14. Vincent
14
VINCENT
S he’s here. My Princess. My little devil. The girl I’ve been obsessed with since I was fourteen is finally here, in my house, wrapped up in my comforter, and sleeping just across the hall. I fucking won.
Every inch of me buzzes with the knowledge that she’s under my roof, safe where she belongs. The years I’ve spent watching her, wanting her, waiting for the perfect moment—it all led to this. To her being so close, so real, that I can feel her presence even through the walls.
She should’ve been wrapped in my clothes, too—if I’d been quicker, if I hadn’t hesitated for just a second. But when she stood there earlier, looking so small, so unsure of herself, even with fire in her eyes and venom on her tongue, I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. She was a perfect storm, beautiful and untouchable, and all I wanted to do was drag her into my arms, bury my face in her neck, and kiss her until her lips were swollen and her breath was mine.
But that’s okay. She’ll have to deal with that later. I’ll make sure of it. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine in every way that matters. I’ve already imagined how it’ll happen: my hands gripping her waist, her lips parting under mine, that fire of hers melting into something softer, sweeter—something only I get to see. And when that moment comes, I’ll finally take what I’ve been craving for so long.
Soon, she’ll be in love with me, obsessed with me, the way I am with her, and everything will fall into place. It won’t just be perfect—it’ll be a masterpiece if she loves Cast the way I know she can, and Damien finally lets go of his grudge and loves her too. Then, I’d be impressed. Amazed, even. Because she’s the key to all of us, and with her, everything will finally be as it should.
She’s already had my life in a fucking free fall, just by being near.
Normally, I’m disciplined—almost militant. My days run on a schedule, strict but not as insane as Damien’s. No one’s routine rivals Damien’s. A part of the reason he hates her, I think, is that since this whole thing started, she’s interrupted his routine twelve times. Not just his day—his entire week. I mean, I’d love to have the power to throw Damien off balance like that, but of course, only my little devil knows how.
My own routine is usually sacred: seven hours of sleep, gym every morning except Sundays, and absolutely no lounging in bed once I’m awake. But knowing Willow’s here, just across the hall, is unraveling me. I swear I can still smell her—spicy cherry vanilla, sharp and intoxicating—and it’s driving me fucking insane.
Sleep? Not a chance. If I wake up and realize this was all a dream, I’ll lose it. I’d hunt her down without hesitation, drag her back here, and make sure she never leaves me again. I’d throw her over my shoulder, tie her to my bed if I had to, and erase any idea of space or needing her own room. She doesn’t need it— she doesn’t get it. Not with me.
She’s mine. She’ll stay with me, close, inseparable. And the best part? She’ll like it. She might fight, she might argue, but in the end, she’ll see the truth. She belongs with me. She always has. It’s her fault that she doesn’t know it, because she doesn’t fucking listen. She’s so stubborn, a know it all, a brat with the pinkest lips and cutest dimples in her cheeks and big black curls that drive me fucking wild every time she picks them up, or they swing above her perfect ass.
Shit. Just thinking about her and I am hard as a fucking rock.
I turn onto my side and look out of the window. The sun is already high, painting the room in golden light. Mid-morning. She’s probably still asleep, wrapped up in my comforter, breathing softly, her hair a mess. I imagine the way she’ll look when she wakes up—groggy, a little annoyed, and probably ready to snap at me. I can’t wait.
But when should I wake her? Now? Later? God, the anticipation is killing me. I want to see her. No, I need to see her. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about letting her rest, knowing that this is me, taking care of her. I’ve never taken care of anyone in my life, but I’d do anything for her.
My stomach growls, pulling a groan from my throat. Breakfast. She probably hasn’t eaten yet. Normally, I’d just ring the damn bell and let someone handle it, but this feels... different. Personal. I’ve never cooked in my life, but how hard could it really be? Eggs, toast, coffee—straightforward enough. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll be impressed. Not that I need her to be. Well, not entirely. I want her to be impressed.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through my messy hair, and stand. It’s too early to care about appearances, so I stick with the essentials: boxers and nothing else. The house is warm, and honestly, I don’t feel like dressing up for anyone but her, and the idea of her being flustered as I hand her breakfast makes me more than excited, so I exit my room in my black boxers and nothing else.
