Vincent stood motionless for a moment, the words echoing like fire in his ears—they burned. The image was seared into his memory, impossible to erase. Then it struck him: Jennifer wasn't his woman. She was free to see whomever she wished. What did a few kisses truly mean? If anything, she was the one who had confessed, while he was the one keeping her waiting.
He took another sip of his drink and held the door open.
"Are you asking me to leave?" Tracy recoiled, unable to believe her eyes. She had just shown him a photograph of Jennifer with another man.
"I think it's pretty damn obvious." His voice was calm, almost practiced, as if he'd escorted unwanted guests out a hundred times before.
"I knew it. You're only using that girl to kill time. She means nothing to you."
"Did that come as a shock? You're the one broadcasting to the world that I had an affair with her."
Tracy laughed—an ugly, jagged cackle that didn't belong to the woman he once knew. "The great Vincent Moretti, cowering inside his mansion, afraid to face the world. What happened to the strong man I married?"
Vincent chuckled. So this was her game: rattle the cage and watch him snarl.
"Savor it while it lasts," he said, smiling without warmth.
"We could have changed the world, the two of us." She stared into his eyes, searching for a crack.
"Changed the world? You mean stripped everything from my life and vanished with your leech of a father."
"Like yours was any better," she snickered.
"He wasn't. If anything, he was one of the worst men who ever lived. But you know what he wasn't? A thief, a coward, a pussy—and he sure as hell wasn't your father."
"We're going to take everything from you." Her eyes flashed, bright with venom.
"We?" Vincent echoed, stepping past her into the center of the room. "Still not the independent woman you pretend to be. Still need a 'we' to face me." He laughed, shaking his head.
The sound crawled beneath her skin. "You won't be laughing when I'm finished with you."
He turned. "You know what? These past months I've heard that line too many times, dressed up in different words. Yet here I stand." He spread his arms wide. "Flesh and bone, still above all of you. Not one of you has managed to stick so much as a pin in my name." He dropped his hands and closed the distance between them.
"Bring your A-game. I told you before—same thing I told Voss and your little sex toy, Marcus Lee."
Tracy's eyes flickered, uneasy.
"Oh yes, I know about that too. You think I didn't? You think I don't know what you did in the garden on our anniversary?" His laugh came out strange, foreign even to him.
"I always wanted to see your endgame, to understand what drove you. Then I realized you're just a sad woman who will never be satisfied. Still, I was willing to honor my side of the vows—to love, to protect."
Vincent paced a slow circle around her.
"Am I supposed to think you're wise?" Her smile was pure mockery, masking the tremor in her hands, the chill on her skin.
"Oh, I'm a fool, all right. If I weren't, I never would have tangled my life with yours."
"You talk like a saint. Our marriage ended the moment you got in over your head."
Vincent's head snapped toward her. "Really? That's the story you tell yourself? That everything fell apart because of me?" He laughed, too weary for rage.
"The only reason you ever got close to me was because your father ordered it. He wanted a Moretti in his pocket." He chuckled, low and bitter. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that. But somewhere beneath all the poison, tell whatever scrap of goodness you have left that our marriage died the day you put your father's schemes above everything we built."
"I came here to warn you about your little bird."
"Well, I hate to break it to you, but she's not my little bird. She's a woman who needed help, and I gave it. If that's all, get the hell out of my house."
"She's beautiful, Vincent. Sooner or later you'll have her in your bed."
Vincent laughed, the sound bright and cutting. "You should try comedy."
Tracy flinched as though slapped. Fury flushed her face crimson. She spun toward the door.
"You know, I think I finally figured out your real problem—besides being sick like the rest of the Donovans."
She froze, then turned.
"What was her name again?" Vincent tapped his chin, feigning thought. "Elizabeth—the redhead everyone adored. She really was a good friend." His smirk sharpened. "You're so used to being the center of the universe you can't stand the spotlight drifting away. First Elizabeth, now Jennifer."
Tracy's heart stuttered. The way he said Jennifer's name carried the same reverence he'd once reserved for her.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." He slammed the door in her face and strode back to his study.
***
Jennifer arrived home late. The taxi dropped her at the estate gates just past nine. She pressed a few crumpled bills through the window and slipped inside. The mansion lay hushed, cathedral-quiet, until she pushed through the towering living-room doors and heard the low, velvet croon of a classic record drifting downstairs. The faint hiss of sizzling oil carried from the kitchen. She knew it was him. Guilt nudged her toward her room.
