Chapter 4 Vincent
VINCENT
The car turns through the gate. The house glows ahead, soft light spilling through the windows, the warmth of it visible even from the drive.
The wreath the kids picked is too large, slightly crooked, its bow slipping to one side.
The snow has started to fall again, flakes clinging to the windshield before melting into water.
Through the front window, the pulse of multicolored Christmas lights flickers like a steady heartbeat. I count them without meaning to—red, green, gold, blue—until the car eases to a stop in front of the house we bought three years ago.
The driver, Marcus, steps out and opens my door. “Have a good evening, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the offered hand as I climb out. “Merry Christmas, Marcus. I’ll see you in the new year.”
“See you in the new year, Mr. Beaumont.” He dips his cap as I pass, and the sound of the car pulling away follows and fades into the hush of falling snow.
The cold hits immediately—sharp and bracing—but the sight of the house dulls the edge of it.
Light spills from every window like warmth made visible.
Somewhere inside, I can almost hear them: the shriek of a laugh, a scolding whisper, the dog’s tail thumping the floor.
I’ve missed it—the noise, the mess, the sense of being wanted.
By the time I step up the front path, the snow has started to settle along my coat, melting against the wool. I pause at the door, hand on the handle, just to breathe it in—sugar, pine, the faint metallic hum of the garland’s tiny bells in the wind.
When I push the door open, warmth rushes up to meet me. The scent hits first: cinnamon, pine, and something faintly smoky, like the aftertaste of cocoa on the stove. Laughter clings to the walls, soft and ghostlike.
I set my bag down by the door, hang my coat, and let my eyes adjust to the gold-lit calm of the kitchen.
It looks lived-in in the best way: powdered sugar dusting the floor like snow, cookie crumbs scattered across the counter, a mug still steaming faintly beside the sink.
The icing on the cake is the Elf on the Shelf taped in dramatic disgrace against the espresso machine, surrounded by the wreckage of some elaborate game.
The scene is absurd and perfect. My stomach twists for missing the madness.
Cast stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a towel slung over his shoulder as he dries a glass.
The overhead lights catch the silver in his hair, turning it to frost. For a heartbeat, it feels like years have folded neatly back into this one instant. He looks up when he senses me there.
“The kids left you a case file by the espresso machine,” Cast murmurs, not even looking up at me.
“Are they tired of the elf already?” I smirk.
“Nope, they just want justice.” Cast glances up, words dying on his tongue as he looks me over. “Shit,” he says, mouth quivering.
“Put five dollars in the swear jar,” I deadpan, loosening my tie.
Cast looks at me with a smirk on his lips. “You look like you got in a fist fight, and I know you can’t fight so…”
I fully pull my tie out of the knot and lean against the doorway. “What can I say? The boardroom’s a blood sport.”
“Better you than me.” He turns back to the sink, rinsing the last glass. “Long day?”
“The kind that shouldn’t exist,” I say, rolling my sleeves. “You know I hate working in corporate.”
“Yeah I know, but you know you can always quit.” Cast nods, drying his hands.
I shake my head. “That’s like asking you to step down from the cartel.”
Cast looks at me over his shoulder, quiet for a beat. “I would,” he says simply. “For you guys, I would.”
The words hang there, heavy enough to make me bite the inside of my cheek. I clear my throat.
Cast sighs, that weary sound I’ve come to recognize that says we’ve had this talk before. And we both know we’ll have it again, especially as Beaumont keeps bleeding money.
He claps his hands together. “You missed a hell of a night.”
“So I see,” I reply, glancing toward the staircase. “How’s Willow?”
He looks at me then—really looks. “She waited up for you. Tried to pretend she wasn’t worried. You know how that goes.”
A small ache blooms under my ribs. “And now?”
“In the bath,” he says, tilting his head toward the hall. “I told her you’d come home before the water went cold.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “Don’t thank me. Just go.”
I hesitate, studying him. The tension that used to live between us after I took Willow away and tried to marry her first has dissipated over the last eight years.
He has learned to trust parts of me again, although it is not the same as it was before, and a part of me is guilty that I am the reason we are more friends than brothers now.
