Page 32 of Crushed Vow
“Oh, and Charlotte—tell him about the party,” he said over his shoulder before walking out.
Cassian narrowed his eyes. “What party?”
I swallowed. “Ethan invited me. It’s tomorrow. Just something small... fun. He thought it might help me feel a little normal again.”
Cassian didn’t speak. He just stared at the door Ethan had walked through, like he was considering whether to burn it down or follow him out.
I pulled my hand back and sank onto the couch, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “There’ll be music, games... dancing.” I looked up at Cassian. “I want to go. I need to. Just for a few hours—to feel like myself again.”
His expression barely shifted. “There are a thousand ways to have fun, Charlotte. Why does it have to be a club?”
“It’s not some grimy underground rave. It’s a private venue—safe and controlled.” I paused. “I’ve been locked away for a year, Cassian. Watched. Caged like an animal.”
My voice cracked slightly, but I kept going. “I just want to feel normal again. To laugh. To move without fear. To exist in a space that isn’t haunted by what happened. Just for one night.”
“Please,” I whispered, my voice dipping as I met his gaze. “Let me have this.”
He looked away quickly, jaw tightening. “Don’t give me those eyes.”
“Why not?” I asked, trying to hide the hint of a smile.
“Because when you look at me like that...” He exhaled sharply. “You know I can’t say no.”
“So... that’s a yes?” I asked softly.
He let a long beat pass. Then: “Only if I come with you.”
“You can—if you promise not to hover like a storm cloud the whole time.”
“I won’t hover,” he said, but his tone darkened slightly. “But if any man touches you, or even looks at you the wrong way, I’ll break something. Probably his fingers first.”
“Cassian...”
He tilted his head slightly. “You know how I am. You’re asking me to walk into a room full of strangers with you looking like that. If that’s a risk you’re willing to take—fine. I’ll be there.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I looked away. I’d go. I’d dance. I’d pretend, for one night, that life didn’t feel like a battlefield.
But first, I’d need to find the perfect dress. Something that said:
I am Cassian Moretti’s wife. Touch me—and die.
Chapter 7
CHARLOTTE
I sat before the mirror, brushing out the final damp waves from my hair. The room smelled faintly of the luxury perfumes Cassian had ordered—too many bottles, like everything else he’d sent in preparation for this party.
Dresses. Shoes. Accessories. Enough to clothe a small nation.
And all of it meant nothing.
He thinks he can drown me in silk and diamonds, but I still remember the white walls of the psych ward. The straps. The drugs. The screams.
And long before that—I remember the one time he couldn’t meet my eyes during sex, turning me around because my chest “ruined the illusion.”
So no, I didn’t pick the red dress. Or the silk. Or the plunging neckline Cassian had probably chosen with shaking hands.
I chose black. A modest cut. A sharp edge. Like armor.