She shut the door, tossed her bag onto the table, and exhaled. She had warned Cassandra about Natalia's threat; Cass insisted it was probably a bluff, that William had forced himself on her either way. Cassandra urged her to tell Vincent everything. But what if the truth shattered whatever fragile thing they had? Beneath this roof she had found not only safety but warmth in his arms. For nights now, she had slept without Voss haunting her dreams.
She straightened, padded into the bathroom, and let cold water shock the day from her skin. Thoughts still clung when she stepped out and wrapped herself in a robe.
A soft knock. The door cracked open.
"Dinner's ready," he said, voice honey-sweet, face luminous in the hallway glow.
"I'll be right down," she whispered. When the door clicked shut, she slipped into a linen gown that skimmed her collarbone and barely veiled her breasts. For the first time she wore the rose-and-oud cologne delivered her first night here; the scent rose like midnight incense.
She reached the kitchen as he struck a match beneath the final candle. Their eyes met; his gaze drifted across the candlelit hollow of her throat before returning to hers. Heat twisted beneath her skin. What was he thinking? He drew back her chair with old-world grace.
Her stomach growled, soft but traitorous. Basil and simmering cream curled through the air like a secret. "Tonight," he announced, eyes locked on hers, "we feast on Salmon alla Panna con Limone e Basilico."
His knife flashed over garlic and lemon zest; citrus and herb exploded into the room. Plump salmon fillets kissed the skillet, skin blistering gold. Heavy cream swirled with lemon juice; basil leaves shivered like emerald moths in the velvet sauce.
He plated the fish, draped it in cream, scattered capers like midnight pearls, and coiled linguine beside it. Parmesan drifted down in soft snow. He poured chilled Chardonnay into glasses etched with starlight.
Jennifer's first bite dissolved into a sigh. "This is heaven," she breathed.
Vincent smiled, hearing his father's voice: Food is not eaten—it is felt.
"So, how was your day?" he asked after swallowing.
She glanced up. Candlelight and chandelier glow haloed his face; a faint sheen of oil glistened on his lips. He was devastatingly handsome. She looked away. "Uneventful. Boring."
"You used the word boring," he teased, nearly laughing.
"Shouldn't I?" She watched him shake his head and return to his plate. She wanted his eyes on her, not the salmon. The way he savored each bite—she wished those lips were tasting her. She tugged the gown lower; linen slid, revealing the full curve of her breasts, nipples tight against the fabric.
"And yours?" she asked.
He looked up. His gaze traveled from her face, down the slope of exposed skin, then back to her eyes. Was she teasing him? He remembered that gown riding higher once before.
"Uneventful. Drank too much bourbon." Regret shadowed the words.
"Maybe you needed it." Drink from my fountain—the thought flared so hot she nearly spoke it aloud.
"You drink?" he asked.
"I'm terrible at it. Tried shots once. Hangover hit like a freight train."
He laughed, setting his fork down. "You're funny."
The compliment drew a shy smile from her.
"But I could duel you sometime."
"A drinking contest?" His laugh was soft thunder.
"You think I can't?" She arched a brow.
"You're full of surprises. How would I know?"
"Winner gets entertained," she said, eyes steady on his.
"And the loser?" He held his breath.
"Loser strips and puts on a show." She ducked her head, cheeks burning, but his delighted nod coaxed her gaze back up.
"I'm starting to wonder what happened to you today," he said.
She rolled her eyes, fork clinking against porcelain. "I have a friend—Cassandra. She's… not exactly innocent."
Vincent's heart warmed at the word friend—simple, honest, real.
He speared another flake of salmon. "I'm glad you're finding your way in this new world."
"I just wish all this would vanish—" She bit the sentence in half. Cassandra called her the prize. In every story Jennifer had ever lived, she'd been worth less than dust. Did he see more?
"And?" he prompted, gentle.
"Nothing." She shrugged, sipping wine. Behind the glass she stole glances: the flex of his jaw as he chewed, the slow swallow. Then it hit her—foolish girl—if she weren't a prize, why had he moved heaven and earth to keep her safe?
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For the dish—or for the handsome face to ogle?" The tease rolled out effortless.
She blushed, nearly choking on Chardonnay. He laughed, low and fond. She rolled her eyes, grinning.
