Stolen Vows (Avalon Falls #3)

prologue

PROLOGUE

Francesca, AGE 13

The smell of violence shimmers in the air, fuzzy and acidic like a high-ozone day.

My mother and grandmother pollute the room with their conversation, talking about my sister and me without talking to us.

My sister and I stand side by side, our backs against the bookshelf wall in our mother’s study. Our new black bikinis cling to our still-damp skin, since our grandmother pulled us from the pool with a few sharp words. The air conditioning kicks on, sending a blast of cold air over me. I swear it’s the whole reason Grandmother told us to stand in this spot. Just another way she’s letting us know we’ve disappointed her somehow.

Goosebumps rise along my arms and legs as I rack my brain for the reason we’re here. I can’t think of anything we’ve done though. I bite the inside of my cheek, worry gnawing at my stomach like a persistent rat.

Florence and I were outside, laughing and talking in the pool, squeezing the last drops of summer before school starts again. We were following the rules, even the unspoken ones my parents love to enforce.

I glance quietly at my sister, trying to catch her eye, to ask if she knows what’s going on. When we were younger, we used to communicate with our eyes, one of those twin connections. But she stares at her feet, her jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the rapidly growing puddle on the floor.

I exhale quietly, trying not to breathe in too much of the maternal toxicity. Without lifting my gaze from the floor, I focus on my mother from underneath my lashes.

Catherine Kennedy Carrington Ashburn perches on the edge of her desk, expression sharp and chignon sharper.

Beside her, our grandmother stands with diamond waterfall earrings cascading from her lobes, twenty carats each, a gift from my grandfather on their fortieth anniversary.

Disdain drips from her just as effortlessly as her diamonds.

“It’s not a difficult question, Catherine,” Grandmother says smoothly, eyes cold. “Why did I find your girls parading around your backyard like a couple of sex walkers?”

Mother scoffs. “I think you mean sex workers , Mother.” She waves a lazy hand, flicking her wrist as if this entire conversation is a mild inconvenience.

Florence stiffens beside me. I just exhale slowly, bracing.

The air thickens, tension shimmering like the body glitter Florence and I tried last week.

Mom continues, oblivious to the volcano cresting. “And they’re thirteen now. A modest bikini is perfectly?—”

The slap comes so fast I almost miss it.

Almost .

The sharp crack of skin against skin rings out in the office, slicing through thick, floral-and-lightning scented air.

Mother’s head jerks to the side, a flush of red blooming across her porcelain cheekbone. She doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch.

A crack splinters through my composure, my lips parting in shock before I quickly school my expression. I press my lips together, sealing away any sound that threatens to escape. My eyes widen fractionally as I stare at the red mark on Mother’s cheek, bright as a cardinal against snow.

Florence gasps.

I snap my gaze to Grandmother just as she lifts her hand again. Because once is never enough in this house.

I step forward before I can think it through. “Stop,” I bite out.

Florence’s hand flies to my wrist, fingers curling into those delicate bones as she squeezes tight. It’s stupid, and I want to shove those four letters back in my mouth the moment they’re out. They float between the four of us, buoyed by a cloud of familial pollution.

Two sets of eyes snap to mine—one sharp and disapproving, the other burning with barely restrained rage.

Mother’s lips press into a thin, furious line. She’s in front of me in two steps. My gaze snags on her signature lipstick. The pastel color seems too soft, too pastel for my mother. It’s a minor detail, one that seems inconsequential.

And I’ll never know if it was my mind’s way of protecting me or if I was that bad at reading the situation.

Sound registers before pain. Sharp and crisp like a book falling from the tallest shelf onto hardwood flooring.

For two whole heartbeats, I’m suspended in a state of shock. My head buzzes like a hundred angry wasps are bouncing off my skull, their wings filling my head until I feel like I can’t breathe.

It’s not the first time I’ve been slapped. And I’m not na?ve enough to think it’ll be the last. But somehow, I’m always surprised by it. The sound, the pain, the shock of it all.

My head whips to the side. My vision blurs for a second before snapping back into focus.

My cheek pulses in tandem with my heartbeat, the pain flashing hot, sharp, and electric—like I’ve stuck my finger into an outlet.

I don’t move to cup my tender cheek. I’ve made that mistake before.

Mom’s voice is like vodka poured into an open wound. “Don’t you ever disrespect me like that again. Do you understand me?”

I slide my tongue across my cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood. My stomach churns, but I swallow it down. I don’t respond, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I look at her through a sheen of tears, sadness sinking its claws into me just a little deeper.

“And for God’s sake, put some clothes on,” she sneers, stepping back with her nose held high and shoulders pulled back. “Your inappropriate clothing is a mark against this family. If you’d like for us to treat you both like cheap whores and let your father’s friends take what you’re so readily offering instead of creating meaningful betrothal agreements with men of standards, that can be arranged.”

Florence folds first. She always does. “We’re sorry, Mother,” she murmurs, head bowed, slipping into perfect obedience as effortlessly as breathing.

Grandmother tuts approvingly. “I told you it takes a strong hand to raise girls, Catherine. And you never did believe me.” Her lips curve into a pleased little smirk. “Maybe now you will.”

There’s nothing profound about today. Nothing different about this moment, or the way it unfolds. Not the violence or the harsh words or the threats.

But something inside me shifts. Like a metal door creaks open, revealing a yawning, bottomless cavern—a yearning so deep it terrifies me. A whisper from the back of my mind, encouraging me to jump into it. To let myself freefall.

And clarity comes to me all at once.

If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to become my mother. Just another cog in the maternal wheel of Carrington women.

In twenty years, will I stand in this same study as she slaps me again? And if I have children, will I fall into her footsteps and raise my hand to them?

No. Hell no.

I meet my mother’s gaze, resolve burning inside me like an inferno.

I take my time, letting my gaze roam over her. Her meticulously manicured face. Her lips still pinched, her cheek still splotchy with the evidence of Grandmother’s cruelty.

There’s so, so much hostility, and it’s been dressed up in silk and stamped in gold.

On that random Wednesday in July, I make my mother a silent promise.

I will never become you.

Even if I have to burn this entire legacy to the ground.