Page 12 of Broken Vows

I was still burning with anger when a voice sounded behind me in the quad. “Excuse me!” I turned, irritated, probably growling, to find a girl holding out ear buds in her palm. “You dropped these back there,” she’d said, tossing her thumb behind her shoulder.

I don’t think I even bothered to look at her properly at first. I mumbled a half-assed thank you and turned to head towards my next class, when she stepped in front of me, blocking my way, and asked for directions to the library. I remember specifically thinking, can she not fucking see I’m in a hurry? I almost told her to check the goddamn campus app for a directory but decided not to be a complete dick and barked out something about taking a left at the science center and if she reached the freshman dorms she’d gone too far.

And then she placed her hand on my arm. The bravery of it caught me off guard, sparking a reluctant curiosity. I took my time studying her as she met my gaze with those innocent eyes, and I was certain she’d see the darkness in my soul. Then she asked, “Are you okay?”

I couldn’t remember the last time someone had checked in on me. Who genuinely wanted to know if I was okay. My family sure as fuck didn’t care. I was the only child, a prop to be used when they needed me and otherwise ordered to shut up and be grateful for “everything we do for you.”

I couldn’t answer. The way her simple question left me feeling raw and vulnerable was so terrifying that I stormed off. But the image of the sweet gap-tooth smile and pale cheeks flushed with nervous pink wouldn’t leave me.

Lexie saw me. She didn’t know who I was, nor what sat in my trust fund account nor the expectations that came with my father and family name. She just saw me. Her momentary touch and those piercing green eyes haunted me until the vision of her shifted from me feeling exposed to putting me at ease in a way nothing else ever had—and it felt so damn good.

For a month, I looked for her, yearning, to the depths of my being, for that mental reprieve she provided. I walked through the quad any chance I could. I went to the library that she’d asked directions for, I spent my breaks roaming campus, craving that green-eyed dopamine hit. A few weeks passed and I started to play off my initial reaction, convincing myself that I’d overreacted. I was just exhausted from taking the max course load, weighed down by the pressure of being George Astor’s son. Something just set me off me that day.

But then, I finally saw her again and the spark from that first encounter sharpened into something lethal—a fire-pointed arrow that pierced me down to the bone. Everything else fell away. The pressure. The noise. Watching her across the library ignited a need I couldn’t escape. Lexie became both my distraction and my purpose—the high that carried me through the day.

I memorized her class schedule, her study habits, her work shifts at the campus coffee shop. When I couldn’t see her in person, I studied the photos I’d taken in secret, a substitute when I needed the fix. And sure, I could’ve talked to her, maybe even asked her out, but things were complicated with Annabelle, my father, our parents, and my studies. And Lexie became something else entirely. A gift. A perfect doll-faced genie held behind this fragile glass wall. Untouchable, but magic, my fucking magic—and no one else’s. I knew one day I’d be able to touch her. I’d get close enough to that skin, to taste it, to smell it. But until then, I needed her in the box.

After spending the holidays without her, I happened to be walking one of the university corridors when I heard it—that golden-laced giggle, which I recognized instantly. I’d heard it a hundred times, wanted it to belong to me alone.

But it was for him.

When I stepped through the office door, the fogged plexiglass announcing, “Dr. George K. Astor, Dean of Social and Behavioral Sciences,” Lexie glanced up, shock transforming her face before she nodded in greeting and looked away, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She was my release, my drug, my angel. And there she was, doting on my father.

And my God, he saw her. The same pale cheeks, pouty lips, and soulful innocence that captivated me also captivated him. The moment my father introduced her as one of his brightest and most promising students, I knew. My father is a narcissistic piece of shit and no one impresses him.

Over the semester, I made a point of stopping by his office regularly. I watched the attention Lexie gave my father—attention she never once spared for me—and I couldn’t understand it. Why she’d offer that gift to him. He didn’t deserve it and I couldn’t stand watching her give it to someone who already had everything.

I needed to put an end to this torture. So, I asked her out.

She said yes.

And she didn’t fucking come.

No one stands me up. Ever. I paced outside the auditorium for an hour, convincing myself that maybe I gave her the wrong time, the wrong day, or even the wrong fucking address. Something.

But she didn’t just stand me up. She showed up at the same goddamn place on my father’s arm. It felt deliberate, like she’d played me, led me on because she knew exactly how much power she held. When she looked up at him with those soft, trusting eyes, I was ready to murder.

Because I would’ve given her the world.

But she wanted him.

Even in my humiliation, I couldn’t let her go. She had no idea what she was walking into by choosing my father. I told myself I wasn’t being selfish—that she needed protecting, that only I could keep her safe. Keep her mine. Because I needed her. Not him.

I’m an Astor, for Christ’s sake. We don’t beg. We don’t lose control. And yet she reduced me to something desperate, something I barely recognized.

Now I’m done being that boy. I’m going in with eyes wide open. I know what she’s capable of, and I refuse to let her affect me again. I have plans much, much bigger than her. So, I’ll keep her close until I’m done.

And if she fucks with me again, only God can save her.

6 Theo

My phone pings with a notification and my jaw immediately flexes at the name. The very last thing I want to do on my lunch break is sit in my office and have anything to do with my family. Against my better logic, I swipe open the message.

The article shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it creates the same heated coil in my gut as any other article my mother forwards. At this point, I don’t know why I even bother. The stethoscope slung around my neck feels like a noose. I toss it onto my desk and close the office door, drowning out the staff and patient sounds from the clinic floor.

I sit back on the squeaky black leather chair and read the message. “You should at least make a feeble attempt to see him.” No greetings, no concerns for my well-being, no nothing but that one singular line, which mirrors everything about my upbringing—direct, cold, laced with guilt.

Oh, Mother. I’m sure she knows about my father. The Astor family lineage—brilliant, connected, wealthy. And masters of delusion and denial. My mother may be the daughter of a shipping tycoon and the one with the money, but she’ll never leave him. Appearances will always matter more than truth. Sweeping dirty secrets under the rug is an Astor family pastime.