Page 39 of Broken Vows

Rage starts to boil my blood at some asshole who thinks he can win her over with meaningless gifts. As if she could be bought.

She is the gift. The way her silky skin would feel under my hands, the way her lips would part with a gasp if I let myself take what I’ve wanted for so long. She’s not something you throw flowers and chocolates at, begging for scraps of her attention.

She picks her phone back up and her thumbs tap against the screen. Finally. In a few seconds my lungs will stop compressing and my veins will shrink. I wait. I stare unblinking at my phone anticipating her reply.

Nothing.

She sets down the phone and sinks onto the couch. My body is burning. She’s probably talking with that guy who called her at the restaurant and is now deliberately choosing to ignore me. My jaw tightens. Unbelievable.

I exhale. I’ll give her one last chance.

Theo: I’m free this weekend to look at design proposals.

She reads the message. And still… nothing. She lays her head back on the couch, rests the phone against her chest, and stares at the ceiling. I can’t see her face from here, I can’t see what she’s thinking, I can’t see fucking anything. Why the hell isn’t she responding?

My knee bounces as I wait to see if she’ll change her mind. I can’t pace because I might miss something, but my limbs are firing, screaming for movement, and yet I wait. One minute turns into two then three. I yank my phone off the desk and even though I’m screaming at myself to stop, I can’t. My thumbs shoot off a message before I can reason with myself.

Theo: We can get on a video call with Anna for her sign off if that makes you more comfortable.

Stop. Stop! I don’t fucking chase women. She’s toying with me. Just like back then. I let her do it to me all those years ago, and I’m letting her do it again. What the fuck is wrong with me? Everything with her is so calculated and she knows exactly what she’s doing. I’m falling right into her hands. Again.

And so, I stop texting and wait. I wait as she closes her blinds, and I can no longer see into her space. As I settle into bed and my eyes are about to close, my hands reach out to my phone on my bedside table for one last check.

No new messages.

18 Lexie

I’ve never been inside Lavendar & Frost. As one of New York’s most coveted high-end bakeries, it was never a place I could justify splurging on. The display cases are filled with the most beautiful items I’ve ever seen—fruit-shaped confections glazed to a mirror shine, delicate edible roses perched atop gold-crusted macaroons, cupcakes meticulously decorated and stuffed with hazelnut chocolate mousse.

I’m pretty sure this is heaven.

I arrive extra early, giving myself time to prepare for my next encounter with Theo—and to ensure he doesn’t get under my skin. When he shows up, punctual as ever, I introduce him to the pastry chef handling today’s cake tasting.

For once, Theo keeps his distance, behaving exactly as a client should—listening intently to the introduction, then following along as we’re led to a small table tucked into the back of the café. It’s perfectly normal.

With him, though, it feels weird.

“I’ve prepared a sampling that pairs well with most things. As you taste, don’t just focus on the visual appeal, but really pay attention to the texture. Is it softer than you expected? Lighter? Denser? Does it crumble on your tongue…” The chef continues talking about flavor profiles, but I’m barely listening. Because I’m at freaking Lavendar & Frost. Besides, I’ve done enough tastings to know that for amateurs like us, it boils down to one thing: does it taste good or not?

Then the doors swing open and his assistant enters with a tray of impossibly intricate desserts. I have to swallow back a moan at how delicious they look.

Theo eyes the chef. “Did I read that you’re self-taught in your craft?”

He nods and clasps his hands in front of himself. “Yes, that’s right.”

There’s a subtle shift in his tone—apprehension, maybe, or the faint tension of someone bracing to defend his credentials. He knows this wedding is for the Barlowe family. No matter how established he is, nerves are inevitable.

“Teaching yourself an art takes a rare kind of discipline and determination. Seeing this—and the care you put into every detail—it’s obvious how much heart you pour into your work. I’m impressed.”

At Theo’s praise, the chef’s cheeks redden and he bows in thanks.

As much as I cling to the devil I know Theo is, it’s moments like this that are the most lethal—the ones that suggest there might be something human buried inside the monster.

Last week when Theo and I were texting about wedding colors, my heart fluttered more than it should have at the attention he was giving me, and I forced myself to cut off communication. Clearly my heart is sabotaging my better judgment.

I thought no contact would fix this, but it hasn’t. I still notice the way he looks today in jeans and a sharp black button-down.

Once the chef steps away, I snap a few photos of the desserts while Theo dives straight in without hesitation—patience is clearly not his virtue. “So many options,” he says, scanning the plates. “I don’t even know where to start. But I’m glad none of these are vanilla-flavored. I’ve never been one for just vanilla.”