Page 29 of Broken Vows

So, no, I don’t need to talk to her.

“Fine, I’ll think about it,” I finally say to my fiancée, knowing damn well there’s no way in hell I will. Besides, I’m meeting with a journalist on Sunday who’s agreed to help me with my investigation, and my family can’t find out what I’m planning.

Motion outside the window catches my attention and I lean forward, squinting. “Hey, I’ve got to run. I hear a nurse, and I need to grab him before the patients arrive.”

“Okay, sounds good,” she says. “I’ll call you tonight after dinner and you can let me know your thoughts on the venue tour with Lexie.”

After we hang up, I reach for my camera with its telephoto lens, and a sense of peace settles over me as I spot movement across the street.

The studio apartment is finally mine after three long months of waiting. I moved in last week and I’m already sleeping better than I have in years. This place will become a refuge, a safe haven—far enough removed from everything else to let me focus on what actually matters.

A flicker of guilt surfaces at the thought of Annabelle. I haven’t told her about the apartment. But she wouldn’t understand this insatiable itch that’s corroding my insides or why being here is the only thing that quiets it. I can’t tell her how for years Lexie hovered, darkened, ruined moments in my life. Lexie, the one I couldn’t be with, the one I couldn’t fuck, the one who toyed with me like I was her puppet; she was the master puppeteer. I chased her forbidden taste, her smell, those green eyes, and full lips. Sometimes the ache of needing to be close to her, to be in her, flooded me to the point where I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even fucking think. I’d drown myself in sex and boxing and running because Lexie was always fucking there. Unattainable. Untouchable. It was an insatiable thirst that nothing—no woman, no sweating, no academic accomplishments—could quench.

Lexie’s poison. She might be the sweetest, most intoxicating kind, but she’s still poison. And I need to neutralize that.

I pace the studio, taking in every inch. Scratched hardwood floors. A dark leather couch. A chair that faces the window. A table pulled close beside it. It’s perfect.

The neighborhood is decent enough. A small bakery on the corner, a grocery store a block away, a smoke shop. But it’s not the neighborhood I’m interested in.

It’s the neighbor.

14 Lexie

By the time Saturday rolls around, my head spins with everything that’s happened this past week. I sent Sydney in my place to meet Theo at a venue (he needs to know he’s not always in control). I passed off my assistant duties for my other wedding to a junior coordinator to focus solely on the Astor/Barlowe wedding, Theo and Annabelle locked on the invitation design, and Annabelle left for Italy.

Annabelle left for Italy.

When I started my plan to take down Theo, it wasn’t like I had phases in mind. I only had an end goal. But had I developed a project plan, one key milestone would’ve been getting Annabelle physically away from Theo. Less than six weeks after he slithered back into my world, his fiancée leaves for another country.

My fingers and toes are crossed that she gets the clarity she needs to recognize Theo will bring nothing but pain.

My phone pings, my heart skips. I swipe open the Google alert I set on Theo, but it’s just an article about him appearing as a guest at another medical conference. My pulse settles.

Still, I know he has secrets. Ever since I saw him at the hotel with that woman and he avoided my probing questions, I’ve been desperate to find out who she is—and how many more women sit in his contacts. If I were a gambler, I’d put good money on it being a lot.

I slide into slim jeans and a fitted white sweater and zip up my heeled boots. I know I’m playing with fire—but that’s the point.

I’m supposed to meet Theo in an hour to tour another venue. Instead, I plan to watch him first. From a distance. Unseen. I want to see how he moves when he thinks he’s alone, what slips when his guard drops.

He won’t like it when he realizes I’m not where I’m supposed to be. His need for total control will be his downfall.

I can already picture it—him pacing, checking his phone, simmering at my unanswered phone calls, the same way I imagine he did earlier this week when I stood him up. I can’t pull that again—not with my job on the line. And yet, I know he won’t run to Sydney. I’m certain he enjoys this game between us too much to end it that way.

I might be playing with fire but I’m not reckless. I scoped out the venue days ago. It has potential. I’ll show up just in time, armed with a perfectly reasonable “last-minute emergency” that caused my delay.

For now, I’m going to leave my apartment, treat myself to the city’s best strawberry crepes a few blocks away, and savor the knowledge that after years of feeling like a shadow trailing someone else’s light, I finally have the upper hand—and I’m not ready to let it go.

By the time I bounce down the four flights of stairs to the sidewalk, I’m giddy with purpose. When I throw open the door, a crisp breeze hits my cheeks and I shiver. I tug my scarf tighter, blink against the fluttering snowflakes, turn the corner, and… What. The. Fuck.

Theo.

Leaning against a black SUV, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. My breath locks so hard in my throat, I cough.

“Good morning,” he says. Casually. Like he’s not standing outside of where I fucking live.

The snow-covered bushes and branches meld together, the street cars distort, ringing thunders in my ears. How the hell does he know my address? “What are you doing here?”

His face. That smug smile. Something hot and reckless flares in me, an urge to wipe it right off him. “Well, the last time we were supposed to meet, imagine my surprise when Sydney showed up saying you could no longer make the appointment. We don’t have a lot of time to plan this wedding, after all, and I thought it’d be terrible for you to be… held up again.” He knew. I don’t know how, but he fucking knew. “So, I thought it best to collect you myself—just to avoid any further issues.”