15. Willow
15
WILLOW
T he closet is filled to the brim with designers and gowns that I will never have a reason to wear. Racks upon racks of fabric in every color imaginable spill across the space like a kaleidoscope of impossible luxury. Gowns of silk and tulle hang beside sharp tailored suits, their names whispered in the gleam of their tags—Versace, Dior, Valentino. Shoes, hundreds of them, perch on their shelves, their pointed toes and deadly heels gleaming under the soft light.
I run my fingers over the fabrics, the textures sliding beneath my touch—cool satin, rough tweed, buttery leather. It’s overwhelming, like stepping into someone else’s life. Someone who belongs in a world of gala invitations and private jets, not…me.
“Do you like it?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and dark like the espresso he drinks religiously. Vincent leans against the doorframe, watching me with an unreadable expression.
I turn to face him, my brows pulling together. “Like it? Vincent, this is ridiculous. There’s enough in here to outfit an entire city.”
He steps into the room, his movements unhurried, calculated. “You’ll need options.”
“For what? My everyday life doesn’t exactly require couture.”
“Your everyday life isn’t your life anymore,” he replies, his tone sharp enough to carve through marble. He stops in front of me, tilting his head as he regards the closet like a painter assessing his masterpiece. “You belong here now. You’ll look the part.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a raised hand. “Humor me, Willow. Pick something.”
I glance back at the wardrobe, overwhelmed. “Something for what?”
“For dinner,” he says simply. “Tonight.”
“Dinner doesn’t require a gown.”
He smirks, the kind of smile that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s amused or annoyed. “In this house, it might.”
I sigh, stepping closer to the racks. My eyes land on a dress—black, sleek, understated compared to the rest. I pull it free, the fabric cool and weighty in my hands. “This?”
Vincent studies it, then nods approvingly. “It’ll do. Shoes are on the left.”
I shift to the shelves, selecting a pair of heels that look as though they could double as weapons. Vincent approaches, his presence a magnetic pull. He takes the dress from me, draping it carefully over the bed. His hands brush mine for the briefest moment, and the air between us seems to still.
“Wear your hair up,” he says, his voice low, almost a suggestion but carrying the weight of a command.
“And if I don’t?”
His smirk deepens, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Then you’ll find out how persistent I can be.”
“Willow,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvet-smooth. His hand ghosts over my arm, light as a whisper, until it rests just above my elbow. I stiffen, my breath catching, but I don’t pull away.
His lips brush the curve of my neck, a barely-there caress that sends electricity pulsing underneath my skin. It’s deliberate, controlled, the kind of touch that leaves a mark without leaving a trace. “The limo will be downstairs in an hour,” he says, his words warm against my skin.
I swallow hard, my heart thundering in my chest as his scent—a mix of something sharp and smoky, like citrus and the faintest hint of musk—wraps around me.
“I trust you’ll be ready,” he adds, his tone laced with the kind of confidence that doesn’t ask but commands.
I force myself to nod, words failing me. Vincent’s hand slips away, and the heat of his presence begins to fade as he steps back, though the air still feels heavy with him.
“Good,” he says simply, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing there, caught between the urge to catch my breath and the strange, disorienting pull of his touch. I press my fingers to my neck where his lips had been, as if I can erase the lingering sensation—or memorize it forever.
I take the dress from off the hanger, the fabric cascading like liquid shadow between my fingers. It’s soft yet substantial, with a weight that feels almost regal. As I lift it, the faint scent of something clean and luxurious drifts up, as if the dress itself carries the essence of wealth and elegance.
I step into it carefully, the cool fabric gliding against my skin as I pull it up over my hips. It molds to me like it was made for my body, the fitted silhouette embracing every curve without suffocating. The sleeves slide into place, their fitted cut stretching to my wrists before flaring into delicate, almost ethereal cuffs. I can’t help but notice how the dress transforms me with each movement.
I tug the neckline into place, the deep plunge drawing my attention to my collarbones and the curve of my shoulders. It’s daring, even risqué, but the way it flatters my frame feels more empowering than uncomfortable. I turn to the mirror, tugging gently at the slit along one side of the skirt. It’s high enough to be noticed but not so high that it feels inappropriate—just enough to make me feel bold.
