30. Vincent
30
VINCENT
I sit behind my desk in the study, my fingers wrapped around the tumbler, my chest tight with something that no amount of alcohol could dull. Two fingers worth. Just enough to burn, not enough to drown in. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting long shadows across my study, but it does nothing to warm the cold sinking into my bones.
How could they do this to her? After everything, just leave both her and me.
I stare at the phone in my other hand, my thumb hovering over the call button. I don’t hesitate—I never do—but this is different. This isn’t business. This isn’t a clean kill, an easy fix. This is them. These are my brothers, nothing can divide us. We share everything. We mean everything to each other.
The phone rings twice before Cast picks up.
“What the fuck do you want, Vincent?” His voice is clipped, sharp. Already pissed. Good. Saves me the trouble of pretending this conversation will go any other way.
I roll the glass between my fingers. “You already know why I’m calling.”
Then Damien, quieter but no less lethal. “To rub it in our face that you’re marrying our girl.”
I exhale, already feeling the weight of the fallout before it even happens. “I love her. You know what Willow does to me, because you both love her. And that she loves all of us.”
There’s a pause—just long enough for the words to sink in—before Cast lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“You love her?” He sounds almost amused, like the very idea is a joke. “You think the problem is that you love her? No, the problem is you proposed to her, like that was your place? You stole her from us.”
I set the glass down with a dull thunk. “She was alone in art school, and I?—”
“You have always been selfish, Vincent. Lucky rich boy with all the money in the world, no responsibilities, can’t share one thing in his fucking life.” Cast snaps.
“I am sharing. But when I went to get her two years ago, what did you say, Cast?”
“What?”
I run my bottom lip between my teeth, a snarl rolling through my lips before I can stop it. “You said if she is set on running, then let her run.”
Damien growls. “We didn’t-”
“No,” I let out a sharp humorless laugh. “No, I was the only one who ran after her. Damien, you played house with her father and Cast, you sunk your cock into any girl with pink highlights. It was me who couldn’t live without her.”
“You think I was living without her?” Cast scoffs. “I was a dead man walking and you know it.”
“No, no.” I click my tongue in annoyance. “If Willow ever left me I would be dead. I can’t live without her. Do you two understand that? She is everything to me, and she will be my wife.”
“No.” Damien chokes out.
“You are both ignoring her. She feels like nothing. You made her believe she wasn’t enough for either of you!”
Damien exhales sharply, “Excuse me?”
“You made my fiancée cry last night. Brothers don’t do that.” I take another sip of my whiskey, enjoying the burn.
Damien’s tone darkens as he speaks. “Brothers don’t take advantage of a situation and claim the girl we love for himself.”
I push back in my chair, scrubbing a hand down my face. “She’s not a fucking possession, Damien. I didn’t take anything. I loved her before either of you had the balls to admit it.”
Another pause. My grip tightens around the phone.
“So that’s it?” Cast finally says, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “You just get to have her? Just like that?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “This isn’t a competition. She loves you both. If you’d just talk to her, you’d?—”
“No.” The way Cast says it, so final, so fucking certain, sends a slow, burning anger through my veins.
I sit forward. “No?”
“We’re done, Vincent.” Cast’s voice is cold. Detached. “You made your choice. You put a ring on her finger, knowing damn well we weren’t fucking done with her. You didn’t even talk to us.”
My jaw tightens. “Cast?—”
“She’s not yours, Vincent. She is ours and one of these days my pet is going to come running back to me and when she does, her leash will be short.” Cast’s voice slices through me, and I feel like I can’t breathe.
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.” I snarl, my eyes wide.
“Don’t fucking call me again.” Cast says sharply.
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, my pulse pounding in my ears so loud it drowns out everything else. My chest is tight—too fucking tight—and my grip on the glass in my other hand turns bone-white.
I swallow hard, but it feels like trying to force down broken glass.
I should be pissed. Furious. Ready to punch a hole through the wall and call him back just to tell him to go fuck himself. But instead, I’m terrified. Because what if he’s right?
