Vincent paced around the penthouse restless. He had hoped to avoid the media just so he called keep the fire from spreading, but somehow the media knew which parking lot he'd be using, and the Moretti structure had four of those. In his confusion he didn't give it much thought.
Tracy had called again, to taunt him. She was carving him out from the inside—to think she was the same woman he had loved for the last five years.
Two brief knocks on his door. "Come" he called. Carlos walked in. "As you asked for" and handed him a blue file. Vincent rummaged through. His chest tightened as he flipped through the photographs "My God" he exclaimed. He collapsed into his chair and his fingers raked his hair. Carlos hovered "What to do Ser" his calm voice lingered.
Vincent shrugged, unable to remove the memory of the photographs from his mind. Finally he turned to Carlos "Prepare a table for two out at the back" he instructed and Carlos made haste.
He opened the file again and dialed the digits that had been circled. The line rang, he waited. Click.
"Can I see you tonight". He would have phrased it like a command, the way he did when he wanted something, but this was different. There was no answer at the other end, but he could hear her soft panting, was she scared?
"Jennifer" he called softly. The line cracked a little and then came a muffled word, he heard her whisper—
***
The pool shimmered under the glow of recessed lights, each ripple scattering fragments of gold across the water's surface. Vincent sat at the edge of the deck, a glass of dark whiskey in his hand, the other resting casually against the arm of the chair.
He wore a crisp white shirt, collar undone, sleeves rolled just enough to bare the veins of his forearms. The shirt clung lightly to his shoulders when he leaned forward, every line precise but unforced. Black tailored trousers and polished loafers grounded him, though his presence felt anything but ordinary.
His watch caught the soft glimmer of the pool light, the only indulgence on a man who didn't need adornments to declare power. He looked calm, almost too calm, but the way his eyes stayed fixed on the darkened glass doors said otherwise. He was waiting.
Every few seconds, his fingers tapped once against the glass in his hand, betraying a patience stretched thin. Vincent Moretti never waited on anyone. Yet tonight, the silence, the water, and the empty chair across from him were all for her.
The soft glow of the pool lights rippled against Vincent's crisp white shirt as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the still surface of the water. Calm, controlled, immaculate—that was Vincent Moretti.
Then she arrived.
Jennifer stepped into the poolside light, and for a moment, the world tilted. Her golden, sun-kissed skin shimmered against the silk of the red dress he had sent her. Every step carried a fragile confidence, the sway of her curves caught somewhere between defiance and hesitation. The night air kissed the smooth warmth of her bare shoulders, and the soft glow turned her into something almost unreal—like a flame moving against shadow.
Vincent's jaw tightened. He had expected her. But not like this.
He stood abruptly.
"Good evening."
They spoke in unison. She looked away to the shimmering pool; he kept his gaze steady on her.
"You look lovely tonight," he said before he could stop himself.
Her face warmed—just for a fleeting second—before she masked it with a frown. He caught it anyway.
"Please. Sit." He gestured lightly before lowering himself into his chair. She moved hesitantly, fear flickering behind her eyes.
"You didn't say a proper goodbye before leaving," Vincent said with a small smile, his voice low and calm. "After dinner, you'll do that. Then we can part ways… in good faith."
Her eyes lifted. "Dinner?" The word slipped out before she could stop it.
"Not hungry?" His brow arched.
She stole a glance at him when his head turned. That same face plastered all over the news—labeled a cheater, a scandal, a man unfaithful. Yet here he was, untouched by it, unbothered, sharing dinner with another woman like nothing in the world could rattle him. Maybe this was his truth: women, money, power.
Three staff members appeared, carrying platters that seemed to belong in another world—seafood glistening with lemon glaze, perfectly seared steak, delicate desserts, sushi rolls lined like art, steaming bowls of ramen. The air thickened with the rich aroma. She swallowed hard.
"I hope you have a big appetite," he said softly, tugging the ramen bowl toward him. His hands moved with elegance, chopsticks in perfect control, the motion of eating refined yet unpretentious.
She turned quickly away as his gaze shifted, and focused on the steak. Her fork clattered nervously against the plate as she cut uneven chunks, stuffing them into her mouth. The flavors burst across her tongue.
"You can thank Carlos for that one," Vincent remarked smoothly. "He insisted on making his specialty for you."
She froze. Why? What was the point of this? Her questions burned until he answered, as though he had plucked them straight from her mind.
"You don't need to worry about anything," he said warmly. "Just enjoy the night. Eat. Then return to your life in peace."
His ease unsettled her more than anger ever could. Was it a mask? Or had he truly mastered the art of not caring?
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her fork trembling against the plate.
Vincent set down his cutlery and dabbed his lips with the napkin. His eyes were steady, unreadable. She spoke again.
"I don't mix pleasure with business. And if this isn't business…" her voice slowed, softer, angrier, "…then maybe I shouldn't be here."
Her breath hitched.
"How much is your price?" He asked, His words laced with quiet provocation.
A brow rose. He leaned back, relaxed.
"Is that what you want to hear?" His tone was steady, almost amused. "Don't worry. My moral compass won't let me put a price on you."
Silence followed. Only the soft trickle of the pool filled the air. He ate calmly, unbothered, while she stared—years of practice sharpening her eye to catch lies. But Vincent's gaze remained warm, open, almost tender.
The more she saw it, the louder Grim Voss's warning echoed inside her skull.
He caught her staring this time. His lips curved, and he sipped his wine slowly before setting the glass down.
"You remind me," he murmured, his voice low, heavy, intimate—like a confession meant only for the dark—"of someone I lost."
Jennifer froze. The words hung between them, heavier than the night air, pressing into her chest. She wanted to ask, but his eyes told her it wasn't a wound easily opened.
So she said nothing.
And the silence that followed spoke louder than anything either of them could.