I pause, staring at the reflection of a woman I barely recognize. The Willow I’ve always been—safe, practical, predictable—would never dream of wearing something like this. But this version of me, swathed in black silk, feels different. Confident. Commanding. Even… dangerous.
Taking a seat at the vanity, I focus on my hair next. My thick pink tipped black curls spill around my shoulders in a wild cascade, too untamed for the elegance of the dress. With steady hands, I gather them, twisting and pinning until they form an intricate updo high on my head. The style is deliberate, each curl pinned in place to frame my face and neck, leaving just a few tendrils loose to soften the edges. I add the final touch —a delicate jeweled pin tucked into the side of the updo. Its subtle sparkle catches the light, perfectly complementing the understated opulence of the dress. Besides some mascara and a pink glossed lip I don’t add any more makeup before I move to the center table adorned with accessories.
The earrings I choose are long, dangling black crystals that graze my neck, shimmering with every tilt of my head. A matching bracelet clasps around my wrist, and a silver chain with an onyx pendant rests just below the diamond heart collar at the hollow of my throat, catching the glow of the soft lamp light.
Finally, I slip on the black stilettos waiting at the bottom of the wardrobe. They’re higher than anything I’m used to wearing, the kind of heels that scream danger and allure, but when I stand, they complete the look.
I step back to take it all in. The dress, the jewels, the hair—it’s not me. And yet, it is. It’s the woman Vincent sees in me, and for some reason I want to be her. She is beautiful, capable, and the center of attention. Me through Vincent’s eyes is as scary as it is alluring. The Willow he wants is everything I aim to be, but how did he know…how did he see this before I did?
The soft knock at the door startles me, and I turn to see the faint outline of Vincent’s shadow outside the room. “You are absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks to the clothes and jewels.” I snort and he goes to speak but I hold up a hand before he can say anything. “Speaking of which, how do you know the exact size of my…well everything?”
He moves in closer, his hands sliding onto my hips like they were meant to be there. “First, I said you are stunning, full stop. You’d be drop-dead gorgeous naked.” He bounces a curl with a smile before whispering in my ear. “And to answer your question, I have spent a lot of time watching you Princess.”
My ears burn hot, and I turn to look away, but he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I am taking you on a real date. No contract. No commands. Just us, okay?”
My throat tightens, a lump forming that I can’t quite swallow. The words “just us” echo in my mind, soft and disarming. No contract. No commands. Just us. The idea feels foreign, dangerous even, but I can’t deny the way it makes my chest ache in a way I don’t fully understand.
“Okay.” I whisper, enthralled by the minty breath that leaves his lips and flows over my cheeks.
His thumb lingers on my chin for a moment longer, his touch firm but not unkind, and I swear his eyes soften as they search mine. Then he lets go, turning to grab his watch from the vanity. The light catches on the sleek silver face, but it’s not the watch that holds my attention.
It’s him.
The way the muscles in his back flex and move beneath the black knit polo, stretching the fabric in a way that seems almost indecent. The polo is tucked into tailored black slacks, the kind that sit low on his hips and leave just enough to the imagination. The subtle sheen of the Gucci belt catches the light, but it’s the matted black buckle and matching loafers that complete the picture.
He looks like sin personified.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my thoughts from spiraling further, but it doesn’t help. My eyes are glued to him, tracing every line and dip of his body, every controlled movement as he fastens the watch and adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. He did this for me, and it’s almost too much to process.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning around, his voice low and teasing.
I snap my gaze to the floor, cheeks blazing. “No, I’m not.”
He chuckles softly, the sound like velvet against my skin. “Liar.”
Before I can come up with a witty retort—not that I have one—he turns back to me, his gaze sweeping over me like a slow caress. His lips curve into a satisfied smirk, but there’s something deeper in his eyes, something that makes my pulse quicken and my knees feel unsteady. “Come down when you’re ready.”
I take a moment to collect myself before descending the staircase, the soft click of my heels against the polished wood echoing in the quiet. His gaze finds me instantly, and he watches me with a stillness that makes my breath catch. By the time I reach the bottom step, his hand is already extended, warm and steady as it closes over mine.