“It’s good to see you home,” I say matter-of-factly.. “It’s rare that we’re all in the same place.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah, well I am learning to stand your face a little better.”
“You still get annoyed at my face after eight years?” I snort, bracing myself against the door frame.
He looks up at me for a second, the expression on his face hard and unreadable. “You have a punchable face.”
I snort, pushing off of the door frame. “Goodnight, Cast.”
“Night Vince,” Cast calls after me and I smirk because of him for the first time in years. It’s true time really does heal all wounds, but only if you let it.
I follow the sound of running water down the hall. The door to my room is ajar, a faint curl of eucalyptus drifting through. I pause at the threshold, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it over the small couch along the wall beside the door. I step inside, unhooking my watch as I go.
The bedroom glows low, the fireplace banked to a red hush. I walk deeper into the room, unfastening my cufflinks. The soft clink of metal against wood follows when I set them beside my watch on the nightstand.
I slip my phone from my pocket and leave it face down on the dresser, then nudge the bathroom door open.
Steam rolls out to meet me, warm and scented with eucalyptus. The air opens my chest. Candles pool amber light across the marble, and the mirror has surrendered completely to fog. I stop at the door, my eyes landing on Willow curled up in the bath.
She’s half-submerged in the water, hair slicked back, droplets tracing the line of her throat and sliding over her shoulders.
For a moment, I just stand there, caught between wanting to move and not daring to.
She looks peaceful in a way I haven’t felt in months.
The pale water around her softens every edge, making her seem almost unreal.
If I weren’t carrying the fear and shame of the day like a stone in my chest, I’d tell her how beautiful she looks—how I still forget how to breathe when I see her like this. I’d touch her, kiss the curve of her neck until the world outside this room disappeared.
But all that comes out, low and uneven, is, “Hi, beautiful.”
“You’re home,” she says, and everything I’m carrying loosens a notch as the light beams across her tired face.
“I’m home,” I say, stepping into the bathroom and kneeling beside the tub until we’re eye level. Close enough to see the water bead along her shoulder and slip down the curve of her breast. “You waited up for me, princess?”
She smiles, tired but playful. “You left before I could get my morning kiss,” she murmurs. “So I needed my goodnight kiss.”
“My apologies, princess,” I murmur. “Then I shouldn’t keep you waiting.”
I lean in and kiss her, slow and careful. She tastes faintly of mint and warmth, the kind of softness that makes the rest of the day fade out. When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded, the corner of her mouth curved in that adorable way that makes my stomach flip even after all these years.
I stand and unbutton my shirt, laying it over the chair, then step out of my slacks. The water ripples when I slide in beside her. She shifts forward, giving me space, and I draw her back against my chest.
For a while, neither of us says anything. The only sounds are the faint lap of water and the steady rhythm of our breathing. Her head rests against my shoulder, the wet ends of her hair brushing my collarbone.
She runs her fingers over my forearm, tracing idle patterns. “You’re quiet,” she says softly. “Bad day?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Long day,” I correct, but it comes out heavier than I intend.
She tilts her head just enough to look at me. “That’s not what I asked.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. I reach for the washcloth, dip it in the warm water, and start to run it gently along her arm.
“Multi-billion-dollar companies are stressful, princess,” I say. “You know how it is—numbers, meetings, everyone wanting something from you. I never really wanted to run a company.”
Her brows knit slightly. “So don’t,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to.”
I keep moving the cloth over her skin, the warmth of the water seeping into both of us. “It’s my family legacy,” I murmur. “And my siblings just graduated college. I can’t make them run the company when their lives have barely started.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should be.
The twins. They’ve been out of the country more than they’ve been home, raised on boarding schools and distance.
We talk sometimes. Holidays. Obligatory dinners.
Brief phone calls that end before they really begin.
After my father’s death and Angie’s disappearance—their biological mother, my stepmother—I became the only family they had left, aside from my own mother, who took them in like they were hers when she found out Angie had abandoned them.
Despite not being close, I still feel like I should protect them from everything.
“I could hand the company to someone else,” I say quietly.
Willow traces small circles in the water, her touch soft against my arm. “What about your mother?” she whispers. “She’d run the company for a while if you asked her.”