Jennifer shoved clothes into the blue travel bag with careless hands, breath coming in ragged pulls. Her vision blurred from crying; everything felt slippery and unreal. She moved through the room on autopilot, snatching what she needed, trying to outrun the press, Grim Voss, the smear campaigns — the life that wanted to break her.
Voss had smashed her door last night. He had seen Felicity's contract on her table and hit her for it; her lip still ached where his fist had landed. Tracy's campaign had turned the city against her — headlines, hashtags, venom. Enough. This was the last straw.
She barked at the cab driver for dawdling. He jumped and sped off, apologizing under his breath. In the back seat she sobbed until she had no sound left, checking the rearview like a hunted animal. The cab stopped, she thrust crumpled bills at him and bolted under the subway platform, a baseball cap dragged low over her face.
Minutes stretched. The train's roar finally made the world less sharp; she exhaled and fumbled to switch off her phone. Vincent Moretti's name glowed one last time before the screen went dark. Relief bloomed. She was leaving L.A. behind.
When the train screeched in she moved like a woman with no patience left. But as she lunged forward a hand closed on her jacket and yanked her back. She slammed into someone's chest and the scent—clean, expensive, immovable—hit her.
"What are you doing, Jennifer?" His voice broke.
She tried to wrench free through tears. "Please. Let me go."
"You think running will save you? It won't. Not from him. Not from me." He held her firm as the train began to pull away.
"I never asked for protection. I want peace." Her voice creaked; the fight had gone out of her.
His grip tightened, not cruel but unrelenting. "And I haven't had peace since I signed those papers. But you—" His throat worked, the words dragging out like they cost him blood. "You make me want to fight again."
Her heart stuttered. The confession rattled her more than the train's thunder. She looked up, her cheek brushing against the edge of his collar, and the soft glint in his eyes nearly undid her.
Jennifer froze. If she let herself fall into those eyes, into him, there would be no turning back. The roar of the train drowned out her thoughts, the platform swayed, and still she clung to that inch of distance between them.
His face leaned close—close enough that she felt his breath mix with hers, close enough that her lips parted without meaning to. But instead of closing the gap, she turned her face, pressing her forehead lightly against his chest.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The kiss hovered there, suspended in all the noise and heat, unbearable in its absence.
The bubble shattered with Carlos's ragged footsteps.
"Ser. He's in L.A."
Jennifer's body shuddered under Vincent's arms. His grip tightened. His eyes flashed.
"Call them," his voice came deep and rough.
Carlos dialed his phone.
"Let me take you somewhere safe," Vincent said, lifting her chin. "He'll never find you." His eyes sparked with hope, and for the first time in years she felt a sense of safety in the face of danger.
He led her out of the subway, and they both climbed into the back seat of the Maybach. The car screeched off.
A number of men Jennifer didn't recognize flooded the condo on 4th Avenue. They were in Santa Monica now. She followed Vincent inside, the apartment already furnished at his order. He watched her quietly as she absorbed the view. She turned to him, her eyes speaking what her lips couldn't.
"I want you to have your fresh start here. They say home is where you make it." He adjusted a small ceramic duck on the shelf. The condo overlooked the bright blue sea, the waves playing their endless songs.
"You think this will save me from him?" Her voice was raw, worn from sobbing. She had already accepted the inevitable — Voss would find her and snuff the light out of her world.
"No. I don't." His calm voice dropped. He walked slowly to the window. "He's going to make a move." His gaze swept to her, cold and dark. "And I'm eagerly anticipating it."
He walked to the door. "For now, rest. You need your strength." She watched him leave without turning back. Was he pretending they hadn't almost kissed?
Outside, Vincent whispered something to one of the men before climbing into his car. The weight on his shoulders eased only slightly when he leaned back into the seat. He had taken the first step, and there was no going back. She made him feel that winning was worth it again, that purpose could still be reignited in the ashes of his heart.
Tracy's smug smile flashed before him. He grabbed the tabloid in the seat beside him and scanned the headlines. The fire was spreading — the public was calling him out, demanding justice. And Jennifer was caught in the center of it all.
He wasn't entirely innocent. For marrying an evil like Tracy, he bore his share of guilt. But Jennifer? She was an innocent soul wronged by the world, and he would not let this continue.
His eyes hardened. "Carlos, make sure Felicity has everything she needs to onboard Jennifer."
Carlos nodded from the rearview mirror. "You're so sure she'll take the deal?"
"She doesn't want that kind of life. That was before she had a choice. Now I've given her one." Vincent pulled a tabloid photo closer, his eyes narrowing on the DA beside Michael Salvatore.
"Ser…" Carlos hesitated. "She reminds you of Samantha." It wasn't a question, but a hunch.
Vincent returned his gaze to the paper. "She does, Carlos. Which is why I won't let Tracy get away with this." His voice snapped, sharp as glass. He placed the tabloid aside.
Carlos allowed himself a small smile. "I take it you're done with that 'what wants to be, should be' bullshit."
Vincent didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead as the car sped toward his mission. Tracy wanted a battle. Voss wanted a battle. But he would give them a war — one that would shake the country and make the headlines.
He swore under his breath.