Rose was learning to expect trouble the way some people expected the weather—always in the air, a shift in the pressure before the storm. But trouble didn't usually come wearing a designer suit.
The morning board meeting had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Her brothers-by-law—Damien and Lucien—were all smiles, offering polite compliments on her "remarkable leadership." Their sister, Celeste, even brought coffee to her office afterward.
Rose stared at the cup. "What's this for?"
Celeste's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Peace offering. We've been… tense lately. I'd like to change that."
She left before Rose could reply.
Vincent stepped out from behind the half-open office door, where no one had seen him enter. "Don't drink it."
Rose arched a brow. "You're that sure?"
"I'm that sure," he said, plucking the cup from her hand. He poured a bit onto the floor. The liquid hissed faintly, eating into the polish.
"Acid?" she asked.
"Not strong enough to kill. Just enough to make you wish it had."
Rose's stomach turned—not from fear, but from the cold calculation of it. They hadn't even bothered to hide the attempt well.
Vincent set the cup down with deliberate care. "They're testing you. And me."
---
That evening, Vincent accompanied her home—visible this time, passing as her "security consultant." The title amused him.
In the elevator, she finally asked, "Why do they keep trying these petty things? Surely, if they wanted me gone, they'd find one big, clean way to do it."
"They want to break you," Vincent said simply. "Your image, your confidence, your ability to trust. They want you to crumble so they can take what's yours without looking like villains."
She thought about that in silence. "Then they don't know me as well as they think."
He smirked. "That's my Rose."
The words lingered in the air between them, warm and intimate, though neither acknowledged it.
---
A week later, the attacks changed.
One afternoon, Rose was on a video call with international partners when her phone buzzed. A private number. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. Finally, she excused herself and answered.
A voice, low and unrecognizable, said, "Check your email."
She did.
There, in her inbox, was a single attachment—a photo of Julia, her assistant, tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth. The timestamp was five minutes ago.
Her blood went cold.
Vincent was beside her in an instant. "What happened?"
She showed him the screen.
His jaw tightened. "Stay here."
"No," she said. "I'm coming."
---
They traced the signal to an abandoned warehouse on the city's edge. Rose's heart pounded as they stepped inside, the air thick with dust and silence. Somewhere in the darkness, a muffled sound—Julia.
Vincent moved ahead, scanning the shadows. "Stay close to me."
Rose followed, her eyes darting over the rusting beams and broken windows. Then she saw them—two men standing guard over Julia. One held a knife.
Before she could think, Vincent moved. In a blur, he was on them, disarming one and sending the other crashing into the wall. It was brutal and efficient, the kind of violence that carried centuries of experience.
When Julia was free, Rose clutched her in relief. "You're safe now."
Julia's eyes were wide, fixed on Vincent. "Who is he?"
Rose almost said "a friend," but the word felt too small.
---
Back at the penthouse, after Julia was taken home under protection, Rose confronted him. "Why do you care so much?"
Vincent looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Because you're mine to protect."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer.
"You told me once there's a price for your help," she pressed. "That you take the most precious thing from the people you save."
His gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
"What happens," Rose asked slowly, "if you are the most precious thing?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Finally, he said, "Then I vanish. And you forget me."
The words landed like a blade in her chest. "And you're just… okay with that?"
"No." His voice was rougher now. "But it's the rule."
---
For days after, she couldn't stop thinking about it. The idea of him gone—worse, of forgetting him—felt like a wound she couldn't heal from. She caught herself watching him more closely: the way his hair fell into his eyes, the faint smirk when she outmaneuvered a rival, the rare laugh that broke through his usual restraint.
She didn't want to lose those things. She didn't want to lose him.
But how do you fight a rule older than heaven and hell?
---
The answer came, unexpectedly, from Vincent himself.
One night, as they sat in the quiet of her office after hours, he said, "There's a way around it. But it's not simple."
Her heart leapt. "Tell me."
"You have to choose me. Not by accident. Not because you're grateful. You have to make me your precious thing by your own will—knowing the cost—and still want it."
Rose stared at him. "That sounds like—"
"Love?" he finished. "Maybe. Or something close enough to burn the same."
She swallowed. "And if I do?"
"Then," he said softly, "I can choose too."
---
The implication hung between them for the rest of the night, unspoken but alive.
Rose didn't know how much time they had before the next attack, before the next scheme to tear her down. But she knew one thing: she wasn't afraid of the choice anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, the devil wasn't either.