He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over my knuckles with a reverence that sends a shiver up my spine. “You look exquisite,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, a touch of awe slipping through the polished control.
Still holding my hand, he leads me outside to the waiting limo, the car gleaming under the soft glow of the streetlights.
The ride begins in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound, but it’s a comfortable quiet, heavy with unspoken thoughts. My eyes wander to the city lights outside the window, flickering in the darkness like scattered jewels.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly, drawing my attention back to him.
I meet his gaze, tilting my head. “Just...taking it all in.”
He smiles faintly, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I don’t blame you. I’ve been doing the same all night.”
I arch a brow, unsure what he means. “What do you mean?”
“You,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, though there’s a rawness beneath it that makes my breath hitch. “I’ve wanted to take you out for years. And now that you’re here...it feels surreal.”
The admission hangs in the air, stealing any response I might have had. My chest tightens, and I glance down at my hands in my lap, trying to steady myself.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask softly, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“Timing,” he says simply, though his jaw tightens slightly, as though there’s more he’s not saying. “But I wasn’t going to wait forever.”
There’s a quiet intensity in his voice that makes it impossible to look away, my pulse quickening under his unwavering gaze.
I clear my throat, searching for something to lighten the mood. “Well, I hope I’m living up to the anticipation.”
His lips curve into a slow, devastating smile. “You have no idea.”
The weight of his words lingers as the car glides to a stop. I expect a bustling restaurant or a private dining room. Instead, I’m greeted by something far more unexpected. A theater, but no one is even in the lobby, the space is completely ours.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper, walking slightly ahead of him.
He chuckles softly, his palm warm and steady against the small of my back. “I wanted us to have some privacy, Princess. It’s just us here—well, aside from the attendants and one discreet waiter.”
His words make my breath catch, and I barely have time to respond before a petite red-haired woman appears.
“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont,” she says with a polished smile, her tone respectful as she gestures for us to follow her down a softly lit corridor.
I blink, the words catching me off guard. “Oh, we’re not?—”
Vincent’s hand slides up to rest lightly on my waist, his thumb brushing a slow circle against the fabric of my dress. “Thank you,” he interjects smoothly, his tone casual, though I catch the faintest curve of amusement on his lips.
I glance up at him, my brows knitting together, but his expression betrays nothing other than calm confidence. As the woman moves ahead, I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Did you just let her think we’re married?”
His lips twitch, but he keeps his gaze forward. “It seemed easier than correcting her. Besides...” He glances down at me, his cobalt blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “You wear the title well.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I open my mouth to respond, but the woman stops abruptly and gestures toward a set of grand double doors.
“Your theater awaits,” she says, pushing the doors open to reveal a space that takes my breath away.
The theater is breathtaking, every detail exuding opulence. Plush, oversized leather seats are arranged in intimate pairs, each spaced just enough to make it feel as though the room was designed for the two of us alone. The air carries a faint aroma of buttered popcorn—rich and decadent, not the cheap, synthetic kind—making it impossible not to feel tempted.
I glance around, my heart pounding as I take it all in. “This is... incredible,” I whisper, unable to keep the awe out of my voice.
A waiter has already brought trays of gourmet finger foods: mini sliders, truffle fries, and an elegant charcuterie board. Beside it sits two flutes of champagne, the liquid shimmering under the soft ambient lights.
The screen flickers to life, and the opening sequence of Heathers bursts into view, bold and colorful. My eyes widen as the familiar intro rolls, and I nearly spill my champagne in my excitement.
“Oh my God, Heathers ?” I blurt, turning to Vincent with a grin I can’t hold back. “You… you picked this ?”
He leans back in his chair, his posture effortlessly relaxed, and smirks. “You mentioned it was your favorite once. I figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”
“I mentioned it once? Like, forever ago?” My heart skips a beat, warmth blooming in my chest at the idea that he’d remembered something so small.
“Once was enough,” he says, his smirk softening into something deeper. “You light up when you talk about it. I wanted to see that for myself.”
I flush and turn back to the screen, trying to downplay the way his words make my pulse quicken. “Well, consider me impressed. I didn’t think you’d be into ‘teen angst and homicidal boyfriends.’”
