8. Vincent
8
VINCENT
A ngie’s nails click-clack against the freshly polished dining table, each tap grating against my nerves. She hasn’t spoken yet—she never does right away. She likes to stretch out the silence, letting it coil around me like a snake, waiting for me to flinch. Across from me, my father sits motionless, fingers steepled, his expression carved from stone. The candlelight flickers, catching in the crystal glasses, but nothing about the scene is warm.
“So, when were you planning to tell us about your fiancée?” Angie finally says, her voice smooth, sharp. The kind of tone that makes people straighten up, makes them feel small. But I know better than to shrink under it. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Care to explain where our wedding invitations are?”
“Care to explain where you were when I was in the hospital for three months, learning how to walk again?” I snarl.
Angie rolls her eyes. “We sent flowers.”
“Didn’t get them. ”
“Don’t be so dramatic Vincent.”My father sighs. “We knew you were alive.”
“Great,” I sarcastically smile.
“You didn’t answer our question, where were our wedding invitations?” Angie drones, dragging a nail across the dining room table.
I shrug looking around the room. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
My father groans but Angie laughs quietly, a smug look on her face. “Oh, Vincent. You can lie to your father, but don’t insult me.” She tilts her head, the candlelight catching the sharp angle of her cheekbones. “You were never very good at keeping secrets. Not from me.”
I force my shoulders to stay relaxed. She’s baiting me, waiting for the slightest tell. “Where did you hear that?”
“That doesn’t matter.” She waves a manicured hand, dismissive. “What matters is that you didn’t think we deserved to know.” She glances at my father, her perfectly arched brow lifting. “Can you believe this? Our own son—engaged—without a single word.”
My father exhales, slow and deliberate. “Is it true?”
I drag my tongue over my teeth, swallowing down the irritation clawing its way up my throat. Lying would be pointless. They already know.
“Yes.”
Angie’s nails resume their clicking against the table, her smile widening. “And here I was, under the impression that we were your family. ”
I clench my jaw. “That’s never been true.”
My father sighs, rubbing his temples. “Vincent?—”
Angie doesn’t let him finish. “Who is she?”
I lean back in my chair, keeping my expression blank. “None of your concern.”
Her eyes gleam, victorious. “Oh, but it is. After all, whoever she is… she’s clearly worth defying us for.”
Angie watches me for another beat, then stands, pushing her chair back with a slow scrape against the floor. “Ha,” she chuckles cruelly, adjusting the bracelet on her wrist. “Don’t tell me it is that little harlot you snuck in here during high school?”
“Don’t disrespect Willow.” I snarl, my eyes narrowing on the clear green of her eyes, that almost looks snake-like.
"Disrespect?" Angie's laughter cuts through the air like shattered glass.
“Oh, so it is her.” She lets out a breathy laugh, shaking her head like I’m some kind of fool. “How pathetic. I thought you’d have outgrown your little rebellion by now, but no. Still clinging to your bad habits, like a child who refuses to wash off the dirt.”
I grip the arms of my chair, knuckles going white. “Watch your mouth.”
She arches a brow, feigning innocence. “Or what?”
My father's fist comes down on the table, rattling the fine china. "Angie, that is enough."
"I'm simply stating facts. What was it last time?” She snaps like she can’t remember, but I know she does. “That’s right, a scholarship to some art school?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Or was that just the story you sold to us to fund that leech’s activities?"
Angie stands and circles the table, predatory, each step deliberate. "What I know is that you've been sneaking around behind our backs. Again. After everything we've done for you."
"Everything you've done?" The words taste bitter on my tongue. "You mean controlling every aspect of my life? Deciding my career, my friends, who I'm allowed to love?"
"Love?" She spits the word like venom. "You don't know the first thing about love, Vincent. Love is sacrifice. Love is duty."
My father stands now, his face ashen. "Both of you, sit down."
“Love is how big the bank account is,” I mock.
The crack of Angie's palm against my cheek echoes through the dining room. My head snaps sideways from the force, a burning sting spreading across my skin.
