19. Willow
19
WILLOW
I don’t sleep well.
The mattress is soft, the sheets smell like Vincent—clean, warm, and something faintly citrusy—but it doesn’t matter. My thoughts are louder than any comfort his guest bed can offer.
The image of his face moments ago, normally so sunny and playful, darkened by anger and frustration, drills into my consciousness. I can’t shake the tension in his voice when he talked to his stepmother, or the way his hands trembled, just barely, as he carried me to the bedroom across from him.
Vincent, always steady and sure, had cracked today. And it was his stepmother’s fault. What could she have possibly done to him?
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they’re relentless. My fingers clutch the blanket as I stare at the ceiling, shadows dancing across it in the dim sunrise filtering through the window. Vincent’s house is too big, too quiet, and I feel lost in it.
A part of me considers tiptoeing to Vincent’s room. Would he be awake too? Would he be pacing, trying to figure out how to avoid breakfast with his parents and me? Or would he be asleep, his chest rising and falling in that calm, steady way he does everything?
I imagine knocking softly, peeking in to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Maybe he’d look up, his expression softening when he sees me. He’d smile, tell me to come in, tell me everything’s fine—even though it’s not. It never is.
But I can’t bring myself to move. I don’t know what I’d say if I did. I don’t even know what I want from him right now. Comfort? Reassurance? A distraction? None of it feels right when I’ve already dragged him into my mess.
The hours stretch endlessly, and by the time the sun is readily settled in the morning sky, I feel like I’ve been running a marathon in my mind. My body is exhausted, but sleep never comes.
The soft sound of a door creaking open pulls me from my thoughts. I sit up slightly, my heart skipping a beat, and then I hear the familiar cadence of Vincent’s footsteps. They’re lighter than Cast’s, more purposeful, and something about that sound immediately sets me at ease.
A moment later, there’s a gentle knock at my door, followed by Vincent’s voice, low and soft.
“Willow? You awake?”
Before I can answer, the door cracks open, and Vincent steps inside, holding two steaming cups of coffee. His hair is a little messy, and he’s still in the same clothes from last night, but his smile is warm and disarming.
“Thought you could use this,” he says, holding out a mug. “Before you meet the parents.”
I take the cup from him, the warmth seeping into my hands, and nod. “Thanks.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed, his movements slow and careful, like he’s afraid of overwhelming me. The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s... tentative.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks after a moment, his voice quiet.
I shake my head, staring down into the coffee. “Not really. You?”
He lets out a soft chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Not a chance.”
We both sit there for a while, not saying much, just sipping our coffee. A small chuckle escaping both of our lips.
“I can’t stand thinking you’re mad at me, Princess.”
I look at him over the rim of my mug, his words hanging in the air between us. There’s a vulnerability in his tone, a crack in his usual confidence. Vincent rarely shows cracks.
“I’m not mad at you,” I say softly.
He exhales, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Good. Because I don’t think I could take another week of you not talking to me.”
My stomach twists at the honesty in his words. Vincent is always so sure of himself, so steady and put together. To see him faltering, even slightly, makes me want to reach out and hold on to him.
Vincent clears his throat. “Breakfast,” he says, his tone shifting to something lighter, though his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s going to be... an experience.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Let’s just say my family is old money. Stuffy. Judgmental. They’ll be polite on the surface, but every word is a chess move, every glance a silent critique. They’re like snakes wearing pearls and tailored suits.”
I frown. “And you’re okay with me being there?”
His expression softens, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine where they rest on the mug. “No, but I don’t have a choice.” My stomach sinks and I look down into the light brown shimmer of the coffee.
He lifts my chin softly. “It’s not you. It is never you, but they-” He swallows. “They steal everything good in the world and rot it. I don’t want them to do that to you. You’re too good Willow.”
My name on his tongue makes me whimper, and he kisses my cheek softly. I melt, my eyelids heavy as I stare up at him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growls. “We don’t have time.”
“Sorry sir,” I purr.
“Willow.” He snarls, and I shoot up straight, an innocent smile on my face.
“Sorry!”
Vincent shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the lingering tension in his eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Better than boring,” I quip, taking another sip of my coffee. The warmth of it does little to settle the unease swirling in my chest.
His smile fades, replaced by something more serious as he leans back slightly, watching me. “Willow, I need you to be prepared for this. My family isn’t like yours or Cast’s. They’re… different. Old money, stuck in their ways. Everything they do, everything they say, is calculated. Everything they do is to get under your skin.”
