12. Vincent
12
VINCENT
" W hat do you mean broke ?" I snarl, staring at my cowering father.
He shrinks further into his leather chair, the one he refuses to part with despite its worn edges. His eyes dart around the study—once a symbol of our prominence, now just another room with too many empty spaces where valuables used to sit.
"Vincent, please." His voice quivers, hands fidgeting with his empty tumbler. "I've been trying to tell you for months."
"Trying?" I pace across the Persian rug—probably another thing he's secretly sold behind my back. "When exactly? Between your golf outings or your charity galas?"
"Those appearances are necessary," he mumbles, suddenly finding courage. "The Beaumont name still carries weight, even if our accounts don't."
I pause, feeling a cold reality sink in. "How long?"
"Three years." He finally meets my gaze. "The market crash hit us harder than I let on. Your mother's spending drained us. "
"You mean your wife, and you didn't think to tell me? I've been spending money we apparently don't have!"
"Your allowance was the last thing I wanted to cut." His shoulders slump. "I've been selling assets quietly. The summer house, the art collection, your grandmother's jewelry?—"
"Grandmother's—" I choke on the words. "Those were meant for my future wife!"
"There might not be much of a future left for any of us bearing the Beaumont name if we can't stabilize," he says with sudden clarity. "The liquid funds are gone, Vincent. All of it."
I collapse into the chair across from him, my anger momentarily stunned into silence.
"The house?" I finally manage to ask.
"Mortgaged. Twice."
"The company?"
He laughs bitterly. "Shell of what it was. I've been keeping up appearances, but we're three missed payments away from losing control to the board."
"Why didn't you ask for my help?" The question comes out softer than intended.
He lays slumped in his chair, a bored expression on his face. "What was I supposed to say? That I've failed the legacy of five generations? That I couldn't protect what your mother’s father and his father built?"
"You should have said we were in trouble," I reply, my rage cooling into something more dangerous—disappointment.
“It’s none of your business, because you were never supposed to know.” My father snarls .
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “None of my business? You bled our fortune dry, sold off my inheritance piece by piece, and now you’re telling me it’s none of my business?”
His lips press into a thin line, but the flicker of defiance in his eyes dies just as quickly as it came. He knows he has no ground to stand on.
“You were supposed to carry this, Vincent. Not worry about it.” His voice wavers, but there’s an edge of self-pity beneath it, as if he’s the victim in all of this. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to know.”
“Fix it?” I sneer, pushing out of my chair so fast it scrapes against the floor. “You hid it. You let me live in blissful ignorance while you were selling off everything.”
“I did what I had to!” he snaps, slamming his empty tumbler onto the desk. “You think it’s easy keeping up with the people we associate with? The moment they smell weakness, you’re finished. I kept us in high standing. I kept the Beaumont name alive.”
“You kept us in ruin.” My chest heaves, the weight of his failures settling heavily on my shoulders.
He sags into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Vincent, please. There’s still a way out of this. If you marry well—someone with liquid funds—it would save the family.”
I go still, the air between us turning razor-sharp. “You’re joking.”
His expression remains grim. “I wish I were.”
A laugh—harsh and humorless—scrapes past my throat. “That’s your grand solution? Pimping me out like some desperate debutante? ”
“Watch your tone,” he snaps, some of his old authority creeping back in. But it’s weak. Fragile. Like everything else about him now. “This isn’t about pride, Vincent. It’s about survival.”
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing again. “What about grandfather? Does he know what you and your gold-digging wife did?”
He chuckles, unsteadily standing up from the desk. “Your grandfather never wanted me to marry your mother, he revels in the idea of us going broke.”
“No he loves that you're broke because you conned his daughter into a loveless marriage.” I snarl, the heat fuelled anger in my body roaring like an inferno.
“You watch your fucking mouth,” my father screams, a vein almost purple in color pops out of his neck as he scowls at me. “I am your father and you will treat me with respect.”
I snort out a laugh. “Respect? What have you done to deserve anything from me?”
His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles paling from the force. For a second, I think he might actually take a swing at me. It wouldn't be the first time. But he reins himself in, shaking with the effort. Pathetic. He doesn’t even have the spine to follow through on his anger anymore.
