Broken Vows

PROLOGUE

AURORA VALEN?A

There are seconds capable of splitting an entire life in two.

Before them, we are one person.

Afterward, we are someone else.

Mine happened at the altar, with one hundred and forty-three guests watching, a bouquet of white peonies clenched between my fingers, and three tiny hearts beating inside me without my knowledge.

At that moment, I believed I was carrying only one.

I also believed the man standing before me loved me.

I was wrong about both.

The music had stopped almost a full minute ago, but no one seemed to be breathing.

Not even me.

The silence inside the church was so absolute that I could hear the faint sound of paper being crushed in Dante’s hand.

He should have been holding mine.

Instead, his fingers were closed around a brown envelope, as though it were the only thing keeping him from touching me.

Or destroying me.

“Dante?” I called.

My voice did not sound like mine.

The man standing before me did not look like himself either.

I knew every detail of that face. The faint lines around his eyes. The small scar beside his left eyebrow. The way his jaw tightened whenever he tried to contain an emotion.

That morning, however, his eyes were empty.

Not cold.

Cold was still something.

His eyes were dead.

“The ceremony is over,” he said.

The priest shifted beside us.

Behind me, I heard the murmur of the guests rising like a wave.

I turned my head just enough to see my uncle stand from the front pew. Otávio Valen?a pressed one hand to his chest, theatrically appalled.

At the time, I mistook his expression for concern.

It was only years later that I understood he had been watching a carefully planned execution.

Mine.

“What is going on?” I asked.

Dante raised the envelope.

“This is what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Of course you do.”

The accusation struck my chest with such force that I had to concentrate on remaining upright.

The dress felt too tight.

The veil weighed heavily on my head.

And suddenly, the entire church became a place without air.

“Dante, you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared.”

His tone made something inside me collapse.

The night before, he had called me shortly before midnight. He was stuck in a meeting and would not be able to see me. He had said he loved me. He had said that in a few hours, I would be his wife.

I had fallen asleep with one hand resting over my still-flat stomach, smiling to myself as I imagined his reaction when he opened the box I had prepared.

The box was inside my maid of honor’s purse.

A pair of tiny white shoes.

The image from our first ultrasound.

A handwritten note.

“Our greatest asset is on the way.”

I had almost laughed when I wrote it.

Dante lived surrounded by figures, contracts, buildings, and sums of money I could barely comprehend. I wanted to tease him about his seriousness and remind him that some things could never be measured on a balance sheet.

In a few hours, he would discover he was going to be a father.

I believed it would be the second-happiest moment of our day.

The first would be when we said I do.

But Dante gave me neither of those things.

Instead, he opened the envelope.

“For eleven months, pieces have been removed from the Valen?a Museum’s collection and sold illegally.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“One of the works belonged to the Ferraz Collection and was under your direct responsibility.”

“That isn’t true.”

“The transaction was authorized with your signature.”

“Then my signature was forged.”

He removed several pages from the envelope.

“The money was transferred to an account in your name in the Cayman Islands.”

A small, humorless laugh escaped me.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was absurd.

“I’ve never been to the Cayman Islands.”

“You don’t have to go there to open an account.”

“I didn’t open any account.”

“There are emails, recordings, security footage, bank statements, and access logs.”

“Then someone fabricated them.”

“All of them?”

“If all of them say I stole from the museum, then yes.”

His eyes finally showed something.

Anger.

Not the explosive kind. Not uncontrolled.

The worse kind.

The kind Dante carried with brutal calm, turning every word into a blade.

“Are you really going to keep insisting on this?”

“I’m going to keep insisting on the truth.”

“The truth is right here.”

He threw several pages onto the altar.

The priest took a step back.

The papers slid across the white cloth and fell at my feet.

I saw my name.

My signature.

A series of transfers.

Printed emails.

Blurred photographs of someone entering the museum storage room in the middle of the night.

The person was wearing my coat.

My hair.

My body.

But not my face.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” I said.

“There’s a recording.”

“Of what?”

Dante looked at the musician standing near the choir.

The man hesitated, then pressed something on the sound system.

My own voice filled the church.

“After the wedding, everything will belong to me. Dante will never notice.”

Static cut through the recording.

Then came my laughter.

“He believes anything when it comes to me.”

I stopped breathing.

I knew those words.

But not like that.