"How dare you—" she begins, eyes blazing.
A sharp knock interrupts her tirade. We all freeze, the tension crystallizing in the air between us.
Franklin appears in the doorway, his posture impeccable despite the obvious discomfort in his eyes. He clears his throat. "Pardon the intrusion. Miss Rachel Harold has arrived."
Angie's entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the fury in her eyes replaced by practiced charm. She straightens her blouse, fingers quickly brushing through her hair.
"Vincent," she hisses through a suddenly fixed smile, "sit down right now."
I remain standing, the side of my face still throbbing.
"Vincent," my father warns, his voice low and dangerous.
Before I can decide whether to obey, Rachel glides into the dining room, resplendent in a designer dress that probably costs more than most people's monthly salary. Her eyes flick between us, registering the tension but pretending not to notice.
"Am I interrupting?" Rachel asks, her smile revealing perfect teeth. "I can come back another time if?—"
"Nonsense!" Angie exclaims, moving toward Rachel with open arms. "We were just having a family discussion. Nothing important."
I sink back into my chair, jaw clenched so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. Rachel takes the seat opposite me, her curious gaze lingering on my reddened cheek.
"Vincent," my father says with forced pleasantry, "you remember Rachel from the Winterson's gala last month?"
I nod curtly, not trusting myself to speak.
"Rachel's father just acquired that delightful property in the Hamptons," Angie continues, as if moments ago she hadn't been ready to claw my eyes out. "The one with the private beach?"
Rachel smiles at me, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the undercurrent of hostility. "It's so good to see you again, Vincent. Your mother has been telling me you've just returned from abroad."
My mother. The word lands like a slap, worse than the physical one Angie had delivered. I meet Angie's triumphant gaze across the table, hatred simmering between us .
"Stepmother," I correct, watching Angie's smile falter for just a moment. "And no, I have been tending to my fiancée. She’s been in the hospital.”
“Oh, she gasps, her eyes darting around the room, and landing on a scowling Angie, who made her way back to her seat directly across from mine. “I-I thought…”
"Don't worry Rachel, darling," Angie cuts in smoothly, though I can see the muscle in her jaw twitching. "Vincent has a... colorful imagination. Always has. There's no fiancée."
Rachel's gaze bounces between us like a tennis ball, uncertainty clouding her features.
"Actually," I say, reaching for my phone, "would you like to see a picture?" I start scrolling through my gallery, watching Angie's face drain of color.
My father clears his throat. "Franklin, perhaps we could have some wine served?"
The butler nods stiffly and withdraws, clearly grateful for the escape.
"Vincent," my father says, his voice deceptively calm, "why don't we discuss your... friend... later? Miss Harold has come all this way?—"
"Willow isn't my friend," I say, finding the photo I want. I turn the screen toward Rachel, who leans forward despite herself. "She's the woman I'm going to marry."
Rachel's eyes widen as she takes in the image of Willow, her black hair with fading pink tips framing her face as she laughs at someone off-camera. "She's beautiful," Rachel says, and I detect genuine admiration in her voice.
"She's nobody," Angie snaps, the facade cracking .
Rachel flinches, startled by the venom in Angie's tone.
I pocket my phone, a dangerous calm settling over me. "She's the reason I came back. To tell you all to your faces that I'm done. Done with the lies, done with the manipulation."
"Vincent," my father warns.
"No." I turn to Rachel, who looks increasingly uncomfortable. "Rachel, I apologize that you've been dragged into this. I'm sure you're lovely, but whatever matchmaking scheme they've concocted ends now."
Rachel's cheeks flush. "I... I should go."
"Please stay," Angie insists, reaching for Rachel's hand. "Vincent is just being dramatic. He's always been... troubled."
"Troubled?" I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Franklin returns with the wine, his experienced butler's mask firmly in place despite the tension thick enough to cut.
"Tell me, Rachel," I continue as Franklin begins pouring, "do you want to continue this arrangement knowing that I will always be madly in love with that girl, and come to resent the mere sight of you?”