Instead, he draws in a ragged breath, straightens his shoulders, and glares at me like that alone is enough to put me back in my place. Like I’m still the boy who flinched when he raised his voice.
“You ungrateful little shit,” he seethes. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for this family. ”
“No,” I correct, stepping closer, my voice lower, deadlier. “Everything you’ve done, you’ve done for yourself. For your pride. For the delusion that you were ever more than a leech sucking on my grandfather’s goodwill.”
His face darkens, fury simmering beneath the surface, but he says nothing. Because he knows I’m right.
I turn on my heel and head for the door, already done with this conversation. But before I step out, I pause, looking back just long enough to twist the knife.
I shake my head, disgust curling in my gut. “You can beg and grovel all you want, but I’m not selling myself to fix your mistakes. And if you try to force my hand?” A slow, cold smirk stretches across my lips. “I’ll take this straight to Grandfather. Let him know exactly what you and your little wife have been up to behind his back.”
His breath catches. His fingers twitch. And for the first time tonight, true fear flickers across his face.
Good.
“I wonder what he’ll do when he finds out,” I muse. “Strip you of whatever scraps of power you have left? Disown you completely? Or maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally stop pretending you were ever worth saving even if you are the last thing his daughter loved.”
I take another step toward the door.
“You don’t have the upper hand, Vincent.”
His voice is quieter now, but not weak. Measured. I glance at him over my shoulder, expecting another pathetic attempt to claw back control. But instead of anger or desperation, I find something else entirely.
Amusement.
He exhales, setting his empty tumbler on the desk with a slow, deliberate ease. “Funny things, machines,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “With the right money and connections, you can get a machine to do anything: build a building, drive a car, be a heart...” His gaze lifts to mine, dark and knowing. “Or you can make them malfunction. Fickle things really.”
“You don’t have the right money,” I snort.
“Not right now but this house would sell for a real pretty penny,” he sighs. “A penny I’d used to make a fickle machine do exactly what I want it to do.”
I turn as my eyes widen, as I snarl through my teeth. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
A small chuckle leaves his lips as he takes another sip from his tumbler. “You have a date with Taylor Rosado tomorrow at eight, don’t be late.”
The hospital halls are quiet at this hour, just the occasional beep of machines and the distant shuffle of nurses making their rounds. The janitor, an older man with tired eyes and a graying beard, barely looks at me as he slides me a small USB drive.
“Here,” he grumbles, looking everywhere but into my eyes.
I pocket the small drive, handing him the wad of cash that barely registers in my mind. Money doesn’t matter right now, not when it comes to this. This USB holds every technician’s log for Willow’s heart—every update, every security measure. If there’s been even a hint of tampering, I’ll find it.
That’s all I need.
“Thank you Mike,” I nod, dismissing him as I turn towards Willow’s door.
I step inside, the scent of antiseptic and faint vanilla—the soap she likes—filling my lungs. The dim light from the heart monitor casts a soft green glow over her face. She looks smaller than I remember, fragile in a way that doesn’t suit her.
Her black hair is spread over the pillow, the pink in her hair now a faded pastel, almost blonde. It contrasts sharply with the dark circles under her eyes. Even in sleep, there’s tension in her brow, as if she’s fighting battles no one else can see.
I approach slowly, my pulse steady despite the storm building inside me. She’s healing, that’s all that matters. The surgery went well, her heart is strong, and Lindsay says she’s been stable.
But my father’s words still echo in my mind.
"Funny things, machines. With the right money, you can get a machine to do anything. Or you can make them malfunction."
My jaw tightens as I watch the steady rise and fall of Willow’s chest. He wouldn’t—no, he would. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that he doesn’t make idle threats.
Leaning over, I brush a stray strand of hair from her face. She stirs, mumbling something in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
“I won’t let him touch you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of machines .
She shifts slightly, her body moving into my touch, and she wakes up. Her hazel eyes land on me, dreamy before clearing in recognition.
“Vincent?”
“Hey, princess,” I whisper, my lips ghosting over her forehead.
Willow’s eyes widen as she fully wakes up. She tries to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at her IV.
