It wasn't the chirping of sparrows that woke her that morning, nor the soft hum of the AC—but rather a voice from downstairs. The rumble of it carried upward, made the walls tremble, and the carpets below curl in fear. She straightened out of bed too fast, for a moment forgetting she had a sprained ankle. She winced when she stepped on it.
But in the urgency, she limped out, holding onto the walls for support until she reached the stairs and switched to the railings.
The lounge below was a sight too unfamiliar—Vincent crouched, picking up broken ceramic, and Elena stood by the liquor cabinet like a ghost. Her eyes were red and sunken, and she sniffed now and then.
Vincent reached the end of the stairs before he noticed she was standing there. He avoided her eyes and moved toward the kitchen, his hands carrying the pieces of ceramic. She followed him.
In the kitchen, he discarded the pieces and washed his hands at the sink. His hair was scattered, and it looked glossy in the light from the window—so was his back. His muscles tightened and twisted when he moved. Silence lingered for a moment before he turned.
"You know it's rude to stare." His voice was teasing, though there was no trace of a smile on his bright face.
She stepped to the counter and pulled a petal from one of the flowers in the vase, gently.
"It's not a crime, right?" She tried to stop herself from smiling, but the sight of him shirtless and staring at her pointedly caused her lips to betray her. She lowered her head for a moment to recompose her face.
"You're not going to ask me what happened?" He cocked his head toward her.
"Not really." She touched the flower again. She knew it was a problem between mother and son; she was just an outsider and never intended to interfere.
"But," she looked at him, "I will listen if you want to talk about it."
He smiled suddenly. "Reverse psychology."
"What?"
He shook his head. "Something my father used to say—always let people believe they're in control." He moved to the shelves and grabbed a crate of eggs, milk, and a pan.
She held onto his words, every syllable. "Is that a good thing?" she asked.
"Not always, no." He turned up the heat and placed the pan over the burner. Then he turned to her. "But it works like magic."
She nodded and watched him whisk the eggs and fry them, then roll them up into a square with three slices of bread, butter gleaming on the crispy crust.
"Your mother came for me yesterday, not Carlos," she announced. He paused midway, setting the plate down, and looked up at her.
"What?" he asked, as though what she'd said was an anomaly he had to swallow.
"Felicity called the estate, and she was the one who answered. I had no idea she was coming."
It was within the blink of an eye, but she caught the faint smile at the corner of his lips.
"She never ceases to amaze me," he said, shaking his head as he placed the breakfast before her.
She barely sat before he asked how her foot was doing. She knew this was his way of avoiding talk about his mother, and she wasn't going to probe further.
"You knew who Natalia was, right?" she asked.
"I did," he answered. He had known she was there even before he called Felicity to give her a chance at modeling. He knew that if she were ever to get past this life, she'd have to fight one last battle—where enemies waited on all fronts.
"Is she trouble?" he asked.
"Not at all." She shook her head and bit into the egg sandwich. It was ordinary—eggs, bread flour, and butter—except this one wasn't ordinary. It carried the taste of love, like someone was appreciating you for living, for being in their life. She dared not look up then; she could feel his eyes. Instead, she chewed gently.
"I know they'll try to come at you with everything," he said. "None of it will matter—except if you let it."
She took her time swallowing both the food and his words. "I won't."
She reached for her glass of water and sipped quietly. The air in the kitchen smelled faintly of toast and detergent, a small comfort in a world that had lost much of its gentleness. Outside, the light was still young, streaming through the curtains in pale ribbons that brushed against the tiled floor.
Vincent leaned on the counter across from her, arms folded, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "You eat like you're afraid someone will take it away," he said.
She blinked at him, caught mid-bite. "Habit, I guess."
He tilted his head. "From what?"
She shrugged. "From life."
That drew a small laugh from him — quiet, disbelieving. "That's bleak for someone who just woke up."
