"If you don't want to be parted from Miss Rosaline," Vincent said quietly, dangerously, "or from the one you're carrying… I suggest you behave."
The threat was naked. Unvarnished. Meant to hurt.
He held Ryley's stare for a moment longer, letting the meaning settle like a chokehold— then dipped into a cold, perfect bow before turning on his heel and walking away.
If the cup in Ryley's grip were made of glass, it would have shattered long ago.
Behind the curtain of dangling gold ornaments, his eyes burned—shimmering with rage he refused to let spill.
Vincent had dared. Had looked him in the eye and threatened him with his children as if it were nothing, as if that line were his to cross.
Unforgivable.
The fury came fast and sharp, a violent urge to lash out, to tear something apart.
Ryley forced it down, jaw tightening as he drew a careful breath. Then another. The exhale shook despite his efforts.
No. Vincent wasn't careless. He wouldn't be this bold without reason.
