When she didn't answer her phone that morning, Vincent didn't wait. He drove hard, the Maybach breathing hot at the curb. The engine barely died before he was out, long strides across the pavement, cufflinks clicking. He knocked at her door until his knuckles smarted. No answer. He tried her number again; the line cut off and his stomach dropped.
At last the deadbolt slid and the door opened a cracked inch. One eye peered out. He held up a small bowl of ice cream like an offering and smiled.
"May I come in?" he asked, voice soft enough to cross the threshold without breaking it.
She opened wider as if she'd been waiting for him to ask. He stepped into the quiet apartment, set the bowl down, and shrugged off his jacket. She leaned against the wall, watching him move.
"How did you sleep?" he asked.
"Migraines," she said, folding her arms. His eyes flicked to the colorful top she wore; then he sighed. "Yesterday. That was on me. I should've been ready for Tracy."
She waved the apology away. "I had it coming." Her voice trembled a little.
"No." He shot her a look. She fought his gaze for a beat, then forced out, "Thank you. About last night…" She stopped, breath catching.
"Let me make it up to you." He held out an envelope. Reluctantly she crossed the room and retrieved it. She slit it open. Her face went blank, then folded with the paper in her hands. "What is this?" Her voice cracked.
He sank into a chair and leaned forward. "An apology," he said simply.
She stared at the document slowly. An apartment in Westside Beverly Hills—her name on the lease. A signing bonus with more zeros than she dared count. "I can't accept this," she whispered, pushing the paper back toward him.
"Yes you can," he said, and the raw edge in his voice made her look up.
"Why would she want me after—after everything?" Her words were half question, half despair.
"Because she sees something in you that everyone else missed," he said. "Something I see."
"You don't understand." The words came quick, then she broke, shoulders trembling. "I've been marked. He'll find me wherever I go. I don't want a life ruled by fear."
Vincent's expression darkened. He tasted fury like iron. "What did he do?" he demanded, voice low.
She pushed the yellow envelope across the table. Vincent ripped it open. For a second his hands trembled—fear, she thought—but it was anger that tightened his jaw. "I owe him," she sobbed. "He insists this is the only way. I don't want to drag you into it."
Her knees gave out and she collapsed against him. He caught her without hesitation. "You don't belong to him," he said, calm as a loaded gun. "If he ever touches you again, I will end him."
The words were measured, simple—but they burned. His eyes were a dark promise; the fury behind them flared and settled like embers ready to ignite.
He held her a little longer before they both became aware of the position and eased apart. She wiped her eyes; he sank back into the chair, breathing as if he'd run a race. His phone buzzed; he closed his eyes for a moment. "Turn on the TV Ser".
Carlos's voice came through the line, thin and unsure. Jennifer reached the remote too quickly, flipping the screen on before Vincent could stop her.
The anchor's smile was sickly and precise. "And Miss Donovan, you have proof this is the woman who ruined your marriage," the reporter intoned, then spun the camera toward Tracy.
Tracy's smile was practiced, sharper than sequins. "I never expected this," she said, voice syrup-smooth. "When he promised me forever, I believed him. Now—now he parades her around." Her words pealed like chapel bells and landed inside Vincent's chest.
"Miss Donovan, how would you describe Jennifer Lawrence?" another reporter asked.
Tracy's mouth twisted into a smug curl. "She's small, hungry for money," Tracy said, venom curling at the edges. "What hurts is seeing another woman reap the fruits of my labor." She tipped her head, sanctimony practiced to perfection.
"Would you say you contributed to Moretti Homes' success?" the interviewer pressed. "Of course," Tracy breathed. "Everyone knows it wouldn't be what it is without me."
Vincent paced the room, fists loose at his sides until he sank back into the chair. Tracy's voice blurred, a distant radio in his skull. Jennifer shut the TV off; the click felt like a faint mercy. She crossed her arms and watched him, words lodged somewhere between fear and anger.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.
He gave a short, humorless chuckle. "She told me how many kids she wanted on our honeymoon. Then later she'd frown at the idea of a baby—said she was too busy." His voice thinned. "Then she had a miscarriage two days before she accused me." He looked at her long and raw. "My father never approved of her. He always said her smiles were a little too rehearsed. Maybe we were never meant to be." He shrugged, as if shrugging off a bone he couldn't swallow.
She watched the lines of pain in his face. He wasn't merely angry—he was wounded and dangerous in a way that made the air feel thinner.
"Why did you tell them I was your secretary?" The question escaped her in a rush.
He straightened, smoothing his jacket with a clipped movement. "Because I wanted the world to know you have another chance." He met her eyes. "Because you deserve more than whispers." He paused. "And because if I told them you were my mistress, they'd ruin every good thing they thought they owned. I won't let them reduce you to a headline."
"But you brought me papers from Felicity Lourdes." Her hands trembled as she named the designer.
He smiled—a small, dangerous smile that made something inside her both ache and flutter. "If I had announced that, I'd be tipping off her competitors. And knowing Felicity, she prefers keeping people guessing." He smiled faintly, impressed by Jennifer's sharpness. "But I'm not forcing you to take it. You're worth more than a man's word."
He moved to the door. "Think about it," He added over his shoulder.
She watched until his car lights vanished down the street, then closed the door quietly. Her phone buzzed. A text:
See? Already on TV by being close. You'll burn with him. Walk away or I'll bury you both.
Her shoulders dropped. The room felt suddenly much smaller. She slid to the floor, the weight of the threat heavy and cold in her hands.