As I step into the hallway, the smell of polished wood and fresh flowers greets me. But so does something else—someone, actually. Franklin.
He’s standing there, rigid as ever, his sharp black suit pristine, not a wrinkle in sight. His gray hair is combed back immaculately, and his salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed to perfection. His posture screams discipline, and his expression is one of pure disapproval. It’s the scowl I’ve known my entire life, the one that says, I can’t believe you’re doing this right now, young man.
“Good morning, Franklin,” I say casually, because despite the fact that this man raised me since I was a baby, which means I respect him to a point, he is still an employee. If a man can’t walk around in his boxers, in his own house then what’s the point.
His eyes narrow, flicking down to my boxers before settling back on my face. “Good morning, Master Vincent. Might I inquire as to why you are parading around half-dressed in the middle of the hallway?”
I grin, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code for breakfast prep.”
“Breakfast prep?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so much as boil water.”
“First time for everything,” I shoot back, pushing past him toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Franklin. I’ve got this under control.”
He follows me, of course. His steps are measured and precise, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. Always the picture of unflappable calm, Franklin looks as though he could serve tea at a royal gala without spilling a drop.
“May I suggest, Master Vincent, that perhaps I?—”
“Nope. This is personal,” I cut him off, glancing over my shoulder with a smirk. “For Willow.”
At her name, his lips press into a tight line, and I catch the faintest twitch of disapproval in his brow. He doesn’t argue, though. Franklin may be stoic, but even he knows better than to question me when it comes to her.
The kitchen feels like a trek—down the grand staircase, past the hallway lined with ancestral portraits, and around a corner that leads to the expansive, gleaming kitchen.As I enter, the sheer size of the space mocks me. Stainless steel appliances line the walls, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft morning light. Everything is perfectly in place, and for a moment, I hesitate. I half expect Franklin to offer a running commentary on my inability to locate the coffee grinder, but he remains silent, trailing me like a well-dressed shadow.
Franklin clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Before you begin your culinary venture, Master Vincent, I should inform you that your father and stepmother have returned from Mumbai. They’ve requested your presence at breakfast in two days’ time.”
I groan internally. Of course, they’re back. Nothing like a mandatory family breakfast to derail my plans. “Fine,” I mutter, grabbing a frying pan from a rack. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
“As you wish,” Franklin replies smoothly, his tone neutral but ever so slightly smug. “Will Willow be joining you?”
I glance at the stove, staring at the array of buttons and knobs like they’re written in a foreign language. I’ve never turned this thing on in my life. “Franklin,” I say, dragging his name out with a sigh. “How do I... uh, make it do the thing?”
“The ‘thing,’ Master Vincent?” Franklin asks, raising a single, judgmental eyebrow.
“The fire. The stove. You know what I mean.”
He steps forward, adjusting the cuffs of his pristine white shirt. “I presume you’re referring to igniting the burner.”
“Yes, Franklin. That’s exactly what I meant,” I say dryly, motioning toward the stove. “Help me out here.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Franklin leans in and twists a knob, igniting the flame with practiced ease. “There you are, sir. Shall I prepare a manual for future reference?”
I wave him off. “Don’t push it.”
Franklin lightly chuckles. “One more thing sir.”
“I know where the toaster is Franklin,” I mock.
“Yes sir, I remember your love of toast and peanut butter as a kid,” he speaks fondly, a low tremble in his voice, and then he clears his throat. “Will Miss Willow be joining you at breakfast with your parents?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment, and I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten. I don’t have an answer—not a real one, anyway. Willow isn’t exactly the type to make a quiet appearance, let alone sit through a breakfast with my father and stepmother. She’d either charm them with that fiery confidence of hers or set the entire evening on fire with a single word.
“I don’t know,” I say finally, trying to keep my tone indifferent, though the uncertainty gnaws at me. “We’ll see.”