“I’m here for the homicidal boyfriend part,” he teases, his voice low and smooth.
I shoot him a playful glare. “You would be.”
The movie unfolds, and as the lines and scenes I know by heart play out, I find myself sinking deeper into the moment. Every now and then, I glance at Vincent, expecting to catch him looking bored, but he seems genuinely captivated. He chuckles at the dark humor, smirks at the absurdity, and even leans in to throw a comment my way when something particularly outrageous happens.
During Veronica and J.D.’s infamous croquet scene, he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re definitely a Veronica,” he says, his tone light but laced with something that makes my stomach flutter.
“And you’re… what? J.D.?” I quirk an eyebrow, but my pulse is racing at his proximity.
He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “Too obvious. I think I’d rewrite the ending, though. I’d get the girl, and no one would die.”
I laugh, soft and breathy, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “Oh, how noble of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he murmurs, his eyes locking on mine.
For a moment, the movie disappears, the world shrinking to just the two of us. His gaze flickers to my lips, and my breath catches, but instead of closing the distance, he pulls back, reaching for the tray of food.
“Eat something,” he says, breaking the tension with a smirk. “You’ve been too busy quoting the movie to notice.”
“I can’t help it!” I protest, laughing as I grab a truffle fry. “It’s Heathers . You can’t not quote it.”
“Fair,” he concedes, popping a slider into his mouth. “But you’re cute when you get excited. That alone makes this movie worth watching.”
My fry pauses halfway to my mouth as I stare at him. “Are you flirting with me during Heathers ?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation, his smirk widening.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips as I turn back to the screen. It’s impossible to focus, though. Not with him sitting so close, his presence a constant, smoldering reminder of how dangerously easy it would be to fall into this.
Vincent shifts beside me, his knee brushing mine. The contact is electric, sending a shiver up my spine. I try to pretend I don’t notice, reaching for another fry, but then his hand settles on my thigh. His touch is light at first, almost tentative, as if testing the waters. But when I don’t pull away—when I barely even breathe—his fingers tighten slightly, sinking into the soft fabric of my dress.
“Vincent,” I murmur, my voice shaky.
“Shh, you’re going to miss the movie,” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. His finger traces the open slit of my thigh, sliding beneath the fabric to brush against bare skin. My stomach tightens, heat pooling low as I press my lips together to stifle a gasp.
The movie plays on, Heather Chandler’s sharp laugh echoing through the room, but I can’t focus on anything except Vincent’s hand. His finger moves higher, grazing the sensitive flesh just above my knee. My breath hitches, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring straight ahead, pretending to watch the screen, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“You’re such a jerk,” I mutter, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound annoyed.
He chuckles softly, his thumb circling lazily against my inner thigh. “Am I distracting you?”
“Yes,” I admit, my cheeks burning. I shift slightly, trying to ease the tension coiling inside me, but it only gives him better access. His finger slides higher, edging toward the spot where my legs meet, and I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from making a sound.
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning closer until his lips brush the shell of my ear. “That was kinda the point.”
His finger slips under the waistband of my panties, and I freeze, every nerve in my body suddenly hyper-aware. “You're wearing underwear.” He whispers against the curve of my neck.
“Y-you said no contract.” I stutter, and he growls his agreement slowly.
My pulse races as his fingertip grazes the slick heat between my legs, and I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper. Vincent doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him as he circles my clit, slow and deliberate, sending sparks shooting through me.
“Vincent—” I start, but my voice cracks, and he cuts me off with a soft shush.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my ear. “Just enjoy the movie.”
The movie? I want to laugh, but all I can do is clutch the armrest as his finger dips lower, teasing my entrance before slipping inside. My back arches instinctively, a quiet moan escaping my lips as he curls his finger, finding that perfect spot that makes my vision blur.
He keeps going, alternating between shallow thrusts and teasing circles around my clit, each movement calculated to drive me wild. My breathing grows uneven, my thighs trembling as pleasure builds, hot and insistent, in the pit of my stomach. I try to muffle my sounds, biting my lip so hard it might bruise, but it’s impossible to stay quiet when he adds a second finger, stretching me gently as he moves.
“That’s it,” Vincent murmurs, his voice low and rough. “Let go.”
