That night, Jennifer felt something she had never known before. For the first time in her life, she had been given a choice—and not forced into one. She slipped into a silk nightgown, the fabric whispering against her skin. Climbing into bed, her slight frame barely dented the mattress as she pulled the duvet over herself and stared at the ceiling.
Her mind hunted for what felt wrong. It was the fear. The same fear of inevitability that clawed at her every night when she tried to sleep. Tonight it was still there, but muted—its weight on her chest softer, almost lukewarm.
She replayed the day in her head. Cassandra and Cookie had been kind to her. Even if Felicity had instructed them to be, she didn't care. She was set to begin work with Cookie on Monday. A small unveiling of new lines was scheduled for next month, and he had promised to prepare her for it. In his words: "Let's take yorr scarrrs an' make zomet'ing beautyful."
She smiled faintly at the memory. She had never heard a French accent filled with such enthusiasm. His demeanor was light, pleasant, almost disarming. Curling deeper under the covers, Jennifer realized—for the first time in her life—she was looking forward to a new week with a goal. Could life really be offering her a second chance? A small, unconscious smile tugged at her lips.
But then came the thought of Vincent. He hadn't contacted her. She reached for her phone. No messages. She sighed. Why was she suddenly feeling this way? The events of the past two weeks had swayed her more than she admitted, and her body had grown used to his presence. She wouldn't be wrong to say she missed him.
Turning on her side, she gazed out the window at the clear night sky. The memory of that moment at the station tightened her chest. They had almost kissed. Or was she only imagining it?
She had been so determined to paint him with the same brush as all men, yet now she scolded herself for it. Vincent was a broken man, standing on the brink of losing everything that defined him—and still, he had found the time to show her compassion.
She drifted into sleep minutes later, hoping he would find her in her dreams.
***
Vincent flinched as a sudden burst of bright light struck his face. He shielded his eyes with his forearm while a soft breeze slipped into the room.
"Good morning, Ser," Carlos's voice called.
Vincent hissed, burying himself back in the bed. The weight of the world seemed pressed onto his chest, impossible to lift.
The sound of hot water filling a cup reached his ears, followed by the scent of coffee threading through the air. His stomach rumbled loudly.
"You hardly touched your meal last night," Carlos said. "The chef wants to know if he should replace the steak with ribs."
Vincent turned his head toward him, his gaze sharp. Sitting up, his arms and back flexed, every muscle taut as he pushed himself upright. "Tell him to serve his best. I'm starving."
He didn't rise yet. Instead, he slid onto the floor and stretched his full length flat. Lowering himself nearly to the ground, he held the push-up posture, then began again. Slow at first, then faster, rhythm pounding out his frustration.
Carlos nodded and walked toward the kitchen.
The mansion itself stood like a monument to his family, a Georgian estate passed down for six generations. His father had lived his last days here. Vincent rarely stayed, preferring his villa—but after the divorce, Tracy claimed it, along with much of his life's work.
This house, though, would remain Moretti's forever. Twelve bedrooms, three vast studies, a medium-sized library, three living rooms, and a private cinema—built by his father years ago to recreate their first date for his mother. Outside stretched a driveway curling toward a garage filled with vintage cars, a stable with horses, a barn where Vincent had spent his childhood, orchards heavy with fruit, and a golf course he once dreamed of remaking into a dirt bike track for his child. All of it sat across thirty acres of land on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, an oasis of Rolling Hills wealth.
By the time he straightened from the floor, his skin glistened with sweat. He grabbed the cup of coffee, noting the delicate heart Carlos had traced in milk. His father used to tease the butler for such touches, but Carlos always said his heart was in the work.
Bless whoever invented coffee, Vincent thought, draining a sip before heading into the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror. His jaw was rough, shadowed with days of neglect. He took his time shaving, smoothing his face until it was clean, then brushed his teeth and returned to the dining room.
Carlos was already there, setting the table, with the chef waiting expectantly.
"Mr. Moretti," the chef said, beaming. "Today's special is my grandmother's recipe." He held the knob of the dish's lid, waiting for Vincent to sit.
Vincent sank into his chair, eyes flicking toward Carlos before nodding.