I take another sip of my coffee, hoping it will ease the gnawing feeling in my stomach as I nod my understanding. “Vincent,” I say softly, breaking the quiet. “I can do this. Give me spark notes on everyone.”
“My father?” He scoffs lightly, shaking his head. “My father will be distant. He might not even talk, because he's a stranger to me. He only really speaks up when he wants something.”
I blink, surprised by the bitterness in his tone. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak of his father like this. “That’s... harsh.”
Vincent shrugs, his jaw tight. “Sometimes the truth is harsh.”
I nod slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of his family. Vincent doesn’t speak of them often, but when he does, there’s a heaviness to it, like he’s carrying something too large for anyone to truly understand.
“And your stepmother?” I ask, my voice quieter this time.
The moment I say it, his face darkens again, the shadows in his eyes deepening. His body stiffens, and I know I’ve touched on something that goes deeper than I expected.
“She’s the fucking devil.” His voice drops to a near whisper, but the anger in it is sharp. “She’s a snake in disguise—manipulative, cruel, calculating. She’s not even close to being a mother.”
I can feel the weight of his words, and a deep ache forms in my chest, a sadness for him that I can’t quite put into words. I think back to the news about his missing mother seven years ago. The tears in his eyes. The way he begged for her to come back. I let out a small breath, trying to absorb what he’s telling me. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
Vincent’s jaw tightens, but then he exhales, his expression softening just slightly. “The only good thing she’s done is my step-siblings. They’re at boarding school—Tyler and Taylor. Tyler is a musical genius who can play, like, six instruments. And Taylor? She’s a science god. She’s the reason my skin is clear.”
He winks, a small smile breaking through his earlier tension. For a moment, he looks more like the Vincent I know, light and teasing. “You’ll meet them one day. They just turned eleven.”
A smile spreads across my face, and I can’t help but feel a warmth at the way pride flashes in his eyes. “I can’t wait to meet them,” I say softly, meaning every word.
He holds my gaze for a moment, and something in his shoulders relaxes, like maybe the thought of them makes everything feel just a little bit lighter. But then, as if remembering where we’re heading, the weight returns to his features.
“But before you meet the wonder twins, we’ve got breakfast to face.”
I nod, placing my coffee down. But inside, my mind spins with everything he’s said, the cracks I can now see in the glossy surface of his life. Without thinking I ask, “what outfit should I wear?”
A large smile spreads across his face. “The pink sun dress that matches the streaks in your hair.”
I look down at my fading pink tips. I need a touch up soon. “You got it.” I nod walking over to the closet.
“Thirty minutes,” Vincent adds. “Get dressed. You’ll need to be presentable, especially with my stepmother there.”
________________
I step out of the room after exactly thirty minutes, my hands smoothing down the soft fabric of the pink sundress Vincent had requested. It hugs my body just enough to feel flattering, the hem swishing around my knees as I walk. The color’s a little lighter than the fading pink in my hair, but close enough that it feels intentional, cohesive. A touch of blush on my cheeks and a swipe of gloss on my lips finish the look.
The heels I choose are low—practical but still polished—and the delicate gold chain around my neck feels like a small shield, something to remind me I’m more than whatever judgments might be waiting for me downstairs. It falls just below my ever present diamond collar from the Chessmen.
I inhale deeply, willing the rising nerves to settle. It’s just breakfast. But the weight of Vincent’s earlier words—about his stepmother, his family, their world—crawls into my chest and twists there.
Polite, but cutting. Snakes in pearls and suits.
I glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror as I pass, wondering if I look as nervous as I feel. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold my own in a room full of people who seem designed to tear others down, but the one thing I do know is that I won’t let them see me crumble.
This isn’t just about me. It’s about Vincent too.
Still, the nerves linger, my stomach fluttering like a cage of restless birds.
By the time I reach the end of the hallway, Vincent is waiting, leaning casually against the banister. His eyes sweep over me, lingering just long enough to make my heart skip a beat.
“Perfect,” he says, his smile soft but approving. “Pink suits you.”
I try to smile back, but my nerves are starting to feel more like a full-body hum. “Let’s just hope your family agrees.”
His expression hardens just slightly, and he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. “Don’t worry about them. Just stay close to me. You’ll be fine.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and we head down the stairs together.
We make our way to the dining area, Vincent’s hand searing onto the small of my back. The dining room feels like a museum: high ceilings, antique chandeliers, and a table so long it seems to stretch for miles. Every inch is polished and gleaming, yet cold, lifeless. Vincent’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we enter, three minutes late. His stepmother’s sharp eyes snap to us like a hawk spotting prey.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice clipped and icy. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence, Vincent. And... your guest.”