Franklin doesn’t respond immediately. His silence is loaded, the kind he uses when he’s silently evaluating one of my decisions.
“She is living here, sir,” he says eventually, carefully choosing his words. “It may be difficult to avoid... introductions.”
“I know that,” I snap, a little too harshly, as I turn back to the stove. “It’s just... complicated.”
Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. My father and stepmother will want to know everything about Willow—why she’s here, what she means to me, how she fits into the pristine image they expect me to maintain. And I have no intention of letting them drag her into their world of veiled insults and calculated manipulation.
But at the same time, I can’t keep her hidden away forever. Franklin’s right—she’s here now, in my house, a part of my life in a way no one else ever has been. And sooner or later, they’ll find out.
“Should I prepare for her presence at dinner, then?” Franklin asks, his voice calm but insistent.
“I said I don’t know,” I mutter, my grip tightening on the frying pan. The egg sizzles, the sound a welcome distraction from the storm of thoughts in my head.
Franklin nods slightly, his expression unreadable. “Very well, Master Vincent. But if I may offer advice?—”
“You may not,” I cut him off, turning to glare at him. “This is my decision, Franklin.”
“As you wish,” he says smoothly, retreating a step. But the weight of his words lingers, the unspoken reminder that I can’t avoid this forever.
I flip the egg onto a plate, my mind still racing. Willow might join us, or she might not. Either way, I need to figure out how to handle this dinner. Because if they so much as look at her the wrong way, I don’t trust myself to stay calm.
________________
So breakfast is harder than it looks, and I had to kick Franklin out to get him to stop laughing at me.
As I make my way to Willow’s room my palms sweat against the edges of the plate and the handle of the mug. I don’t know why I’m nervous—this is just breakfast, right? But it’s different with her. Everything feels different when it comes to Willow.
I push the door open slowly, not wanting to wake her too abruptly. But as soon as I step inside, I’m hit with a soft, familiar scent— cherry vanilla and spice—and the sight of her sprawled out under the covers, her hair tumbling messily over the pillow, looking like something out of a dream.
Her eyes flutter open, a slight frown forming as she blinks at the sunlight streaming through the window. For a second, I wonder if she’ll be annoyed—if she’ll lash out at me for waking her up too early or for being... well, me. But then she sits up, her expression softening just slightly as she takes in the sight of the breakfast I’ve made.
“Morning,” I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended, and I hold the plate out toward her like a peace offering.
She blinks a few more times, clearly still waking up, but her gaze settles on me with a strange, sleepy warmth. “You made breakfast?” she asks, sounding both surprised and... appreciative.
“Yeah.” I grin, feeling a surge of pride, even though I’m still unsure if this meal is actually edible. “Eggs, toast, and coffee. Nothing too fancy.”
She takes the plate from me, and I can’t help but watch her closely as she moves—watching her fingers gently curl around the edges of the plate, her eyes searching mine for any hint of a joke.
Then she lifts a forkful of eggs to her mouth, her face shifting into an expression I can’t quite place.
“These are... burnt.” Her voice is soft, amused, but there’s a hint of laughter in her eyes.
I wince, feeling my face flush a little. “I, uh, didn’t exactly nail it, first time and all,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck, as her eyes flash with awe, or excitement. I clear my throat, “But the coffee’s good, right?”
She takes a sip of the coffee and nods, her lips curling into a half-smile. “It’s fine. Really.” Then, she glances at me again, her smile growing. “Thank you for trying. It’s... sweet.”
I breathe out, the tension in my chest easing just a bit. “I could, uh... make it up to you,” I say, glancing at her as I sit down beside the bed. “Maybe take you out to dinner? Somewhere nice. I promise I won’t burn anything.”
She looks at me, a little skeptical at first, but the soft glint in her eyes makes it clear she’s considering it. Finally, she nods, the corners of her lips curving into that smile I’ve been dying to see more of.
“Okay,” she says, her voice quieter now, but warm. “Dinner sounds nice.”
A rush of satisfaction floods through me, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face.
“Good. It’s a date, then.”