Her lips still tingled.
Jennifer had shut the door too quickly, as though the wooden frame could shield her from the weight of what had just happened in the hallway. The kiss hadn't been planned—too sudden, too consuming, too much of him—but now that she was alone, it filled the silence like a storm that refused to pass.
She leaned her back against the door, her chest rising unevenly. His scent still lingered in her hair, warm and faintly sharp like cedar smoke. The memory of the way his hand had hesitated at her waist—firm, yet trembling with restraint—burned against her skin. She whispered goodnight as though it had been an escape, but the word hadn't softened anything. If anything, it had made the distance between them unbearable.
For the first time, Jennifer wondered if she was falling. And if she was—what exactly was she falling into?
***
The day that followed moved with strange slowness. Vincent disappeared into his routines, long calls behind closed doors, pacing his study. And Jennifer found herself in the company of Carlos more often than she expected.
At first, his presence felt like another set of watchful eyes, a shadow that belonged more to Vincent than to himself. But something shifted. Maybe it was the way he finally spoke to her at noon while he stood guard outside the balcony, leaning on the railing with a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
"You know he doesn't sleep much," Carlos said, almost to the wind itself. His voice was rough, not unkind, but worn, like gravel underfoot.
Jennifer glanced at him, uncertain. "Vincent?"
Carlos gave a short nod. The smoke curled up and away, dissolving into the city haze. "Three hours on a good night. Sometimes less. He doesn't say it, but you can see it in his eyes."
She didn't know why that small fact tugged at her chest.
Over the next few hours, Carlos spoke more. Never too much, never unguarded, but enough to paint small strokes of Vincent she had never seen.
"He took a bullet once," Carlos muttered as though he regretted sharing it. "Not for a boss, not for money. For one of the guys—an employee. That was before you came around. Nearly bled out, but didn't make a sound."
Jennifer listened quietly, each story unspooling like a thread that bound her closer to Vincent in ways she didn't ask for.
And then there was the name. Samantha.
Carlos didn't linger on it, only said it once while staring at the floor. "He still carries her ghost. More than he should."
That night Jennifer lay awake, unable to shake it. The name was heavy, like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples through her heart. Who was Samantha? What had she meant to him?
***
The next evening, Vincent interrupted.
Jennifer had been leaning on the balcony railing, Carlos a quiet presence beside her, when the door slid open behind them. Vincent stepped out, his jaw tight, his dark eyes unreadable—but not entirely. She caught it: the flash of something sharp, something that looked too much like jealousy before he hid it away.
"Carlos," Vincent's voice was cool. "Don't you have work?"
Carlos straightened. The air between them thickened. He gave Jennifer one last look—almost apologetic—before walking away without a word.
She stood frozen as Vincent came closer. He didn't say anything, didn't ask what they'd been talking about. But his silence pressed heavier than any accusation.
Jennifer wrapped her arms around herself. For the first time she wasn't just afraid of him. She was afraid of what she wanted from him.
Later, alone in her room, she whispered a quiet thank-you to Carlos—for the fragments of Vincent he'd shared. But her chest ached with the truth she could no longer ignore: she wanted to heal him. She wanted to understand him.
Yet deep down, she knew—she was still too broken herself.
After that day she had gone back to her condo. Then.
The envelope was unmarked. No return address, no stamp — just her name in sharp, black ink. Jennifer found it wedged against the condo door that morning, as though someone had stood there long enough to slip it beneath and vanish before anyone noticed.
Her pulse quickened. She knew before she even touched it. The dread was familiar, old as a scar.
After her call, Vincent appeared at her side almost instantly, his hand covering hers before she could open it. He took the envelope, tore it open in one movement, and read the slip of paper inside. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking like it wanted to break.
Then he looked at her.
"He's coward. And he's about to know the man he's been dealing with."
The words sat between them like poison.
Jennifer's throat tightened. The walls of the condo suddenly felt too thin, too exposed. She wanted to breathe but couldn't.
Vincent crossed the room without speaking, struck a match, and held the note to it. The flame caught quick, devouring the paper until only black curls of ash fluttered into the glass tray on his desk.
But his hand — his hand shook.
Jennifer saw it. The unsteadiness he tried to hide, the tremor he smothered with fury. Her chest ached. If Vincent — untouchable, unreadable Vincent — trembled at the name Grim Voss, then the danger was real enough to choke her.
***
The storm spread beyond the walls.
Tracy struck next. The headlines came like knives: Small-town nobody hooks billionaire: Jennifer Lawrence exposed. A dozen variations of the same story, plastered across glossy sites, all dripping with venom.
Every picture of her was framed to wound — her laughing, looking lost beside Vincent, one even doctored to make her hand linger on his chest. "Gold-digger" screamed beneath her name in bold fonts. "The poor girl playing Cinderella."
Jennifer shut the laptop screen, bile rising in her throat.
She wasn't naïve. She had known it would come. But knowing didn't make it easier. She wasn't just losing herself in Vincent's world — she was being dismantled by it, piece by piece.
And yet… every new blow from Voss and Tracy seemed to drive her closer to Vincent, as though the only safe place left was the one man she wasn't sure she should trust.
***
That evening she slipped out onto the balcony of her condo for air. The city stretched endless before her, a wash of lights against the dark. For a moment she closed her eyes and pretended she was just Jennifer — not his, not theirs, not anyone's.
When she opened them again, her stomach dropped.
Two men stood across the street, half-hidden in the glow of a streetlamp. They weren't talking, weren't smoking, weren't doing anything ordinary. They were watching. Their stillness was too sharp, their eyes too fixed.
Jennifer's breath caught. Panic shot through her legs. She fled back inside, slamming the door, her heartbeat wild and loud enough to drown thought.
Vincent was there instantly. "What happened?"
She couldn't even answer. She just pointed, chest heaving. But when he looked, the street was empty. They had vanished when his car had pulled up.
His eyes burned as he turned back to her. He caught her trembling hands, grounding her, forcing her to meet him. His voice came low, fierce, deadly.
"If he comes near you," Vincent swore, every syllable a blade, "I'll bury him."
The words should have steadied her. Instead, her skin prickled.
Because behind the fury in his gaze, she saw it again.
Fear.