Chapter 16
VINCENT
I don’t sleep.
The house stays dim—just the lamp by the stairs and the faint light over the stove. Snow outside throws a gray wash across the windows. The heat kicks on, off, then on again.
I walk the hall in slow loops. My socks whisper against the wood.
My shoulder grazes the wall every time I turn.
My hands won’t stay still—they keep finding things: her scarf on the hook, a smear of paint on the banister, the blanket she used on the couch.
It smells like her hair. I fold it back and start pacing again.
Cast sits by the front window, a quiet outline in the low light. The chair is angled toward the door and the street beyond. One ankle rests on his knee, hands folded loose, but he’s not resting.
“She’s asleep,” he says evenly, his gaze fixed on the window. “Pulse steady. Breathing normal.”
“I know,” I answer, my voice hoarse.
“Then sit down,” he says, turning his head just enough to look at me.
“I can’t,” I mutter.
I stop at the doorway and glance at her again.
She’s still on the couch, blanket tucked under her chin, hair damp at the temples from the heat.
There’s a cut on her wrist—the one Cast cleaned when we got home—and she’d winced the whole time, her breath catching every time the antiseptic touched her skin.
Every flinch made mine crawl. And that’s not the worst part.
There’s a faint bruise under her jaw, small but sharp, the imprint of what she went through, and I can’t unsee it.
My stomach knots so hard it makes me sick.
She tried to talk to me when we first got home.
She made jokes. Asked me to come closer.
Kept offering these little pieces of softness I don’t fucking deserve.
I wanted to answer her. I wanted to say her name, to let her know I was still here, but the guilt sits too thick in my chest. It’s like poison—if I let a single word out, it’ll spill and stain her too.
So I kept moving instead. Checked the doors.
The locks. The windows. Anything to keep from looking directly at her.
Now, standing here, I can tell she isn’t really asleep.
Her breathing’s too shallow, uneven, her fingers twitching beneath the blanket like she’s trying to convince her body to stay still.
She’s not truly resting—caught somewhere between exhaustion and fear, like if she lets herself slip too far under, she’ll wake up back there.
Like this is the dream, and he still has her. That we never even made it in time.
I can feel her awareness, the faint tension that ripples through her when I shift my weight, the way her body knows I’m still here.
She keeps trying to find me—to catch my gaze, to pull me back into the space she’s holding open for me—but I can’t.
I can’t meet the same eyes that looked up at me while a man bled out at our feet.
She’s alive because of me, but it doesn’t feel like saving.
It feels like I almost killed her myself.
Every mark on her skin, every tremor in her breath—those belong to me now.
My fault. My doing. Every scar, every bruise, every ounce of pain is mine. I did that.
Fuck me.
I start pacing again. Back down the hall. Back to the kitchen.
Cast watches me a while longer before speaking again. “You know this isn’t helping her,” he says quietly.
“It’s not for her,” I snap, turning my back to him.
He tips his head once, acknowledging it. “Didn’t think so,” he says under his breath.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge. The light blinds me for a second. Food fills the shelves—ordinary things that look wrong now. I shut it and lean against the counter. My hands are shaking again. The memory keeps replaying in my muscles—the recoil, the flash, the silence after.
Cast steps into the doorway, arms crossed. “Drink some water,” he says. “You’ll drop if you don’t.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, turning the tap. I fill a glass and down it fast. The water’s too cold, burns going down. I set the glass on the counter and wipe the ring it leaves with my sleeve.
“She was tied to a chair,” I say, voice cracking. “He made her paint him.”
“I saw,” Cast replies, steady.
“She had blood on her sleeve,” I add.
“I saw that too,” he says, tone unchanged.
“He pressed the barrel to her temple,” I say, pressing my thumb to my own temple. “Right here. If I’d been fifteen minutes slower—”
“You weren’t,” Cast cuts in firmly. “We were there.”
I shake my head, pacing again. Every time I reach the end of the hallway, the image hits—lamp chain swinging, money scattered across the floor, Justin’s eyes open and blank.
Cast’s gaze tracks me. “You’re not the only one carrying this,” he says, voice low.
“I fired,” I whisper.
“You had to,” he says.
“I still fired,” I snap, rubbing my palms together until the friction burns. My jaw locks tight. I force it open, but it clamps again. I drag in a shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter why. I still did it.”
“Just say it,” Cast urges.