I turn my head to look at him, our faces inches apart. His eyes are dark with desire, his smirk gone, replaced by something far more intense. My heart skips a beat as I lean in, pressing my lips to his in a desperate, hungry kiss. He groans against my mouth, his fingers still working me as I grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, messy and uncoordinated, as I lose myself in the sensation of his tongue tangling with mine, the way his other hand grips my hip to hold me steady. My mind is a fog of need, every thought reduced to nothing but him, this, more.
When he breaks the kiss, I whine in protest, but he just grins, his fingers still moving inside me. “Watch the movie,” he teases, though his voice is strained, his own arousal evident.
“Fuck the movie,” I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand as pleasure crests, threatening to drag me under.
Vincent laughs softly, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “We have all the time in the world, to do more, Princess. Now Jason Dean is about to blow up the school.”
He pulls me into his lap, and I curl into him. Citrus, musk, and butter linger in the air around us, and it feels like I’m supposed to be here. Like I was meant to be Vincent’s.
When the movie ends, we linger for a moment, neither of us wanting to disturb the warmth of the moment. Eventually, Vincent stands, offering me his hand. “Come on, Princess. Let’s get you home.”
The drive back to the mansion is quiet but comfortable, the hum of the car lulling me into a dreamy haze. By the time we arrive, the night air is cool, and Vincent shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over my shoulders without a word.
The hallway is quiet except for our laughter, soft and unrestrained, bouncing off the polished marble floors. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with a hint of something woodsy—wraps around me like a second skin. The jacket is too big, the sleeves dangling well past my hands, but it’s warm, and it’s his, and that thought alone has my stomach doing flips.
“I get it now,” I say, still laughing as I glance up at him. “The whole ‘crazy dude’ thing. J.D. is kind of… hot in a psychotic way.”
Vincent raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kind of?” he teases. “That’s not the glowing endorsement I was expecting.”
“Okay, fine.” I shrug, clutching the jacket tighter around me. “He’s definitely hot. But also, ya’know, a murderer, so…”
“Minor detail,” Vincent says, his voice low and teasing as he steps closer, his presence radiating warmth. “How about this? I’ll be your very own Jason Dean. Minus the body count.”
I stop walking and turn to face him, my heart doing a funny little somersault. “You’d blow up a school for me?”
He chuckles, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from my face. “If it meant I’d get to be the only one standing beside you at the end? Absolutely.”
His words are playful, but the way he looks at me isn’t. His dark eyes are soft, intent, as if he’s memorizing every detail of my face. The weight of his hand lingers, his thumb gently grazing my cheek. My breath hitches, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to look away.
And then, before I can think, before I can second-guess, I kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s not shy. It’s all the pent-up tension, the confusion, the longing that I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. My hands clutch the lapels of his jacket as I pull him closer, as if I can tether myself to him and stop the spinning of the world.
He doesn’t hesitate. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his lips parting against mine with a fervor that makes my knees weak. His touch is firm, grounding, as one hand tangles in my hair while the other holds me steady, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Heat floods every inch of me, and the world dissolves until it’s just him—his lips, his hands, the way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything I didn’t know I needed.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, my chest heaving as I stare up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his expression caught somewhere between amazement and something darker, something dangerous.
“I should walk you the rest of the way,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, though I can feel the tension in the way his fingers flex against my back.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my lips tingling, my head spinning.
We make it to my door, the air between us charged with something I can’t quite name. Vincent stops, turning to face me fully, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.
“Goodnight, Willow,” he says softly, dipping his head to press one last kiss to my lips. It’s tender, unhurried, and sweet in a way that sends my heart into overdrive.
When he pulls back, I realize I’m frozen, my hand clutching the doorknob like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My mind races, and panic crashes over me like a wave.
This is the first time I’ve kissed him—kissed anyone—willingly. There was no contract, no coercion, no games. Just me. And him. And it was perfect.
Too perfect.
“I—” I stammer, my voice barely audible. “Goodnight.”
I dart inside before he can respond, leaning against the closed door, my heart pounding in my ears.
What just happened?
I lean against my door. My lips swollen and tasting of Vincent’s sweet mintiness.