Vincent's whole day was swallowed by the office. The DA's presence at Moretti Homes had drawn frenzy, and the press swarmed every inch of ground outside. Of course, he could walk straight through them and not one soul would dare ask a question—but he was tired, tired down to his soul. So he went up to the roof, where the air was cold and clean.
In a week's time, he'd be standing in court before a jury he knew already hated him—hated him simply for being who he was. All these years, and all anyone ever saw was the arrogant billionaire. None cared to look further, to actually see him. Now, he couldn't count on sympathy to win him anything. The evidence pointing his way was already too convincing; he might as well have ordered the priest's assassination himself.
He exhaled sharply and, for a regretful moment, wished his father were still alive. But he wasn't—and the reins were his now. War was under his roof and outside of it, and he couldn't yet see how to fight on both fronts and still win.
How fast life could change, he thought. Just four months ago, he'd been in Italy with Tracy—ecstatic about the sonogram that never even happened because the doctor was back with some flimsy excuse. And the next thing he knew, everyone was accusing him of infidelity. He'd asked his accusers for proof—because they had none—and as if the universe itself were against him, Jennifer came along.
He buried his head against the railings. None of it could be a coincidence. He was paying for the sins of every Moretti before him. And one thing was clear enough—he wasn't getting out of this one whole, not when the hyenas had already started biting chunks off.
The sound of his ringtone jolted him. He hissed softly, almost frowning at the intrusion, but when he saw his mother's name flash on the screen, his mind raced.
"Hello," he answered calmly. Her words came through like a recording—rehearsed and dry. Jennifer had an accident at work.
His legs made quick work of the stairs; for some reason the elevator took too long to open, so he descended fifty floors on foot in a heartbeat.
Carlos had gone back to the estate before him, and he hailed a taxi—but none would stop. His breath came uneven, his hands shook with fear, and he couldn't keep the thought away: why was it that whenever he had a small misunderstanding with the women in his life, an accident always followed?
He ran into the street to force the next cab to stop. The driver, annoyed, leaned halfway out the window to curse—but Vincent had already crossed the curb and shoved himself into the back seat.
The cab screeched to a halt before the gates of the Moretti estate, and before the driver could stop swearing, Vincent had already thrown a few bills into the front seat and bolted out into the night.
The sky was darkening fast, bruised by heavy clouds, and a faint mist clung to the lamps along the drive. The mansion loomed above the trees like a quiet fortress, its lights cold and scattered. He ran up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy door — breath coming uneven, heart knocking against his ribs.
His mother was already waiting in the hall.
Her dress was immaculate, her hair gathered with obsessive precision — everything about her spoke of restraint, composure, control. Yet the tremor in her hands gave her away.
"Vincent," she said, her voice too calm, too practiced. "Jennifer—"
He brushed past her. "I know."
"You never listen when it matters," she said, the words sharper than she intended. "That girl is—"
He stopped halfway up the stairs and turned. "Don't," he said softly. "Not tonight."
Their eyes met across the wide hall, two storms that would never find peace under the same roof. She looked at him the way she always had — as if she were searching for traces of the boy she once held, and finding only the ghost of his father instead.
"I tried to raise you to survive this world," she whispered.
"And you succeeded," he said coldly. "Now I'm surviving it alone."
He turned and walked away, leaving her in the hush of the corridor.
Outside, the wind picked up — bending the trees, scattering petals from the vines that curled along the stone walls.
In the garden, the lamps glowed faintly yellow. The scent of rain and soil filled the air. And there she was — Jennifer — sitting quietly on the old swing under the olive tree. Her foot was wrapped in a clean bandage, the hem of her dress brushing against the damp grass. The faintest smile curved her lips when she saw him.
He stopped for a moment, unable to move. The sight of her — fragile, calm, so utterly at peace with the world — undid him.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said finally, his voice low.
Jennifer looked up, her eyes gleaming with mischief even through the weariness. "And you shouldn't be frowning that much. It's just a sprain."