Rachel’s face drains of color. She looks from me to Angie, then to my father, as if searching for an exit that won’t cause further offense. I almost feel sorry for her—almost. But she let herself be a piece on their chessboard, whether knowingly or not.
“I…” Rachel hesitates, clearly rattled. “I think I should?—”
“Yes, I think you should,” I cut in smoothly, not breaking eye contact. “Go. ”
My father exhales sharply. “Vincent.”
Angie’s nails dig into Rachel’s hand where she still holds it, her expression icy despite the pleasant curve of her lips. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. We planned such a lovely evening.”
Rachel finally gathers herself enough to slide her hand free. “I appreciate the invitation,” she says, her voice strained but polite. “But it’s clear this is a family matter.”
She pushes back her chair, rising gracefully despite the tension strangling the room. “Thank you for dinner.” Her gaze flicks to me, hesitant, like she wants to say more—but she thinks better of it. Instead, she turns and strides toward the door.
Angie doesn’t bother masking her irritation now. “Vincent, really. ”
I take a sip of my wine, letting the silence stretch. “That went well.”
My father’s jaw tightens. “Do you think this is a game?”
“Quite the opposite.” I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid coat the sides. “This is me refusing to play.”
My father exhales heavily, setting his fork down with precise, deliberate movements. “You’re being reckless.”
Angie scoffs, the sound sharp and derisive. “No, he’s being ungrateful. ” She steps closer, her heels clicking against the marble floor, her manicured fingers gripping the back of her chair. “Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away, Vincent?”
I take another sip of wine, unbothered. “Enlighten me. ”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m an unruly child testing boundaries. “Your future, this family’s estate, not everyone can have access to all this money and power.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re serious?”
Her lips curve, but there’s nothing pleasant about it. “You’ve always been spoiled. Always believed you could push and push without consequence. But let me make something very clear.” She leans forward, voice dropping into a hum of cold and lethal. “You will not embarrass this family.”
I set my glass down, leveling her with a look. “You can’t disown me, Angie. I’m his son.” I flick my gaze to my father, expecting at least a flicker of hesitation, of guilt.
I chuckle, slow and deliberate, as I swirl the wine in my glass. “So that’s the ultimatum? Marry who you pick, or I’m out?”
Angie doesn’t hesitate. “Precisely.”
I glance at my father, expecting resistance, but he only sighs, rubbing his temple like this conversation exhausts him. Like I exhaust him.
“This isn’t a punishment, Vincent,” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm. “It’s about securing the future—for you, for the family.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “No, it’s about control. About making sure I stay on the leash, like a good little heir.” I shake my head. “Not happening.”
Angie’s lips press together before she exhales, exasperated. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I arch a brow. “Am I? ”
Her nails tap against the table in quick, calculated beats. “This girl—Willow—she’s not one of us. You know that.”
“I don’t care.”
Angie’s smile is thin and sharp. “Then you should. Because if you go through with this—if you insist on marrying her —you are no longer a part of this family. No name. No money. No protection.”
My father says nothing.
I lean back, letting the weight of her words settle. “You’d actually do it.”
Angie tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Try me.”
I glance at my father again, waiting for him to contradict her, to say something —but all he does is exhale, staring down at his untouched plate.
A slow, humorless smile stretches across my lips. “Wow.” I push back my chair, rising to my feet. “You know, I always thought there was a line you wouldn’t cross. That maybe, just maybe, there was some part of you that gave a damn about me outside of whatever legacy you’re trying to protect.” I shake my head, scoffing. “Guess I was wrong.”
“Vincent,” my father starts, but I hold up a hand, cutting him off.
“Save it.” I adjust my jacket, forcing a smirk I don’t feel. “You want me to pick between Willow and this family?” I meet Angie’s smug gaze head-on. “Then enjoy your perfect little dynasty. Because I choose her. ”
I turn and walk out, my father’s silence following me the whole way.