The Vow He Broke Chapter 03

The next morning, Rachel moved in.

Not officially. But her overnight bag appeared in the master closet, her high-end shampoo replaced mine in the shower, and her stupid lavender candles colonized every surface. Vivian orchestrated it all with the efficiency of a five-star hotel manager.

“Rachel’s staying for a few days,” Vivian announced over breakfast, not looking at me. “She’s been under so much stress.”

She’d been under stress. The woman sleeping with my husband in my house was stressed.

I sat at the kitchen island, forcing down toast that tasted like cardboard. Rachel floated in wearing Ethan’s college T-shirt, the one I used to sleep in, her hair still damp.

“Morning, Nora.” She smiled like we were roommates. “There’s fresh coffee if you want some. I made Ethan’s favorite blend.”

I set down my toast. “You’re in my house.”

“Ethan’s house,” Vivian corrected from behind her newspaper.

“Wearing my husband’s shirt.”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband,” Vivian added.

Rachel’s smile faltered. “Nora, I know this is awkward. But fighting it only makes things harder for everyone, especially you. Your health—”

“Don’t.” My voice dropped. “Don’t you dare use my illness to justify this.”

Ethan appeared in the doorway, freshly showered, already in his suit. He looked between us and sighed like a man surrounded by children. “Nora, please. Be civil.”

“Civil,” I repeated. “Your mistress is eating breakfast in my kitchen and you want civil?”

“She’s not my—” He stopped. We both knew what she was.

“Just sign the papers,” he said quietly. “Then you can go somewhere peaceful. Heal. Start fresh.”

I looked at the three of them. Ethan, Rachel, Vivian. A perfect little unit. And me, the inconvenient tumor they couldn’t wait to cut out.

“I want to see a lawyer,” I said.

Vivian’s newspaper crinkled. Ethan’s jaw ticked.

“You don’t have a lawyer,” he said.

“Then I’ll find one.”

“With what money?” Vivian’s voice was silk over steel. “Your joint account’s been frozen, dear. Ethan handled that yesterday.”

The floor dropped from under me. “You froze our account?”

Ethan wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’s standard procedure during divorce proceedings.”

“Standard procedure is both parties being notified!”

“You were notified. I just told you.”

My hands gripped the counter’s edge until my knuckles went white. No money. No insurance timeline. No lawyer. They’d sealed every exit.

“I’ll represent myself if I have to.”

Vivian laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. You can barely stand up straight after your treatments. You think a judge will take you seriously?”

Rachel touched Ethan’s arm. “Maybe we should give her more time?”

“She’s had enough time,” Vivian snapped.

I pushed off the counter and walked out, my legs trembling. In the hallway, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Hollow cheeks, dark circles, the patchy stubble of hair growing back after chemo. I looked like a ghost haunting my own life.

Upstairs, I locked the guest room door and opened my laptop. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then I typed: “Pro bono divorce attorneys near me.”

Forty-seven results. I clicked the first one. Disconnected number. The second: six-month waitlist. The third, fourth, fifth, all dead ends for a woman with no money and a time bomb in her bloodstream.

On the nineteenth call, someone answered.

“Weston & Associates, how can I help you?”

“I need a divorce lawyer,” I said. “I have cancer, no money, and my husband is trying to force me out with nothing.”

A pause. Then a male voice, deep and unhurried: “How soon can you come in?”

“I don’t have transportation. My husband took the car keys.”

Another pause. “Then I’ll come to you.”

I blinked. “You… what?”

“Text me the address, Mrs…?”

“Nora. Nora Whitfield.”

“Mrs. Whitfield, I’ll be there in an hour.”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, waiting for the catch. In my experience, when something sounded too good to be true, it was already a trap.

Exactly fifty-three minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Vivian opened the door, her smile evaporating when she saw the tall stranger in a charcoal suit. He wasn’t just a lawyer. The watch on his wrist alone could’ve paid my medical bills for a year.

“Can I help you?” Vivian asked, her voice sharp.

“I’m here for Mrs. Whitfield.” He looked past her. “She’s expecting me.”

I appeared at the top of the stairs. His gaze lifted to meet mine, and something unreadable crossed his face, just for a second, before his expression settled into calm authority.

“Mrs. Whitfield, I’m Dominic Weston. Shall we talk?”

Vivian blocked the doorway. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested. Our family has legal representation.”

Dominic smiled, the kind of smile that preceded a demolition. “Ma’am, I’m not here for your family. I’m here for her.”

He held up a card. Vivian read it. And for the first time since I’d known her, the color drained from her face.