The next morning Vincent left for the office, the board had called in a meeting. Jennifer woke with a jagged memory, unaware where she was but soon recollected the events of last night. But that tall stranger was not in sight. She was alone in the big airy room.
She went to the balcony. Fresh air greeted her, the sweet smell of an urban setting. Her body—instead of the usual numbness felt light. She returned to the room. Breakfast had been laid?
Her eyes scanned the dishes, it was a whole English breakfast. Her stomach growled at the sight of bacon. She started without hesitation, taking large mouthfuls like the food would run if she ate smaller potions. One sharp knock at the door.
"Come" she swallowed hard. In walked a hotel staff, he carried a slim box. "Good morning ma'am, I was asked by Ser Carlos to deliver this to you"
Ma'am? What was that. She pointed to the table. He laid the box down and disappeared throught the door. Reluctantly she opened it. It was a red silky dress, and a pair of black devil pradas with a blank card in it. She loved the dress. What game is he playing? She placed the box down and scribbled on the blank card I don't need it.
She finished breakfast, had one last warm bath and disappeared back to Boyle Heights, feeling dreadful she might have kept Grim Voss waiting.
***
When Vincent walked into the board meeting that morning, he was greeted with an air of judgment. The eyes sized him like waiting to see if what the media was saying about him was true. Vivian cleared her throat and the stares dissolved.
"Good morning" Vincent sat down and Vivian placed the files before him. Only a few muttered greetings back, expected, Vincent didn't dwell on it their trust in him had been broken.
Vivian stepped to the board, where the company's charts glowed across the screen.
"In the last twenty-four hours, due to unforeseen circumstances, our stock has dropped five percent. We've also lost ten percent of our domestic investors—and we're projecting another twelve percent decline if this continues."
She paused, scanning the room before adding, "The good news is that Moretti Homes still holds a clean reputation abroad. Our foreign investors have assured us they'll stand with us through this crisis."
Murmurs rose immediately—anxious whispers, heads tilting toward one another.
"How long do you expect that goodwill to last?" Michael Salvatore's voice rang out, silencing the room. He leaned forward, his tone edged with calculation. "Our sales are collapsing, and Wayne Foundation is moving in on our weakness. Four of our employees have already jumped ship since this scandal broke. And let's not overlook the numbers—" he tapped the table for emphasis, his gaze sweeping the board, "losing ten percent of our investors means a hundred and seventy-eight million dollars gone. That isn't just a number. That is a death sentence if we stay the course."
He let the words hang, heavy and damning, before adding with a thin smile, "Which is why perhaps a… different profile at the helm would reassure the markets—and save this company before it sinks any deeper".
Michael Salvatore worked for Moretti homes as her sales manager, he was an expert at his work, turning 52 and gently putting one tombstone of victory after another in his career. He was a good speaker but his most defining quality was his excellent leadership, a one time CEO.
"What are you driving at Michael" Vivian's stern voice asked, her eyes flashing with anger. The message was clear.
"I drive at nothing. I only speak from a position of experience, an experience none other in this room has except I".
The room went into an uproar, some in favor of Michael, others called him out for trying to instigate a takeover with the crisis as a cover. "That's enough" Vincent's cold voice cut the trifling and calm returned to the room. He sighed.
"Michael's right" he said calmly.
"What!" Vivian turned to him. "You don't have to do this, we still have the upper hand". The cold stare in his eyes made her shut up.
"I've given it a careful thought and concluded that it's better I withdraw from the fronts and let another face stand for Moretti—untill all of this goes away" He said firmly. There was no objection. Everyone nodded. "I'm sorry for dragging all of you into this" he added. That was unlike Vincent, apology was a silver lining in his cloud.
Carlos joined him in the lobby where the Maybach had been parked. He climbed in, unable to hide his failure even within the black car. "Ser, the woman had left the hotel 5 hours ago" Carlos announced. "I know". Of course he guessed she would leave, the thought of her lingered in the back of his mind throughout the day. "Did she take the parcel with her" he inquired, half guessing the answer.
"No Ser". Carlos answered. Vincent nodded calmly and rest his head on the seat rest.
The car eased out of the lobby. But just outside Carlos slammed the breaks hard, the tires screeched to a halt. Outside a swarm of journalists circled the car, with people carrying cards in form of protest. There were demanding answers.