"Realistic," she corrected softly, setting the half-eaten sandwich down. "You live long enough and you learn not to waste the good things."
He studied her then, not in the way men often do, but as if trying to decipher the meaning behind the calmness she wore. "You sound older than you are."
"Maybe I am," she said. "Some people don't grow with birthdays, they grow with bruises."
He chuckled again, but there was no humor in it this time. "I can relate to that."
"Yeah, I know," she said quietly. "It's written all over you."
He met her eyes briefly, the silence between them uncoiling, soft and unhurried. Then he turned away, reaching for the kettle. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please."
The clink of cups filled the next few moments — the kind of silence that wasn't awkward, but alive. A bird fluttered onto the window ledge, pecking at something invisible, then flew off again.
She watched him pour the coffee, steady hands despite the faint tremor of exhaustion in them. "You didn't sleep," she said.
"Didn't need to," he replied. "Sleep's overrated."
"Only for people who can afford to lose it."
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "And what about you? You think I can't afford it?"
She smiled faintly. "You look like a man who's been paying debts that aren't even his."
He handed her the mug. "You'd be surprised how accurate that is."
She took it with both hands, warming her palms. "No," she said softly, "I wouldn't."
He sat opposite her, coffee in hand, elbows on the table. For a moment neither spoke, only the sound of spoons against porcelain and the hum of the fridge filled the room.
Then he said, "You know, people always think money makes life simpler. That once you have it, the world bends for you."
"Doesn't it?"
He smiled faintly. "No. It just bends differently — and sometimes it breaks you in the process."
Her eyes lingered on him. "So why not leave it all behind? The name, the business, the expectations?"
He looked down into his cup. "Because that's the thing about legacies — they cling. They don't let you walk away clean. You can change your name, your country, your life, but not your blood."
She sipped her coffee, thinking. "Then maybe blood isn't everything."
He raised a brow. "No?"
"No," she said, a quiet certainty in her tone. "You can choose who you love, who you stand by, who you forgive. Family isn't what you inherit; it's what you build when no one's watching."
He regarded her for a long moment, the morning light catching in his eyes. "That sounds like something Carlos would've said."
She smiled. "He's nothing like those old and grumpy men of his age, you should listen to him often." She teased.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling at her remark. "He used to say every man is at war — with his father, with his fears, or with himself."
"And you?" she asked.
"Me?" He thought for a moment. "I think I'm still figuring out who I'm fighting."
"Maybe it's not about fighting," she said. "Maybe it's about surrendering to what you can't change."
He let out a breath of something like a laugh. "You sound like someone who's made peace with a lot of things."
"I've made peace with surviving," she replied. "That's not the same thing."
He looked at her then — properly looked. "You're tougher than you seem."
She smiled faintly. "So they tell me."
They fell into a quiet again, the kind that didn't need to be filled. The sunlight had grown stronger now, spilling gold across the counter, catching dust in its beams.
He broke the silence first. "Do you ever think about what you'd do if none of this existed? If you could start over?"
She rested her chin on her hand. "I'd probably open a little flower shop by the sea. You know, somewhere quiet, where people only come in for beauty."
"That sounds peaceful."
"It's supposed to be," she said. "What about you?"
He thought about it, his jaw tightening. "Maybe a small vineyard in Italy. My father used to talk about it — owning land that gives something back. Not buildings or money, but something that grows."
"Vines instead of skyscrapers," she teased.
"Something like that," he said, smiling. "At least vines don't betray you."
She laughed softly. "They just take years to bear fruit. Patience isn't your strongest suit."
He pointed at her with his fork. "You'd be surprised. I've learned patience the hard way."
Her eyes softened. "Patience isn't the same as waiting. It's what you do while you wait."
He looked at her as if she'd said something profound, which she had. "And what do you do?"
"I live," she said simply. "Even when it's messy. Even when it hurts."
He nodded slowly. "That's harder than it sounds."
"It always is."