“What?” I bark, spinning toward him. “That it’s my fucking fault? Because I know it’s my fault, Cast, you don’t have to rub it in—”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
I freeze, the sound of it hitting harder than I expect. “Cast—”
He shakes his head once, eyes flashing. “You know I hate that,” he says quietly, but his voice trembles with anger. “You know why.”
My stomach twists. “I didn’t mean—” I start, guilt choking the words.
“You’re like a brother to me,” he says suddenly, voice raw and tight. “No—you are my brother. And you don’t fucking act like it.”
“Brothers fight,” I mutter, trying to meet his eyes.
“Brothers trust,” he snaps, stepping closer. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I don’t know what I did to make you think you can’t trust me, but I’m sorry.”
“Cast—” I try again, but he cuts me off.
“No, I mean it,” he says, shaking his head hard. His voice drops lower, quieter, the words breaking apart. “Whatever’s between us that made you think I wouldn’t protect you from this—I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” I say, softer now, but the edge doesn’t leave.
“But you’ll put everyone else in danger to prove it?” he fires back.
“No, I—” I step forward, rubbing the back of my neck, my pulse hammering. “That’s not what I—”
“Then what?” Cast demands, his voice rising again. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to carry this alone until it kills you—or worse, until it kills Willow.”
I stop in the middle of the hall. My hand drops to my side. For the first time all night, I don’t have an answer. I look over at the open doorway to the living room where she is sleeping soundly on the couch.
“So what was it?” He steps closer. “What was he talking about?”
“Roughly fourteen billion dollars went missing a couple of weeks ago.”
“What do you mean a couple of weeks?”
“Three weeks ago…” I say again, my voice flat.
Cast stares at me like I’ve just spoken another language. “That’s why you had to fly to Austin and miss Damien’s game?”
“Yeah, but I—”
“Jesucristo, Vincent,” he cuts in, stepping forward. His voice cracks on the name. “?Me estás jodiendo?”
I drag a hand over my face. “I was going to tell you—”
“When?!” Cast shouts. “When she was dead? When we were standing over another body you could’ve prevented?”
“Lower your voice,” I hiss, glancing toward the living room. Willow’s still asleep—or pretending to be—but I can’t risk waking her.
Cast doesn’t lower it. He points at me, shaking. “You had this hanging over you for weeks, and you didn’t say a word? Ni una palabra?”
“I thought I could fix it!”
“Claro que sí,” he spits. “Because Vincent Beaumont can fix the world, right? El salvador de todos.”
“Stop it.”
“No, you stop it,” he snaps, stepping closer until we’re almost chest to chest. “You think you’re the only one who bleeds when things fall apart? You think the rest of us don’t carry it too?”
My pulse spikes. “You don’t get it—”
“?No, tú no entiendes!” His voice breaks through the quiet like glass. “You don’t get to play martyr when it’s her life on the line.”
The words hit harder than they should. I look toward the doorway again. The faint outline of her form under the blanket is visible in the low light. My throat burns.
“I thought,” I start, but my voice breaks. “I thought if I could just get ahead of it—”
Cast laughs, bitter and low, the sound like a blade dragged against concrete. “Get ahead of it? You hid it.”
“Because it’s my mess!” I shout, stepping into him. “Because I’m the one who took the goddamn company! I’m the one who thought I could fix it—”
“Right,” he cuts in, nodding, jaw tight with fury. “You didn’t think. And she almost died.”
The words hit like a punch. My throat burns; I look away, fists curling. “Don’t say that.”
“?Por qué no?” he snaps, stepping closer. “It’s fucking true, Vincent.”
“Watch your mouth,” I warn, but my voice shakes with something half grief, half rage.
Cast doesn’t back down. He takes another step forward, so close I can smell the faint trace of his cologne and gun oil, the same mix he’s worn since we were kids. His eyes glint hard in the dim light. “You want me to say it softer? Fine. Casi la matas, hermano. You almost got her killed.”
I shove him back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to break the distance. “Don’t put that on me.”
He stumbles, steadies, then shoves me right back, harder. “Why? It’s fucking true.”
“Lower your voice! You’ll wake the kids,” I snarl.
“Why? You don’t want them to know what type of man their Daddy is?” I lunge for him, ready to grab his collar, but before my hands can reach, Willow’s frail body moves between us, trembling but firm.
“Stop!” Her voice cracks the air. “Please.”
We both freeze. The sight of her standing there—barefoot, pale, bandaged wrist shaking—hits harder than any shove.
“Willow,” I start, breathless, guilt already clawing at my throat.