Page 24 of Crushed Vow
The panic curled in my chest, but it didn’t spill over this time. Cassian’s voice—steady, grounding—was the only thing holding me there.
I took a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Okay?” he repeated softly, like he couldn’t believe I said it.
I nodded once. “But if he talks to me like I’m a patient—I’m walking out.”
“You won’t need to,” Cassian said. “He’s not here to fix you, Charlotte. He’s here to remind you that you’re not broken.”
He stepped back, giving me space without a word.
I turned away, my hand grazing the edge of the neckline—fingers brushing against the faint scar beneath the fabric. A ghost of pain flickered there, more memory than sensation.
The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind me.
And only then, in the silence, did I let myself exhale—shaky, shallow, like I’d been holding my breath since the moment he said “Angelo.”
The mirror didn’t scare me this time. It startled me—but didn’t scare me.
The woman reflected back at me wasn’t the ghost I’d seen so many times before. There was color in her face. Her eyes weren’t empty. Frightened, yes. Hesitant, yes. But alive. And that had to count for something.
I stepped into the shower. The water was warm, grounding. It traced over the scar near my chest—an old wound, nearly faded now. I no longer flinched when I saw it. It was just... part of me.
After drying off, I scanned the wardrobe. My clothes weren’t here. Just Cassian’s—lined up with almost obsessive precision. I reached for one of his oversized button-down shirts, soft cotton in pale slate blue. The sleeves swallowed my wrists, but it was clean, comforting.
I stepped into the living room.
The scent of something warm and savory lingered in the air, but my attention shifted to the man standing near the windows.
He wore a tailored suit, but there was nothing clinical about him. No cold detachment, no watchful judgment. Just a quiet, grounded presence.
When he smiled, it wasn’t forced. “Mrs. Moretti,” he greeted, stepping forward slowly. “I’m Angelo. A friend of Cassian’s.”
I gave a small nod, cautious but composed. “He mentioned you.”
Cassian appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a cloth. His gaze never left me. “She needs to eat first,” he said, his voice calm but edged with protectiveness.
“I’m fine,” I said, surprising even myself. “Let’s just start.”
Cassian hesitated, jaw flexing like he wanted to argue—but he didn’t. He simply nodded once, then guided me to the couch with a gentle touch on my back. He sat beside me, close but careful.
His hand reached for mine—hesitant, testing the waters—but I pulled away after a beat. Not out of spite. Just... reflex. My skin still hadn’t forgotten what fear felt like.
Angelo settled across from us in the armchair. His posture was relaxed, legs uncrossed, hands resting on his thighs. Not athreat. Not a rescuer. Just someone who seemed to know how to be still in heavy moments.
I met his eyes. “Tell me the truth,” I said softly. “Am I mentally ill?”
“No,” he replied, his tone calm and certain. “What you’re experiencing isn’t madness. It’s trauma. The panic, the disorientation, the dissociation—they’re not signs that you’re broken. They’re signs that you survived something your body wasn’t meant to endure.”
My breath caught.
“Your brain adapted to keep you alive. That’s not dysfunction. That’s resilience.”
I glanced at Cassian, who was no longer looking at Angelo. His gaze was locked on me, like I was something sacred and fragile all at once.
“I get triggered by everything,” I whispered. “Especially this house.”
