The rain came sideways, needling against the glass walls of the boardroom. Rose sat at the head of the table, papers neatly arranged before her, the glint of the CEO's pin catching the pale light. The meeting was winding down—quarterly numbers up, supply chain negotiations on track—but she felt it: the prickling awareness that someone was watching.
Vincent was there. She couldn't see him, but she knew. He had a way of being in the room without occupying space. The air shifted differently when he was near.
She dismissed the executives, her voice steady. "Thank you, everyone. We'll reconvene next week."
When the door clicked shut, she spoke to the empty corner of the room. "You're quiet."
His voice slid from the shadows, smooth as black velvet. "You're tense."
Rose exhaled, rubbing her temples. "Damien smiled at me in the hallway. That's never a good sign."
"Mm," Vincent said, leaning lazily against the wall as he let himself be seen. "Like a snake smiling at a mouse."
---
The "sign" came two hours later.
Rose's driver had pulled the black sedan into the underground parking lot. She stepped out, heels clicking against the concrete, the echo carrying into the dimness. Her assistant, Julia, handed her a slim folder of documents. "These need your signature before the shareholder's dinner tomorrow."
As they walked toward the elevator, a man in a maintenance uniform rounded the corner, carrying a covered tray. He smiled politely and stepped aside to let them pass.
It happened fast—too fast.
The man moved suddenly, flinging the contents of the tray toward her. The lid flew back, revealing a splash of liquid that shimmered in the dim light. Acid.
Rose didn't have time to flinch.
The world blurred—and Vincent was there, between her and the liquid, his hand snapping up like a shield. The acid hit his palm, hissing violently, steam curling into the cold air.
The maintenance man bolted.
Rose's heart slammed against her ribs. "Vincent—your hand—"
He turned it over casually. The skin was red, blistering… and then it wasn't. Before her eyes, the wounds knitted together, leaving smooth skin as if nothing had happened.
She could barely speak. "You healed."
"Part of the job description," he said, as if it were nothing. "Are you hurt?"
"No, but—"
"Good." His voice hardened. "Julia, take her upstairs. Now."
---
In the safety of her penthouse, Rose paced, still shaking. Vincent leaned in the doorway, arms folded.
"You should have told me," she said finally.
"What?"
"That you could… do that." She gestured to his hand. "All this time, and I thought you were just—"
"A devil?" he offered, with a crooked smile.
She hesitated. "No. I mean yes. But also… you care."
The air between them shifted. He stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming.
"I told you once," Vincent murmured, "I don't like seeing you hurt."
Her pulse raced. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," she said, softer.
He didn't answer. Not with words. Just that unreadable, burning look before he stepped back, as if the space between them was dangerous.
---
The acid attack made headlines, but the official story blamed it on "a deranged outsider." Rose knew better.
Two days later, a delivery arrived at the office—a crystal vase filled with lilies, white and pristine. Julia read the card aloud: "May your reign be short and your end be poetic."
Rose touched one of the petals. It burned. Vincent took the vase from her and crushed it in his hand until it was shards and dust.
"They're getting bolder," he said.
"So do we," Rose replied.
---
The next week blurred into a series of smaller skirmishes—false financial reports planted in her system, paparazzi tipped off to staged scandals, an "anonymous" tip to the police about embezzlement. Each time, Vincent was there, dismantling the threat before it could land a fatal blow.
Rose started noticing little things. The way his gaze lingered when he thought she wasn't looking. The way his voice softened when he said her name. The way her chest tightened—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous—when he was near.
She told herself it was gratitude. That was safer.
---
One night, after another long day of dodging daggers disguised as business meetings, Rose stood on her balcony, city lights spread out like a sea of fallen stars.
"You're quiet again," she said without turning.
Vincent stepped into view, leaning against the railing. "I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"How long before you stop pretending you're not afraid?"
She met his gaze. "Maybe when they stop giving me reasons to be."
A slow smile curved his mouth. "You're tougher than I thought, Rose Elara."
"And you're softer than you want me to believe, Vincent Dravis."
Something flickered in his eyes at that. Not anger. Not amusement. Something she didn't yet have a name for.
He stepped closer—close enough that she could see the faint shimmer in his irises, like molten gold under black glass. "Be careful, Rose. The more you know about me, the harder it will be when I have to go."
The words chilled her. She didn't know why.
---
That night, she dreamed.
Not the usual nightmares of acid, poison, and dark hallways. This was… warm. A balcony. A hand in hers. Laughter, low and unguarded. The flash of his eyes, not as a devil, but as—
She woke with his name on her lips.
Vincent.