The clock ticked quietly from somewhere down the hall. He got up, carried his empty plate to the sink, and rinsed it. She watched the line of his shoulders, the way the morning light touched him like an afterthought.
"You make it look easy," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"Being at peace with chaos."
She smiled. "I'm not at peace. I'm just learning to dance with it."
That made him laugh — a real one this time, low and warm. "That's a good line."
"You can borrow it," she said.
He leaned on the counter again, arms crossed, eyes on her. "You ever think maybe the world's not as cruel as we make it out to be?"
She thought about it. "Maybe it's not cruel," she said. "Maybe it's just honest. It doesn't give you what you want — it gives you what you need to grow."
He nodded slowly, something thoughtful flickering behind his gaze. "Then I guess I've grown enough to be a forest."
"Then stop burning it down," she said gently.
The words hung there — not harsh, just true.
He looked away, a slow exhale leaving him. "You make it sound so simple."
"It isn't," she said. "But that's the point."
They lingered like that, neither moving, the quiet stretching between them like sunlight across a floor. The air was filled with warmth and something unspoken — a kind of understanding that didn't need to be named.
Finally, she rose, steadying herself on the counter. Her ankle still hurt, but not enough to stop her from walking toward the window. "You know," she said softly, "I think sometimes we forget to notice when life is being kind to us."
He followed her gaze to the garden outside. The olive tree swayed gently in the wind—was this the same girl he met at night under a storm?
"Maybe this is one of those times," he said.
She smiled, turning to him. "I'll hate to waste it."
And for the first time in a long while, Vincent smiled back — not the smile of habit or defense, but something small and real, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
***
Across the city, Natalia sliced through the last knot of rush-hour traffic, tires hissing on wet asphalt, and still arrived one minute late. Her pulse fluttered against her throat; Tracy's tongue could flay skin.
The maids met her at the door with the same hushed reverence they reserved for royalty. "Miss Tracy's in the back, Miss Natalia."
She flew down the corridor, heels clicking like a countdown.
The rear terrace opened like a private stage: sun hammered the pool into a sheet of hammered silver, and the grill exhaled curls of mesquite and charred beef that made her mouth flood. William Conrad owned the only patch of shade, sprawled in a teak lounger, sunglasses reflecting the sky. He looked carved from obsidian and leisure.
Natalia's spine locked the instant his gaze found her. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the shades down the bridge of his nose. The glare he gave her was half challenge, half promise. Heat pooled low in her belly before she'd taken another step.
He crooked one finger.
Tracy was nowhere.
Natalia crossed the flagstones, each footfall a negotiation with gravity, and stopped just beyond the reach of his shadow.
"I don't bite," he said, voice rolling out like aged rum, "unless you're into that."
A helpless smile tugged at her mouth. Sunlight poured over the sharp architecture of his face, flashed across teeth bright enough to eclipse the day. She remembered the rumors her first season at Veloura models: the midnight-skinned vice president's son, who collected new A-listers the way others collected watches. She hadn't been the tallest, the blondest, the anything-est, but one night in the marble hush of the agency bathroom he'd pressed her to the mirror, lifted her skirt, and ruined her for every man who came after.
"Hey," she breathed, the single syllable trembling.
His hand found her ass with the certainty of a man who'd mapped it in the dark. She spun, scanning for Tracy, for maids, for God.
"She's gone till dinner," he murmured against the shell of her ear. "Didn't she text you?"
His palm slid lower, gathering the silk of her dress the way a thief gathers night. Cool air kissed the backs of her thighs; the rest of her burned.
"Not out here," she whispered, scandalized, thrilled.
"I take it anywhere I want." The bass in his voice vibrated straight through her sternum. Between her legs she was already slick, shameless.
She turned fully, offering him her back, the line of her spine, the tremor she couldn't hide. Both hands cupped her now, kneading with lazy ownership. A moan slipped free before she could cage it.
"Stop," she said, so softly it sounded like please.
"Come…."