. It came out steadier than I expected. But inside, I was crumbling.
“Excellent choice,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll take the Osso Buco with saffron risotto.”
The waiter disappeared again, melting into the soft jazz and murmured conversation around us.
Now it was just the two of us and the candle burning slow between us like a silent clock.
Manuel leaned in slightly, elbows grazing the tablecloth. Not close enough to make me recoil, but close enough to feel it.
“I just think we could get to know each other,” he said, voice wrapped in warmth, but with a faint undertow I couldn’t quite name. “Ever since you walked up to me at the hospital, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
His eyes searched my face—not hungrily, not in the way men sometimes did. It was softer. Disarming.
“You’ve got this... fire,” he continued. “A presence that’s hard to ignore.”
I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do.
I swallowed, my throat thick with guilt and something heavier—shame, maybe, or fear of disappointing yet another man who expected more from me than I had to give.
“Actually...” I said, the word rasping out of my throat like it didn’t want to be spoken. “I need to be honest.”
Manuel looked up, pausing mid-sip of his wine.
“I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.” My voice came out calm and even. “When I came up to you at the hospital, I was... I was trying to distract myself. I’d just been through something, and I guess I wanted to feel something else. Anything else. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
There. It was out. The truth. Even if it sounded pathetic, even if it made me look like a tease, or broken, or both—I couldn’t sit here pretending.