The first sentence had been spoken months earlier during a conversation with my best friend about the studio Dante had promised to build for me in our house.

“After the wedding, everything will belong to me too. Dante will never notice when I turn the office next door into my storage room.”

The second sentence had come from another conversation, probably about a surprise we were planning for his birthday.

Someone had cut apart my words.

Reassembled my voice.

Created a woman who did not exist.

“That was manipulated.”

“An expert confirmed it was authentic.”

“Then the expert lied.”

“Everyone is lying except you?”

“In this case, yes!”

My voice echoed through the church.

The guests began murmuring again.

My face burned.

“I didn’t steal from the museum. I didn’t steal from you. I don’t have a hidden account, and I did not have an affair with Miguel.”

The name left my mouth before I realized it.

Dante tilted his head.

“Interesting.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

“I didn’t mention Miguel.”

“You left photographs of him in the envelope.”

“And you recognized him quickly.”

“Because I know him.”

“From your secret meetings.”

“They weren’t meetings.”

“What were they?”

I could not explain.

I had hired Miguel to investigate inconsistencies in the museum’s collection. I had discovered that certain pieces had contradictory records, and I was afraid someone was diverting artwork.

I had promised Miguel I would not reveal the investigation before he gathered proof.

But that no longer mattered.

Dante thought I was a criminal.

I had to tell him everything.

“I hired him.”

“For what?”

“To investigate the museum.”

My uncle stood.

“Aurora, don’t say anything absurd.”

I looked at him.

Otávio appeared pale.

“I noticed discrepancies in the records,” I continued. “Some pieces had duplicate numbers, and there were movements I didn’t recognize. Miguel was trying to discover who was doing it.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Dante asked.

“I wanted to be sure.”

“Or you wanted to make sure no one found you?”

“No.”

“Why did a private investigator meet you in a hotel room?”

“It wasn’t a hotel room. It was a conference room.”

“The photographs show you entering and leaving the elevator reserved for the suites.”

“Because the conference room is on that floor.”

Dante released a bitter laugh.

“There is always an explanation.”

“Because I’m innocent.”

“You used my company to finance a failing institution.”

“The museum wasn’t failing.”

“It is now.”

I turned to my uncle.

“What does he mean?”

Otávio shook his head.

“I don’t know, darling.”

Darling.

I had spent years believing he called me that out of affection.

“The Valen?a Museum’s accounts have been emptied,” Dante said. “There are debts in the institution’s name and personal guarantees signed by you.”

“I never signed any guarantees.”

“Your signature is on every document.”

“Someone is trying to frame me!”

“And I’m supposed to believe you simply because you’re crying?”

Only then did I realize there were tears on my face.

I touched my cheek, surprised to find it wet.

“You’re supposed to believe me because you know me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I thought I did.”

The words struck harder than all the evidence scattered across the floor.

I took a step toward him.

Dante stepped back.

The movement was small.

Almost imperceptible.

But I felt it like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t do this,” I begged.

“It’s already done.”

“Not by me.”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Enough.”

“Dante…”

“Enough, Aurora!”

His voice shook the air.

My hands began to tremble.

I could no longer feel my fingertips.

The church shifted around me, distorted by tears and patches of light from the stained-glass windows.

He was going to leave.

I knew it.

He was about to walk out of that church believing I had used him, betrayed him, and stolen from him.

And I was still carrying a truth that might make him stop.

I did not want to tell him this way.

I did not want our child to be thrown between us as a defense.

But panic gave me no choice.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words came out quietly.

Even so, everyone heard them.

The murmuring ceased.

Dante did not move.

His eyes dropped to my stomach.

My dress revealed nothing. I was only eleven weeks pregnant. Other than some nausea and constant exhaustion, my body still looked the same.

“What?” he asked.

“I found out five days ago.”

He stared at me.

“Five days ago?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“A surprise.”

“The box is with Clara. It has the ultrasound and…”

“Is it mine?”

The question erased the rest of my sentence.

For a moment, I did not understand.

“What?”

“Is the child mine?”

I heard someone gasp among the guests.

My uncle said Dante’s name in warning.

But no one approached me.

No one stood by my side.

“How can you ask me that?”

“Answer me.”

“I have never been with another man.”

“You were secretly meeting Miguel.”

“I already explained that.”

“You explained nothing.”

“This baby is yours.”

His expression did not change.

“We’ll have a test done.”

