Page 114 of Crushed Vow
His expression didn’t shift. No flicker of insult. No tension in his jaw. Just that calm, unshaken demeanor.
“I understand,” he said after a beat, setting down his wineglass with a gentleness that felt... calculated. “I recently went through a divorce myself. Pain leaves strange holes in us, doesn’t it?”
I blinked. Divorce?
He smiled, almost too understanding. “I thought maybe we could explore something. But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. Friends, then?”
He offered the word like an olive branch. But something about the way he said it—Friends, then?—felt less like a door opening and more like a net settling.
Still, I nodded. “Friends,” I echoed, the knot in my chest loosening just enough for air to slip through. “Yes.”
The waiter returned just then, placing our plates gently before us.
My grilled sea bass shimmered with lemon and herbs, steam curling upward. Manuel’s risotto glowed golden, fragrant and rich.
I picked up my fork and took a bite, the fish flaking softly beneath my teeth.
For a moment, I let myself breathe. The ordinary act of eating tethered me.
Manuel took a bite, then dabbed at his mouth with the edge of his napkin. “So,” he said casually, tilting his head slightly, “want to tell me about yourself? Or should I start?”
His tone was light and unthreatening. But something in the way he watched me made my pulse skip.
“You go first,” I said, cutting another piece of fish and pretending my fingers weren’t trembling slightly.
He smiled and leaned back slightly, swirling the wine in his glass. “Alright then,” he said, voice velvety. “Let’s see... I grew up in Argentina, studied medicine in Barcelona. Moved here six years ago when my daughter was diagnosed. Best hospitals are here. I’m a neurosurgeon, which probably already makes me a control freak.”
I forced a smile. “Your daughter... is she okay?”
“Better,” he said simply. “She’s stable. And she’s the reason I’ve stayed grounded. You’ll meet her one day, maybe.”
One day.
My stomach turned slightly, even as I nodded politely.
There was a quiet pause. Long enough for me to wonder why he looked so unbothered by rejection.
But I kept eating.
And smiling.
Then my attention faltered.
A group of men in sharp suits filtered into the restaurant, their movements too synchronized. They didn’t speak to anyone. Just walked in like they had a right to every shadow.
My heart dropped, instinct flaring hot in my chest.
I froze mid-chew, my breath caught.
My eyes scanned their faces. Not for recognition. For masks. For weapons. For a sign that this was another trap disguised in silk and candlelight.
And then—I saw him.
Grayson.
My father.
The man who had me kidnapped and sent to a psych ward without a shred of pity or intention of ever getting me out.