Dinner unfolded in easy laughter until the plates were clean. She watched him wash dishes in companionable silence, candlelight flickering across the broad line of his shoulders, the sleeves rolled high on forearms still flecked with flour and lemon.
***
The last glass found its place in the rack with a note too soft to call a clink, more a sigh of crystal.
Vincent let the towel drop. It landed like a white flag.
Jennifer stood at the island's edge, fingertips resting on marble that still held the day's trapped sun.
Her pulse beat in her throat, visible, quick.
She watched him the way a sailor watches the first star appear: half hope, half fear it might vanish.
He crossed the floor in measured steps, soles whispering over marble.
When he stopped, the air between them carried rosemary, candle-smoke, and the faint iron of the knife he'd used to slice figs.
He braced his hands on the stone, palms wide, leaving her an open corridor of escape.
She stayed.
"You're shaking," he said.
Not a question.
"Only a little," she answered, voice barely louder than the refrigerator's hum.
She lifted her chin. "I don't want to be anywhere else."
Vincent's exhale trembled.
He bent until their foreheads touched, sharing one small pocket of breath.
"Tell me the speed limit."
"Walking pace," she whispered. "Maybe slower."
He smiled against her mouth, then waited.
Jennifer rose onto the balls of her feet and brushed her lips to his, once, twice, like testing if the tide had turned.
The third time she stayed, parting for him, letting him taste the wine still sleeping on her tongue.
He answered with restraint so fierce it felt like worship.
Her fingers found his shirt buttons.
They slipped free one by one, clumsy, reverent.
Each inch of revealed skin was a country she'd only read about in letters.
She mapped it with trembling palms: the small scar under his left rib, the faint silvered line where a childhood dog had nipped him, the heat that flared beneath her touch like struck flint.
Vincent's hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing the border where silk met skin.
He asked with his eyes.
She answered by guiding those hands upward, letting the dress gather like dusk.
Cool air kissed her thighs; his gaze followed, reverent, almost startled.
"Still walking pace?" he asked.
She laughed, a small, startled sound. "Crawl."
He lifted her.
The marble met the backs of her legs with a shock that turned to warmth the instant his hips slid between her knees.
He did not rush.
He studied her the way astronomers study eclipses: afraid to blink, afraid to breathe too loud.
Jennifer's hands moved to his belt.
The buckle gave with a muted chime.
When she closed her fingers around him, the sound he made was half prayer, half surrender.
She felt him throb against her palm, alive, impossibly real.
"Look at me," she said, voice steadier now.
His eyes were storm-blue, stripped of every mask.
She guided him forward until the blunt heat of him pressed against her.
A pause.
A shared inhale that tasted of figs and candle-wax and the future.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, once.
He entered her the way dawn enters a cathedral: slow, inevitable, golden.
Every inch was a question; every small rock of her hips, an answer.
When he was fully seated, the world narrowed to the place they joined, to the pulse that beat in both of them at once.
Jennifer's moan trembled out of her, soft, incredulous.
"I didn't know it could feel like belonging." she whispered.
Vincent's forehead dropped to hers.
"Neither did I."
They moved in small, deliberate tides.
No choreography, only discovery: the angle that made her breath hitch, the rhythm that turned his name into a plea.
Her climax arrived not as a crash but as a bloom, quiet, relentless, rolling through her like dusk through vineyards.
She buried the sound against his shoulder, teeth grazing skin, tasting salt and starlight.
Vincent followed with a low, broken utterance that might have been her name, might have been gratitude.
He spilled into her in long, helpless pulses, arms locked so tight she felt his heartbeat through his ribs.
After, the kitchen held its breath.
A single candle guttered, throwing their shadows tall against the copper pans.
Jennifer traced the line of his jaw, thumb brushing the place where stubble met skin.
"Hi," she said, shy again, but only with wonder.
Vincent turned his head to kiss her palm.
"Hello, stranger," he answered. "I've been waiting my whole life to meet you here."
It hit her like a wave, she buried her face into his chest, hiding the wide silly grin that curled her lips open.
Outside, the moon climbed above the cypress.
Inside, the marble cooled beneath them, holding the faint outline of two bodies that had just rewritten gravity.
Neither moved to leave.
There was no hurry; the night had learned their names and was content to keep them.
Silence except the small Ding notification of his phone, he held her still not wanting her to leave—and reached for the phone. The message read…
[Carlos: We have a problem]