Her gaze sweeps over me, dissecting every inch of my pink sundress, the faint pink in my hair. The corners of her mouth twitch, but it’s not a smile. It’s judgment.
Vincent’s father barely glances up from the newspaper he’s holding, a half-empty coffee cup beside him. “Three minutes late,” he mutters, flipping a page. “I see punctuality is another lesson you’ve chosen to ignore.”
Vincent pulls out a chair for me, his movements measured, tense. “We’re here now,” he says evenly, but I can feel the anger simmering beneath his words.
“Of course you are,” his stepmother says, her voice dripping with false politeness. “Though I must say, Vincent, it’s irresponsible to bring in a... stray without a proper background check. We don’t know anything about her. Where she comes from. Who she really is.”
My cheeks flush, and I glance down at my plate, gripping my napkin tightly.
“Her name is Willow,” Vincent says sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “And she’s my guest. You don’t need a background check to know she’s worth a thousand of whatever this family pretends to be.”
His father folds the newspaper deliberately, setting it down as if Vincent’s outburst is an inconvenience to his morning. “You’re too emotional, Vincent. Always have been. It’s no wonder you’re such a disappointment.”
Vincent stiffens beside me, his hands curling into fists. I reach out under the table, brushing my fingers against his, but he doesn’t react.
“And this?” his father continues, gesturing vaguely toward me. “Bringing in some girl off the street, defending her like she’s your responsibility? It’s foolish. Reckless.” He sighs, almost absentmindedly, and takes a sip of his coffee. “Perhaps it’s time we consider a more permanent solution. A psych ward, maybe, like your mother. It’s clear you’ve inherited her... tendencies.”
The words land like a bomb. Vincent freezes, his breathing shallow, his face blank.
My heart pounds as I glance at him, his knuckles white against the edge of the table. The silence is suffocating, stretching on for far too long.
“Don’t,” he finally says, his voice low and trembling with barely contained fury. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”
His stepmother laughs softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Vincent. So dramatic. You’ve always been this way—obsessive, gullible, foolish. It’s embarrassing, really. How easily you let someone manipulate you.” Her eyes flick to me, full of disdain. “You see a pretty face, and suddenly you’re ready to throw away what little dignity you have left.”
“That’s enough!” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop myself. My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “You don’t know anything about him. Vincent is more than any of you could ever understand. He’s kind, loyal, and?—”
“Willow, don’t,” Vincent says quietly, but I’m too angry to stop.
“And he’s not the problem here!” I continue, glaring at his stepmother. “You are. All of you. You treat him like he’s less than, like he doesn’t matter. But he does. He’s everything.”
The room falls silent, the tension so thick it feels like it might crush me. Vincent’s father raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, while his stepmother stares at me like I’m some sort of unruly child.
“Well,” she says finally, her tone ice-cold. “It seems you’ve trained her well, Vincent.”
Vincent’s chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands. His face is set, his jaw tight, but his eyes burn with anger. “We’re leaving,” he says, his voice like steel.
“So dramatic. Go on then, let me eat breakfast in peace.” his father calls after him.
Vincent doesn’t respond, his hand gripping mine as he pulls me out of the room. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel like I can finally breathe again as we step into the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he shakes his head, his expression softening as he looks at me.
“Don’t be,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything right.”
Vincent’s hand is a steady grip on mine as he pulls me through the back door, his pace quick and determined. I stumble slightly, struggling to match his long strides, but he doesn’t slow. We pass through the kitchen where a few staff members glance our way, but Vincent doesn’t acknowledge them, his focus completely on getting us outside. The heavy wooden door slams shut behind us, and the noise of the house fades, leaving only the quiet of the garden.
The moment we step outside, the world shifts. The garden feels like a different realm, sprawling endlessly before us. The green grass stretches far, dotted with winding stone paths and wildflowers blooming freely along the edges. The air here is fresh, crisp, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of the house.
My eyes are drawn to the hedge maze at the center of the garden. It towers above us, a labyrinth of perfectly trimmed greenery, twisting and turning in tight, intricate loops. It looks ancient, like something straight out of a fairytale. I wonder what it would be like to get lost in it—to wander through the winding paths, escaping everything, if only for a moment.
“Do you realize what you just did?” Vincent’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up at him.
“What?” I stutter, still a little caught up in the beauty around us.
Before I can react, he swings me around, pressing me into the soft wall of the hedge, his body towering over mine. His gaze is intense, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You defended your king’s honor, Princess,” he says, his tone low and teasing. “I think it’s time we made you a queen.”