The hush thickened as every camera swiveled toward the tall glass doors. Vincent Moretti stepped into the hall, tuxedo tailored sharp against his frame, silk bow tie knotted with precision, the gleam of his patent shoes catching the light. Authority clung to him like a second skin, polished, deliberate—every inch the man who never asked for permission to exist.
Beside him, Jennifer looked almost unreal. The midnight-blue satin gown molded to her curves before spilling into a mermaid flare that glittered with crystal accents under the chandeliers. Off-shoulder straps bared the delicate slope of her collarbones, while a diamond bracelet glimmered at her wrist, the only jewel she dared wear. Silver stilettos lengthened her fragile frame, her hair swept up to expose the soft line of her throat. She walked like someone who didn't belong there—yet somehow stole the room's breath anyway.
The cameras went mad. Reporters surged forward, voices rising, flashes exploding like gunfire. To them, she wasn't a woman in a gown—she was a headline in satin, a scandal draped on the arm of power.
Tracy Donovan's smirk deepened as she lowered her phone. The trap had worked.
The first reporter dared to speak.
"Mr. Moretti, the Safeheaven Charity Foundation has received generous donations from Moretti Homes in the past. Should we expect the same this year?"
Vincent walked slowly, his calm presence commanding silence. He smiled at the reporter.
"No." His voice carried through the hall. Then, with a deliberate glance at Jennifer, he added, "This year's donation is courtesy of Miss Jennifer Lawrence."
Gasps rippled across the room. Cameras flashed.
Another reporter leapt in.
"Mr. Moretti, who is Miss Lawrence to you?"
"She's a good friend," Vincent replied smoothly. He paused, then added, "And my new secretary."
That idea had been Carlos's, but Vincent delivered it like it was his own.
"But sir," another pressed, "Moretti Homes faces a split pending your divorce. Is this the time to be hiring new staff?"
Vincent almost laughed. His gaze slid toward Tracy's table, her smugness taunting him.
"Jennifer is competent," he said firmly. "Moretti needs all the brains it can get."
He led her away, guiding her to the bar. She sat, restless, her breath ragged. Every glance in the room felt like a blade against her skin.
Leaning on one elbow, Vincent studied her.
"You should wear dresses like this more often. You're beautiful."
The sincerity in his tone unraveled her. She shifted, her chest tightening—she had actually blushed.
"I'm scared," she whispered, eyes downcast.
He tilted his head, his gaze soft, unwavering.
"Do you trust me?"
She nodded. Not because she truly did—but because, if she'd ever felt safety, it was beside this dangerous man.
"Good." His eyes flicked over her shoulder. "There she is. Someone I'd like you to meet."
Jennifer froze. She didn't dare turn. But poised footsteps approached, accompanied by a subtle lavender fragrance.
"Vincent," a woman's voice sang warmly. "My God, it's been ages."
A woman in her fifties embraced him briefly, kissing his cheek. He smiled wide.
"You always wanted a blonde kid, and I wasn't one."
She slapped his arm playfully. "Oh, don't tell me you're still jealous of Tristan." Then her eyes landed on Jennifer.
"My God… are those eyes real?"
Vincent chuckled. "She's right here before you."
The woman extended a hand. "Felicity Lourdes."
Jennifer's breath caught. She had seen that name splashed across magazines—Felicity owned the third-largest modeling agency in the country.
"And you must be Jennifer Lawrence." Felicity's voice was honey. "Eyes like sapphire, hair like silk… how on earth is this beauty possible?" She tugged gently at Jennifer's flowing hair.
Turning to Vincent, Felicity declared, "I need her. You can't deny me this one."
"I haven't heard the sweet part yet," Vincent teased.
"A hefty signing bonus, any apartment she wants. I'll have Jonathan draft the contract." Felicity's smile was sharp.
Before Jennifer could process, an uproar shook the hall. Gasps spread as screens lit up—phones, tablets, all flashing the same image.
Jennifer's heart lurched when Vincent stiffened. He saw it too: her, in heels and a miniskirt, cigarette glowing, a man's hand gripping her inappropriately.
His gaze snapped to Tracy. She smirked, satisfied.
Vincent's jaw tightened. His phone vibrated. [Fix this]. He tapped the screen so hard it nearly cracked. The photo vanished online within seconds—but the damage was done.
Reporters swarmed. Cameras blinded.
"Are you truly the Latina escort to Mr. Moretti?"
"Are you the homewrecker?"
"How long has the affair been going on?"
Her lungs collapsed. She buried her face, suffocated by voices and lights.
Then came the bark, cold and lethal:
"Scram!"
Silence.
Every eye turned to Vincent—his stare was murderous, his fury radiating. The crowd recoiled.
He wrapped a hand firmly around Jennifer's back and led her out, daring anyone to interfere. The heavy doors shut behind them, sealing them inside the midnight-blue Rolls-Royce.
***
That night, she woke screaming. Hands had pushed her beneath dark water. She fought, choking, reaching—first seeing Vincent's face, then hearing Voss's voice. The face shifted. It was Voss.
She bolted upright, drenched in sweat. A glass of water, shaky breaths. Goosebumps crawled her skin.
A muffled sound. Footsteps.
Her heart slammed. She grabbed the knife by the sink. Silence. Her own breathing too loud. Then—scuffling, and the sound of retreating steps.
She crouched under the kitchen table, trembling. Minutes passed before she crawled to the door.
A yellow envelope lay waiting.
Inside, a single photo of her and Vincent at the gala—his face slashed out in red ink.
One mistake costs everything.
Her knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor.