Page 20 of Broken Vows

I don’t want to hurt Annabelle, but I will absolutely go through with my plan to take down Theo and expose him for who he really is. And after I do, and the pain subsides, she’ll thank me.

And Theo will be ruined.

9 Lexie

The frayed edges of the flannel blanket have been there since I was a kid. On nights my mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, I’d trace its worn edges while watching cartoons, eating dry cereal, and waiting for her to come home. Over the years, it became a lifeline for me—wrapped around me as a frightened kid, a lonely teenager and during late-night study sessions. It was even draped over my lap when I opened the letter offering me a full-ride scholarship to St. Benedicts University in Boston.

But when I went to college, I left it behind at my mom’s. The moment I stepped onto campus, I wanted, needed, a new life with nothing tying me to the past—including my beloved blanket. It felt like my history was somehow imbedded into the fabric, that each thread carried a restraint that taunted me with the threat of failing and returning to the life I was desperate to escape. As I tug the blanket over my mom’s chest now, I feel those same tattered threads and wonder if somehow, deep down, I knew back then I’d land in the place I am now.

“It’s freezing in here. I think you should turn up the heat,” I say, and step over to the thermostat. Ugh. It’s freaking January, not even fifty degrees outside, and my mom has the heat turned off.

“Ah, nothing that a warm cup of tea won’t fix,” she says, waving me away, but not pulling the blanket off her chest. “You hungry, honey? I can make us a couple of ham sandwiches.”

I shake my head. I’m actually famished, but I refuse to eat my mom’s food, knowing she works way harder than me to get those groceries. And—not that I’d ever tell her this—but I ate one too many (a thousand too many) of those sandwiches growing up, and now the sight of ham on wheat makes me want to vomit.

The local news plays on the small TV in the background as I grab the fresh bottle of scent-free lotion I brought over today and sit next to my mom on the faded green couch. The broken springs dig into my back as I shift into a spot. “Give me your hands.”

“You’re always fussing,” she says, her wrinkles deepening around her tired eyes as she smiles and holds her hands out.

My mother has the hands of a ninety-year old woman. They carry this cracked, reddish-gray tint from thirty-plus years of handling cleaning supplies and bleached towels. She only started wearing latex gloves in the last decade or so, which seems to irritate her almost as much as the chemicals. I pump a few droplets into my hand and start massaging.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When I got my scholarship, I knew that our lives would change. If I worked hard, which I was absolutely prepared to do, I could graduate in a little over three years. I’d take the max amount of credits, work in the school coffee shop, study my ass off, and when I was done, I’d get my mom out of this place. I’d make enough money to finally upgrade her to a one-bedroom, maybe even something with a view. I’d get a job, work through my masters, then a PsyD, and eventually she’d reduce her work hours. And once my practice took off, she’d be able to retire altogether.

All of our dreams, the hard work, the sweat, would finally, finally, be worth it.

I thought the scholarship of my dreams was the break I needed. But I was wrong. Sophomore year, I landed the break of a lifetime when my dormmate dropped out of school in the middle of the semester leaving vacant her student aideship with the revered, highly sought-after mentor, Dr. George K. Astor. Someone whose books were not only textbooks at our college, but required reading across multiple Fortune 500 leadership teams. And he chose me to fill the open position. Me. A scholarship kid from Queens, with nothing but a truckload of ambition.

I’ll never forget the way he smiled at me, how the crinkling around his eyes fanned to the gray at his temples, how he’d pull off his glasses and look at me, so thoughtfully, seeing me when I’d been invisible for so many years. He even took time from his insanely packed schedule to read one of my papers and invite me to visit after hours for one-on-one tutoring sessions when campus was quiet.

But the real privilege came on a Friday evening when Dr. Astor invited me at the last minute to be his guest at a university fundraising event. He promised to introduce me to some people and help me start building my future. I couldn’t believe that he’d chosen me out of all his students. For the first time since starting school, I began to believe I could really make it in this field.

I was momentarily conflicted, though, because I was supposed to meet Theo at the same event for a date. An actual, real date. A few days earlier, at the coffee shop, he and I had a run-in. I’d accidentally knocked into him while cleaning up some tables and dropped a half-filled latte on the floor. I thought he’d do his typical staring at me with disgust, make a hurtful remark, and walk off as if I was unworthy of his time. But, he surprised me. He’d stayed. He even helped me clean up. For the first time, we had a real conversation.

Having his undivided attention, I was on cloud nine. I mean, Theo Astor was paying me attention. Me! He asked about my classes, I mentioned how hard it was to land an internship as a sophomore, he laughed when I told him I was in the middle of St. Ben’s infamously hellish Chem 101 monotone lecture, which required ingesting a bucket of caffeine to sit through without falling asleep. After a while, I loosened up.

We didn’t chat long, and he’d left as soon as we’d finished cleaning. An hour later, I got a text from an unknown number asking if I was free the following Friday.

I let them know they had the wrong number, only to get an immediate response: “I’ll give you exactly one guess who this is. Actually, I’m too impatient. It’s Theo. I’ve got something that might solve your internship problems, but you’ll have to meet me next Friday. One-time offer. My kindness doesn’t extend far.” It wasn’t exactly the most romantic way to ask me out, but holy shit, Theo had been thinking of me!

But when Dr. Astor asked me to go to the event with him, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity. In my trembling excitement for my date with Theo, I forgot my phone in the dorm, but asked Dr. Astor to text Theo, to let him know I couldn’t make it because I’d accepted his invite.

Theo never spoke to me again.

I tried to shake off my disappointment and forget Theodore Astor even existed. Until he forced his way back into my life and sabotaged everything the following week.

And now… I’m planning his wedding. What sort of fucked-up underworld am I living in? I should have said no. I should have known from one look at Theo last week, in his designer clothes and perfect haircut and smug face, that he was going to be trouble. Our firm is just like a bar—we can refuse service for any reason. But I need that promotion. My mother’s future depends on it.

I sold my soul. I pray to Christ it was worth it.

As I switch to massaging my mom’s left hand, I push away any other thoughts of what happened back in Boston and focus on what’s going to happen these next six months. It’s been three days since Theo cornered me in the hall, and I cannot shake what happened. I still feel the heat of his chest against mine, the way my body singed with fear, the sharp masculine cedar and salt scent filling my nose. I cannot understand why, if he truly doesn’t remember me, he wants me to be his lead planner. Yes, he overheard my conversation with Justin. But is that enough of a reason? Keeping me close because he doesn’t trust me?

Although I’ve never been in his position, coming from a wealthy, powerful family and marrying into an even wealthier and more powerful one. Maybe this is just what happens with the billionaire boys’ club—you’re surrounded by distrustful people you need to keep close.

“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Mom says, nudging at the mug.

I take a few sips, but it’s not needed. My insides are on fire. I thought that I’d buried this rage. Did anger simmer beneath the surface over the years? Yes. But I was like a hibernating bear. The fury dulled. Muted, even.

At least I thought.