What if this ring on her finger isn’t enough? What if one day, she wakes up and realizes I was just the safest choice—the easiest one? That she only said yes because she was broken, and I was the one left to pick up the pieces?
My stomach churns.
I slam back the rest of my whiskey, but it does nothing to settle me. Nothing to quiet the voice in the back of my head whispering that maybe—just maybe—this was a mistake.
Because I know Cast. I know Damien. They don’t just let go. They’re not the kind of men who accept loss.
And Willow?
She’s everything to me.
But what if I’m not enough for her? What if she looks at me one day and realizes she still wants them ?
My jaw clenches, and I exhale sharply, forcing my breath to even out. No. No. I can’t think like this. She’s here . She’s mine . She chose me.
Didn’t she?
The thought eats at me like rot, and for the first time since she said yes, I feel something I haven’t let myself acknowledge.
A knock at the door rips me out of my spiral, “Come in.”
Franklin steps inside, his usual stoic expression in place, but I don’t miss the subtle tension in his shoulders. He knows better than to disturb me unless it’s important.
“Sir,” he says, his voice calm, measured. “This arrived for you.”
I eye the thick ivory envelope in his gloved hand, irritation already creeping up my spine. “What is it?”
Franklin clears his throat, stepping closer to place it on my desk. “New prospects for marriage.”
The words barely leave his mouth before my whiskey glass shatters in my grip.
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. My fingers sting, blood pooling from where the glass has cut into my palm, but I don’t give a damn.
Franklin doesn’t flinch. He simply reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieving a handkerchief before placing it beside me. “I took the liberty of disposing of most of them,” he continues as if I hadn’t just crushed glass in my hand. “But your parents insisted you look these over personally.”
To my parents, Willow isn’t the perfect, groomed, well-bred socialite they wanted me to marry. She isn’t tied to another empire. She doesn’t bring them power, influence, or anything they deem valuable .
She only brings me peace.
And in their eyes, that isn’t enough.
I drag my tongue over my teeth, shoving back the rage clawing up my throat. “I have a fiancée,” I grit out.
Franklin inclines his head. “Yes, sir. I am well aware.”
“So why the fuck,” I press my bloody hand against my desk as I stand, voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “is there a fucking list of women being handed to me?”
Franklin doesn’t so much as blink. “Because they do not believe you will stay engaged to her.”
I force out a breath, and snatch the envelope off my desk and tear it in two, letting the pieces fall to the floor.
“Then they’ll just have to learn to fucking believe,” I mutter, voice hoarse.
Franklin nods, bending to collect the remnants of the paper. “Very well, sir.”
The second Franklin steps out, I’m moving—my bloodied hand throbbing at my side, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears. My breath is shallow, my vision tunneled as I storm through the halls, taking the stairs two at a time.
They don’t believe I’ll stay engaged to her.
They think she’ll leave.
They think I’ll let her go.
My jaw clenches so tightly it aches.
By the time I reach my bedroom, my heart is a fucking riot in my chest. I shove the door open without hesitation.
Willow is curled up in bed, a book in her hands, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. She looks soft, warm—mine. But when her gaze flicks up to me, concern flickering in her eyes, something in me snaps.
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know how fucking fragile this is. How the wolves are already circling, waiting for any excuse to rip her away from me.
“Vincent?” She sits up, setting her book aside. “What?—”
“Let’s get married.”
The words tear out of me, raw and desperate.
She blinks. “What?”
“Soon.” My voice is hoarse, rough with everything I can’t fucking say. I move closer, my chest tight. “I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to give anyone a chance to think you’re not mine.”
Her brows knit together. “Vincent, what’s going on?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up. “Say yes.” My thumb traces the curve of her jaw, my throat tightening. “Just say yes, baby.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but I don’t give her the chance. I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in, my free hand curling into the sheets beside her hip.
“I can’t lose you,” I whisper, and it’s the closest thing to a confession I’ll ever allow myself. “I won’t.”
“I can’t lose you either.”
“So marry me.”
“Yes.” She smiles so bright I almost blind myself looking.
“In three days.” I insist.
“Okay,” she giggles, biting her lip for a moment. “Okay.”