"The press Ser. Should I call for assistance?" Carlos reached for the phone. "Don't do that. Let them" he was tired, he leaned back and watched them from the tinted glass. Some of the cards carried his picture with words that defamed him 'Cheat, unfaithful, Just like his father. He shut his eyes.
A fist pounded the hood of the car loudly. He hissed. What was he doing here? He climbed down from the car and the journalist rushed to him.
"You self-centered arrogant b**tard, have you no remorse". Murphy Donovan cursed. A few of his men restrained him from putting his hands on Vincent.
This was all a show, to get him to react so there'd find more dirt on him, Vincent didn't move he just stared back at the dozen cameras flashing in his face.
"Are you guilty that you lack words, huh" Murphy pressed forward. Vincent men soon arrived at the scene and dispersed the situation. He climbed back into his car and disappeared.
His phone buzzed. Tracy's phone number was still saved, he answered. "Was sending your father necessary?" He asked and listened how she laughed, it was not the beautiful melody he had come to love. It was evil and sounded like a different person, the lined disconnected.
"Ser". Carlos spoke calmly. Vincent looked up. "Do you want me to look into her. I'm assuming she's important if you brought her home yesterday".
"Her name is Jennifer, and no I don't want you to". He paused then changed his mind. "Actually I would want that". His eyes glanced at the oncoming traffic as the car zoomed off the highway.
***
Jennifer jumped at the loud pounding on her door. Her heart rate spiked and she stumbled to the door. Grim Voss deafening figure blocked the entire sunlight. She stuttered "Voss, I was not supposed to meet with you till tonight". Her lips quivered and she took small steps backwards.
Grim Voss, as he was known—was a legend whispered about in back alleys and luxury penthouses alike. Towering at 6'3, with a lean, predatory build, he carried the kind of presence that made even seasoned men lower their eyes. His skin was weathered bronze, his jawline sharp as a blade, and a thin scar slashed across his cheek—a reminder that crossing him always leaves a mark.
He stepped into the room. "I heard you'd be going on some sight seeing while on my business" his deep voice layered with his Russian accent was enough to make Jennifer's knees crumble.
"A Maybach? You're stepping into dangerous circles, girl. Careful whose shadow you walk under" he struck his hard out, a devilish smirk on his face. Jennifer placed some bills in his hand.
His eyes hovered around the crumpled notes disgustingly, he spat. "What is this?" He growled. Before she could speak his wide palm struck her across the face, the force knocked her onto the bed.
He seized her by her throat and she gasped for air. "I'll be back by tomorrow you filthy thing, have my money with you". He let go of her neck and vanished.
Jennifer gasped for breath in agony. Her throat burned and she coughed uncontrollably. She sobbed, the pain on her face was nothing compared to the one that threatened to tear her heart out.
The TV screen flickered to life on its own, the volume sharp.
"Earlier today, world-renowned designer Murphy Donovan confronted billionaire heir Vincent Moretti over allegations of betrayal toward his daughter, Tracy Donovan."
A photo of Vincent filled the screen—tall, tailored, unreadable. Then shaky footage played of Murphy shouting in Vincent's face, security straining to hold him back, cameras flashing like gunfire.
"Moretti refused to comment. But silence, many say, speaks louder than denial. Is this the fall of one of America's most untouchable names?"
Jennifer clutched her throat where Voss's hand had been. Her breath quickened. The man in that Maybach. The man who had sent her silk and Prada. The man who had looked at her like—like he could see right through her.
He wasn't just rich. He was dangerous.
A knock rattled the door again. Jennifer froze, terrified it might be Voss returning too soon. But when she pulled it open, the hallway was empty—only a small white box rested on the floor.
Her pulse raced. She lifted it inside, setting it carefully on the table.
Her phone buzzed. The voice on the other end was low, smooth, steady.
"Can I see you tonight?"
Jennifer's chest tightened.
She opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside lay the same red silk dress as before, folded with precision, daring her to wear it.
Her reflection in the black screen of the TV showed a cut lip, smeared makeup, and fear written across her eyes. But against her skin, the fabric glowed—like a promise, or a trap.
Voss's warning rang in her head. Tomorrow… have my money.
Vincent's voice lingered in her ear. Calm. Certain. Different from every man she had ever known.
"Jennifer?" he pressed softly.
Her throat worked around a knot. The storm outside howled as though demanding her choice.
One path led to punishment. The other… to something even more dangerous.
She closed her eyes, and whispered—