"Brasato di Manzo al Barolo," the chef announced proudly as he lifted the lid.
The beef ribs glistened in a velvet glaze of Barolo wine, their flesh dark and tender from hours of slow braising. The marrow had melted into silk, every rib ready to fall apart at the touch of a fork. The sauce carried rosemary, bay, and garlic—an earthy sweetness that clung to the meat like a lover's whisper. Around the edges, carrots and pearl onions gleamed, collapsing into the crimson pool. Beneath it all lay golden polenta, waiting to cradle the richness.
Vincent took one bite and closed his eyes. His throat ached for the flavors, his tongue unwilling to let them go. For the first time in days, he smiled. He turned to the chef, who stood trembling with hope. "Grazie."
The chef bowed and retreated, eyes shining with pride.
Carlos lingered silently until Vincent looked up. "I can hear your mind," Vincent said, returning to his meal.
"It's Jennifer, Ser. You haven't spoken to her in a week."
Vincent's head snapped up. "Is something wrong with her?"
Carlos shook his head quickly. "I forbid that, Ser. But the two of you have warmed to each other. I'd hate to see it fade for nothing."
Vincent's gaze shifted uneasily. Carlos was never one to meddle in relationships. Yet his words carried a rare softness, revealing a side Vincent had not expected.
Perhaps he should see her. Perhaps she would never trust again, but if he was careful, gentle, maybe she wouldn't run. He finished his wine and wiped his mouth.
"Bring her here," he said at last. "But set the garden first."
"Already done, Ser," Carlos replied, fighting a smile.
Vincent narrowed his eyes. "Did I just see you smile?"
"No, Ser," Carlos said quickly, before leaving the room—his grin wide once he was out of sight.
***
That afternoon, Carlos eased the car to a stop outside Jennifer's condo. He wondered briefly if it was wrong to arrive unannounced. Waiting, he glanced up just in time to see her curtain twitch. A flash of her face.
He sighed, leaning against the car. All he wanted was to protect Vincent. Yet when he looked at her, he saw truth. Innocence. And when he dug into her past at Vincent's request, what he found had unsettled him. How could anyone endure such hell and not be shattered? Perhaps, one day, she and Vincent could heal one another. He prayed it so—but the shadow of Voss loomed. Vincent was in a war, enemies at every corner. What he needed was not another vulnerability, but an ally.
Jennifer emerged then, descending the steps. She wore tight blue jeans with a knitted sweater, white sneakers, and her hair tumbling in soft waves. The air had cooled, and it suited her.
"Ms. Jennifer," Carlos greeted, smiling warmly.
She stopped short, startled. She had never seen him smile before. "He sent for me?" she asked, hope flickering in her voice.
Carlos nodded and opened the car door for her.
As they drove, he spoke softly. "It'll be a long ride, Ms. Lawrence."
She leaned back, gazing out the window. From the rearview, Carlos saw her face glow faintly. She reminded him of Samantha. His chest tightened with quiet longing.
He knew her mind was on Vincent—on why he hadn't called, why he sent for her now instead of coming himself. But he left her to her thoughts.
The ride was quiet. Forty minutes later, the car climbed into Rolling Hills as the sun began to fall.
Jennifer stepped out, her sneakers crunching slightly the gravel drive, and the breath caught in her throat. Before her rose a mansion that seemed carved from another century—an expanse of pale stone and symmetry, its façade crowned with dormered windows and flanked by wings that stretched wide, as though embracing the land itself. At the center of the circular drive, a fountain whispered in perpetual motion, scattering diamonds of water into the air.
Beyond the gates, the grounds unfolded with ruthless precision: a lawn striped in flawless green, hedges marching in geometric lines toward a distant garden. To one side, a gleaming court waited, manicured to perfection, while to the other, terraces and courtyards suggested hidden places where laughter and secrets might linger. The sheer scale of it all dwarfed her—this was not just a home, but a declaration, the kind of estate built to outlast generations.
The silence pressed close, heavy with the scent of clipped grass and old money. Jennifer felt the weight of it, as though the mansion itself were watching her, deciding whether she belonged.
