Page 42 of Crushed Vow
I gave my name, showed ID, and was escorted into a minimalist office—marble floors, dark wood walls, soft lighting.
“Since this was pre-drafted, and uncontested—at least on your end—the process should be swift,” she explained gently. “You’ve been married for over a year, and New York is a no-fault divorce state. We’ll file under irretrievable breakdown of the marriage.”
Irretrievable.
God.
She slid the final page toward me and placed a Montblanc pen beside it.
I signed slowly.
Like the ink was blood. Like I was murdering a ghost.
“The papers will be filed electronically with the Manhattan Supreme Court today. You’ll receive confirmation when your husband signs. If he doesn’t respond within 20 days, we proceedby default judgment. Either way, you’ll be officially divorced in six to eight weeks—sometimes less.”
I nodded, lips trembling. “What if... he fights it later?”
She paused. “Then he’d have to prove coercion or fraud. And judging by the documentation—he won’t. Or can’t.”
My hand lingered over the copy she handed back to me.
Cassian Moretti would see that signature. My name, clear and final.
Maybe that would break him.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
I left the building without looking back.
The receptionist didn’t say goodbye.
The wind outside didn’t feel like freedom. But it was a start.
On my way out, I thought I saw someone watching me. A glint in the reflection of the glass. A pair of eyes, maybe. I spun—but whoever it was had vanished. My pulse jumped. I got in the car and drove home with one eye on the mirror.
The estate was silent when I got back.
I walked into the kitchen like a ghost and placed the signed divorce documents on the counter.
My hands hovered there for a moment, fingers trembling slightly.
I stared at the papers—my freedom, my final say.
And whispered to myself,
“It’s the right thing.”
But the papers didn’t answer back.
They just sat there. Cold.
Unbothered by the war they’d started in my chest.
I didn’t wait for him to come home. I packed nothing—just a phone, a charger, and the will to leave. I slipped out like a ghost and booked a high-security hotel two neighborhoods away. The kind with keycard elevators, surveillance at every hallway, and anonymous check-ins.
My name didn’t matter anymore. Safety did.
Once I was settled, I finally called Vincent.
