Chapter 3: Broken Vows

Finally, on the night of the fifth year, after a governor’s dinner, he came home poisoned and wrecked, and something in him snapped.

He bit my lips, hard and desperate. Whispered things I’ll never repeat. Clung to me, voice ragged, begging me not to leave.

That night’s memory is carved into me. Caleb, pale and shaking, red rims under his eyes, holding himself together by sheer will. The rosary beads were wrapped so tight around his hands, his knuckles stood out like ridges on a weathered cross.

He whispered prayers, as if they could drown out the guilt, not daring to look at me at all.

I took two deep breaths, steadying myself against the ache deep in my ribs.

Silently, I pulled my clothes on, piece by piece, my hands clumsy and cold. The cheap wooden floor creaked beneath my bare feet.

“Caleb, I’ll go out first…”

“Wait.” His voice cut through the hush, low and sharp, eyes dark as a thundercloud.

“I’ve broken my vows. I can’t be a preacher anymore.”

“I will marry you.”

His words barely above a whisper, but they ricocheted in my chest, echoing long after the room went quiet again.

I stood there dumbfounded, the world tilting on its axis. For a second, all I could hear was the roar of my own heartbeat, and it felt like every drop of blood had turned to syrup.

I stumbled through that week in a daze, hands raw from folding invitations, tracing out unfamiliar loops and flourishes of American cursive, hundreds of times on thick red card stock. I cut out paper hearts—clumsy, uneven, but heartfelt—taping them up across the parlor windows and bedroom doors.

The wedding dress never looked right; all the patterns too gaudy, too bright for a man who carried winter in his bones. I ripped the stitches out more than once, chasing after something simple, something pure.

I wanted everything to be perfect, even if my hands trembled and my eyes blurred with fatigue. I baked pies that burned at the edges, pressed wildflowers for the bouquet, played old hymns on a half-tuned piano just to hear the melody echo through the house.

However—

Our wedding was postponed, swept away like so much dust.

My fingers grazed the scabbed scar on my shoulder, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I forced a smile, brushing away tears before anyone could see.

I dragged out a heavy cedar chest from under the bed, the kind that still held the scent of old Christmases and mothballs. Every artifact from five years with Caleb—wedding dress unworn, notebooks full of his laughter and frowns, even an old white shirt with a missing button—I packed it all away, slow and deliberate. The cedar chest creaked open, the scent of old Christmases and mothballs wafting up, making my eyes sting.

Eighteen is an age for believing in fairy tales, for chasing what can’t be caught.

I thought the system sent me here to save him, to find a loophole, to beat the odds and let him live past twenty-five.

But you can’t fight what’s written in the books. No matter how many times I tried, history snapped back like an old rubber band, always breaking the same way.