"This way." Carlos led her through a serpentine path that cut away from the mansion. Jennifer followed. They passed through a tunnel of meticulously trimmed flowers, the blossoms alive with color, their fragrance carried in the evening air. The garden whispered with life, yet Jennifer's heart was louder.
Carlos stopped suddenly and turned to her.
"Keep straight. He's waiting." His voice was clipped, almost protective. Then he stepped back into the shadows, leaving her alone with the path ahead.
She swallowed, steadying herself, and walked forward. The flowers opened into a clearing. At the center stood a white canopy draped with gauze, the fabric stirring faintly in the night breeze. Beneath it, a table had been set, candles glowing against porcelain, two chairs facing one another. And then—she saw him.
Tall. A white oversized shirt, unbuttoned at the chest, catching the candlelight. His black hair wasn't styled back as usual but left messy, carefree. It made his face softer, more dangerously charming. The wind sang through the garden as she walked toward him, her eyes locked on his, daring not to falter until she stood before him.
He held a single stalk of rose in his hand. Quietly, he extended it toward her.
"Happy birthday, Jennifer." His smile was faint, rare, and it unraveled her.
Her stomach fluttered—not hunger, not nerves, but butterflies. A rush so sudden it startled her.
"How did you know that?" she asked, the fluster in her voice betraying her heart.
Vincent chuckled softly. "Seriously?" He raised a brow, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips.
She averted her gaze quickly. His eyes were too much—too consuming. "Thank you," she whispered, clutching the rose.
"The evening is yours," he said, pulling back a chair for her. "Let's make the most of it."
***
They dined slowly beneath the canopy, candlelight flickering against silver cutlery. The food was exquisite, but Jennifer barely tasted it. She watched him instead, the way he leaned back with a rare ease, the faint curve of his mouth when she spoke, the way his presence filled even silence with weight.
After dessert, Vincent rose, excusing himself briefly. When he returned, he held a velvet box, no larger than his palm. He set it in front of her.
Her breath caught. "Vincent…"
"Open it," he said.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a necklace, delicate and gleaming, a fine gold chain with a pendant that shimmered like captured light. Simple, beautiful, impossibly thoughtful.
"I can't accept this," she whispered, almost afraid to touch it.
"You can," he said firmly, his voice low but unyielding. "No one's ever given you something without a price. Let this be the first. It's yours, Jennifer. Just yours."
Her throat tightened, and she snapped the box closed before tears could betray her. "You don't know what this does to me…"
"I do," he said, watching her with unreadable eyes. "That's why I gave it to you."
The words rooted themselves deep inside her.
***
Later, as the night stretched long, he walked her through the hushed corridors of the estate. The air was cool, heavy with unspoken things.
"It's too late to drive you back to Santa Monica," Vincent said at last. "Stay here tonight. Your room is ready."
She hesitated, but the quiet of the halls, the security of the walls, and the softness of his tone made her nod.
As they reached her door, she slowed, her fingers brushing the frame. Silence lingered between them. Finally, she broke it.
"I signed with Felicity Lourdes."
His eyes lifted to hers.
"I'm going to model," she said softly, as though confessing a secret.
A long breath left him. He stepped closer. "I know. Carlos told me." His voice grew gentler, almost reverent. "Jennifer… I'm proud of you."
The words struck her harder than any touch could. No one had ever said them to her. Not her parents. Not Voss. Not anyone. She bit her lip, struggling to breathe past the ache in her chest.
Her hand lingered on the doorknob, but her eyes found his again.
Before she realized it, he leaned closer, slowly, carefully—as though he feared breaking her. Her heart leapt against her ribs. And then, their lips met.
The kiss was quiet but full of fire, deep and trembling. Not rushed, not hungry, but desperate in its honesty, as if they had both been starving for it all along.
She pulled away first, breathless, her pulse racing. His hand hovered near her, aching to touch, but he stopped himself.
"Goodnight," she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of it.
She turned quickly, slipping into the room, the door shutting softly behind her.
Vincent stood frozen in the hallway, shadows clinging to him. The ghost of her lips burned against his. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, knowing that kiss had already shifted the ground beneath them. She's not Samantha… she's Jennifer . He muttered slowly.
The night pressed heavy, the silence deafening. And though neither of them admitted it aloud, there was no turning back.