He almost smiled, almost. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "The floor was slippery. I wasn't careful." she lied.
He drew closer, his shoes crushing the grass. "You could have called me."
"I knew you'd be busy."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The DA's happened and the office was crawling with reporters. I—" He stopped, realizing how empty excuses sounded between them.
She tilted her head, studying him quietly. "You look tired."
"Tired?" he repeated with a bitter laugh. "Try hollow."
The wind brushed through her hair, sending golden strands dancing against her face. The moment stretched, soft and strange, filled with everything neither of them could name.
"You ever think," she asked softly, "that maybe we meet people not because we're meant to stay with them, but because they show us the part of ourselves we've forgotten?"
He frowned. "That sounds like something Father Andrew would've said." Then he sat in one of the swing next to her.
She smiled faintly. "Maybe. He said it once to me, when I was younger. I didn't understand it then."
Vincent looked away, his hands gently rubbing each other. "I grew up never hearing things like that. My father didn't believe in sentiment. My mother… she believed in rules. Love was something you earned — not something you were given."
She said nothing, and the silence drew him closer to the truth than words ever could.
"You ever feel," he went on, "like life's been one long rehearsal for something that never happens?"
Jennifer's eyes softened. "All the time."
She wasn't lying, young she was but she had lived through a furnace not many could withstand.
He chuckled quietly, the sound dry. "I look at you and I see everything I'm not supposed to want. Everything that ruins men like me."
"Maybe you're not supposed to want it," she said. "Maybe you're supposed to need it."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere he'd locked up years ago. He moved closer, the faint rustle of his coat brushing against her knee.
"Why do you stay?" he asked suddenly. "You could leave this madness. Leave me."
She looked down, her fingers gripping the swing's chain. "Because… I don't want to."
The simplicity of it undid him. No speeches, no declarations — just truth. And in that quiet truth, his walls began to fall.
He leaned toward her, eyes level with hers. "Every time I try not to think about all of this, something drags me back to it, to you" he said. "And I don't know if that's love or a curse."
Jennifer smiled, the kind of smile that knew pain and forgave it anyway. "Maybe both."
He reached out then, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, the pulse in her throat fluttering like a trapped bird.
"You don't have to be strong right now," she whispered. She, the beaten and broken one, weeping hours ago over a mere fashion event was asking a man who has fought all his battles with strength—not to be strong.
He shook his head. "It's the only thing I know how to be."
"Then learn something else."
The world around them seemed to still. The garden lights flickered, the night held its breath. He leaned in, just enough to feel her breath against his.
"Jennifer…" he breathed her name like a confession.
Her eyes didn't move, didn't flinch. "Don't think," she whispered. "Just feel."
And before either could say another word, his lips met hers — softly, tentatively, then deeper, driven by all the ache they had carried for too long.
It wasn't the kiss of new lovers. It was the kiss of two people who had already suffered and somehow still found each other at the end of it — tired, broken, yet willing.
The swing creaked beneath them as he held her closer. The world blurred — the sound of the sea beyond the garden, the rustle of trees, the faint glow of distant lights — everything fading until there was only her breath, her warmth, her heartbeat against his.
When they finally broke apart, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.
"I don't know what happens after this," he said quietly.
"Then let's not ruin it by pretending we do."
He almost smiled. "You make it sound easy."
"It never is," she whispered. "But it's real."
And that, for Vincent, was the one thing he had never known how to hold — something real.
But his demons had a way of knowing when his heart was resting and they hated that, because his phone wrong rang just when they had started kissing again. They broke apart and she buried her face. He was going to ignore it but seeing Dempsey's name on the screen he answered.
"We have a problem." Dempsey said, his voice so low it got Vincent to worry.
"What is it?" Vincent asked and waiting for the bomb.
"I think I know why Marcus Lee is so confident, it has something to do with Moretti Homes and unless we find a solution within seven days…"
"I understand" Vincent said calmly and the line disconnected.