“Easy,” I murmur, gently pressing her shoulder back against the pillow. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I forgot the nurse started my IV fluids again,” she says, patting the dressing over the tubing gently.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I admit, my jaw clenching. “But I had to see you.”
She nestles against my chest, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The scent of antiseptic can’t quite mask the familiar vanilla of her shampoo.
“What's wrong?” she asks, her fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt. “Vincent, you’re scaring me.”
I press my lips to her temple, closing my eyes. “I have to go away for a while.”
Her body stiffens against mine. “What? No.”
“It’s not safe,” I explain, keeping my voice low.
“What do you mean not safe?” she questions, pulling back to look at me. Tears well in her hazel eyes, catching the dim light from the monitors. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
“I would never leave you,” I say. “I have a choice. I can stay with you and be selfish, putting you in danger, or stay away for a while and keep you forever.” I brush away a tear that slips down her cheek. “I want forever.”
She shakes her head, more tears falling now. “Just take me with you. Take us with you.”
“You know I can’t. Not until you’re healed.” I gesture to the machines keeping watch over her. “And by then, I’ll have handled it.”
“Handled it how?” Her voice breaks.
I don’t answer, my eyes tracing the outline of her face, tattooing her into my memory.
“Vincent, please,” she begs, clutching my face between her palms. “We’ll find another way.”
The intensity in her eyes nearly breaks my resolve. I cover her hands with mine, bringing them to my lips.
“There is no other way,” I whisper against her fingertips. “Not anymore.”
Her tears fall freely now, soaking into the thin hospital gown. “How long?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I promise I’ll come back to you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she says bitterly.
I cradle her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. “This is one promise I intend to keep, no matter what it takes.”
The monitor beside us begins to beep more rapidly, reflecting her distress.
“Shh,” I soothe, stroking her hair. “You need to calm down before the nurses come. ”
She buries her face against my neck, her tears warm against my skin. “Just stay tonight,” she pleads. “Give me tonight. I get discharged tomorrow and I don’t know when I will see you again.”
I know I shouldn’t. Every minute I stay puts her at greater risk. But the thought of letting her go—perhaps for the last time—is unbearable. If I have to lose her to keep her alive, I will do so. But a part of me, most of me, is connected to her. There is no Vincent Beaumont without Willow Carter. Losing her because I am too selfish to let her go would destroy me.
“Okay,” I relent, shifting to hold her more securely. “Tonight.”
She clings to me like I might disappear if she loosens her grip. Maybe she’s right.
I memorize the softness of her body, how perfectly she fits into me. Like she was always meant to be here, pressed against my chest, her breath a quiet whisper against my skin. My arms tighten around her, like if I just hold her close enough, I can stop time—freeze this moment and keep her safe in it forever.
Her scent wraps around me, vanilla and honey. I breathe her in, committing it to memory, because I don’t know if I’ll get to do this again.
Her fingers twitch against my ribs, a lazy, unconscious movement, and I press my lips to the top of her head. She hums sleepily, shifting deeper into me, her leg slipping between mine like she’s trying to tangle us together. Like she doesn’t want to let go either.
My throat tightens.
I’ve spent my life surrounded by wealth, power—everything a man could ever need. But this—this is the only thing I don’t think I could live without .
And it’s the one thing I might lose.
My hand trails along her chest, feeling the faint rise of her scars beneath the fabric of her nightgown. A reminder of what she’s already survived. Of how close I’ve come to losing her before.
I tighten my grip around her waist, as if I can shield her from a threat she doesn’t even know exists. My father thinks he can use her as leverage against me. That I’ll bend if he puts her life in his hands.
But he doesn’t understand.
If anything happens to her—if he so much as breathes in her direction—I won’t just destroy him. I’ll burn down everything he’s ever touched.
I press another kiss to her hair, letting my lips linger there.
"I love you," I whisper, barely audible over the hum of the night.
Willow shifts, her voice drowsy. “Mmm. Love you too.”
I stare at the ceiling, memorizing the feeling of her in my arms, knowing that when morning comes, I’ll be gone.
But for now, I’m here. And for now, that has to be enough.