Chapter 3 - The Morning After
I didn’t sleep. Vincent had placed me in a lavish, heavily secured penthouse suite in the heart of downtown, assuring me that no cameras or curious onlookers could penetrate the building’s security. He hadn’t stayed; after ensuring I had food and hot water, he had departed into the night with his men, leaving me with only my whirling thoughts and a phone that refused to stop vibrating.
By sunrise, the screen was a blur of notifications. Texts from high school acquaintances I hadn't spoken to in seven years. Messages from my estranged sister asking if I had suddenly won the lottery. Voice notes from my diner manager, alternating between panic over the media outside the diner and begged apologies for not defending me against Tyler.
I clicked on the trending video.
It was shot from a booth near the counter. Tyler’s vicious words rang out clearly: *“Look at you, Emily! Look in a damn mirror! Who could ever love a woman your size? You’re lucky I let you pay for my drinks for two years!”*
The restaurant had gone dead silent. And then, there was Vincent.
Watching the footage from a third-person perspective made my chest tighten. I had felt overwhelmed in the moment, but seeing it on screen was entirely different. Vincent moved like a panther, effortless and commanding. The way he had taken the tray from my shaking fingers, how his hand had gently tilted my chin upward, and the quiet, almost reverent way his lips had met mine.
It didn't look like a mobster marking territory. It looked like a man claiming the only thing in the room that mattered to him.
The comments beneath the clip were a battlefield. Millions of views now. Some mocked my weight, calling it a staged stunt, but thousands of others were swooning over Vincent DeLuca’s deadly glare and the tenderness of the kiss. One comment had fifty thousand likes: *Find a man who looks at you like Vincent DeLuca looks at that girl before he ruins everyone else’s life.*
A knock sounded on the suite's double doors.
I jumped off the plush sofa, smoothing down the borrowed silk robe. "Who is it?"
"It’s Marcus, Mr. DeLuca’s associate," a formal voice replied through the wood. "I have breakfast and a change of clothes for you, Miss Vance."
I unlocked the door. A middle-aged man in a sharp gray suit entered, followed by two staff members carrying garment bags and a silver tray loaded with fresh pastries, fruit, and coffee.
"Mr. DeLuca requested this blend," Marcus said smoothly, pointing to a dark roast in a porcelain cup. "He noted that you prefer two sugars and a splash of oat milk."
My jaw dropped. "How does he know that?"
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Marcus allowed himself a faint, knowing smile. "Mr. DeLuca observes the things he cares to observe. Eat your breakfast, Miss Vance. In one hour, a car will take you to his private office. It is time to discuss how to manage the fire that has been started."
***