“Dante…”

“If the child is mine, I will fulfill my obligations.”

Obligations.

Not love.

Not family.

Not the room we would choose together.

Not his hands on my stomach.

Not the serious man trying to assemble a crib without consulting the instructions because he would never admit he did not know how to do something.

Obligations.

“What about us?” I asked.

For a second, I saw the pain he was trying to hide.

That was the cruelest part.

Because it meant Dante still felt something.

He had simply chosen to trust the papers instead of trusting me.

“There is no us anymore.”

I placed my hand over my stomach.

“You’re going to regret this.”

It was not a threat.

It was a plea.

One final opportunity for him to see the abyss opening beneath his feet.

“I already regret it,” he replied. “I regret not realizing sooner.”

Something inside me broke.

It made no sound.

None of the guests heard it.

But I knew I would never be the same.

Dante removed his wedding band and placed it on the altar.

“I will not marry a thief. Much less acknowledge a child being used to keep me trapped.”

The world disappeared.

All that remained was the sound of his footsteps crossing the church.

No one tried to stop him.

My veil came loose when I turned.

It fell to the floor.

I did not bend down to retrieve it.

I walked down the aisle between the guests while people looked away. Some watched me with pity. Others with curiosity.

Most seemed relieved they were not the center of that spectacle.

My uncle followed me.

“Aurora, wait.”

I kept walking.

“We need to talk.”

“No.”

“You can’t leave alone in your condition.”

I stopped outside the church.

The afternoon light struck me violently.

Photographers crowded the steps. I did not know who had called them. Perhaps they had been there to document the wedding of one of the most powerful businessmen in the country.

Now they were documenting my ruin.

“Did you steal from the Ferraz Group?”

“Is the baby really Dante Ferraz’s?”

“Did you have an affair with the investigator?”

“Was the wedding an attempt to avoid prison?”

I closed my eyes.

A hand gripped my arm.

“Come with me,” my uncle pleaded. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I looked at him.

For one second, I considered accepting.

Otávio was the only family I had left.

He had raised me after my parents died. He had managed the museum when I was too young to understand figures. He had sat beside me at every birthday, Christmas, and graduation.

But something was wrong with his face.

I could not identify it.

Not yet.

I only felt it.

I pulled my arm free.

“I need to be alone.”

“Aurora…”

I descended the steps.

The photographers surrounded me.

Someone stepped on the hem of my dress.

Someone else shoved a microphone against my shoulder.

A woman asked whether I was ashamed of using a pregnancy to manipulate a man.

I placed both hands over my stomach.

For the first time that day, I did not think about myself.

I thought about the baby.

“Please,” I begged. “Don’t push me.”

No one listened.

Then pain sliced through my lower abdomen.

I stopped.

The air left my lungs.

The second cramp was stronger.

I looked down in terror, expecting to find blood on the white dress.

There was nothing.

But the fear was enough.

I protected myself with my arms and pushed through the crowd as best I could.

That night, in a private hospital in Rio de Janeiro, I heard a doctor tell me that the baby was fine.

Then she frowned at the screen.

“Wait.”

My heart stopped.

“What is it?”

The doctor adjusted the equipment.

Her eyes widened.

“It isn’t one baby.”

All the blood drained from my face.

“Did I lose it?”

“No. That isn’t what I meant.”

She moved the image again.

And then she smiled.

“There are three.”

I stared at the screen without understanding.

Three tiny shapes.

Three rapid pulses.

Three lives.

I began to cry.

I did not know whether it was joy, panic, or the accumulated pain of a day that should have been the happiest of my life.

Perhaps it was all of them at once.

I covered my mouth with one hand.

“Three?”

“Two of them are very close together. I’ll need to evaluate the type of pregnancy more carefully, but yes. You’re carrying triplets.”

The doctor continued talking about risks, tests, and specialized monitoring.

I did not hear her.

All I could think about was Dante’s sentence.

“I will not acknowledge a child being used to keep me trapped.”

One child.

He had rejected one.

Without knowing he was abandoning three.

I looked at the screen again.

“I will protect you,” I whispered.

The doctor asked me something.

I did not answer.

I kept my eyes fixed on the three pulses.

That night, the man I loved walked out of my life.

And I made a promise to my children.

Dante Ferraz might have destroyed my name, my future, and my heart.

But he would not destroy those three lives.

Never.