8. Vincent
VINCENT
The view from my corner office stretches across downtown, glass towers catching afternoon light. Twenty years building this firm, and the view never gets old. Usually.
Today I can't focus on it.
"Vincent, you with us?"
I pull my attention back to Marcus Moore and Patricia Donovan, my senior partners. They're both watching me expectantly.
"Sorry. Long morning." I gesture at the project files spread across my desk. "Walk me through the Monaco details again."
Patricia leans forward, her eyes bright with excitement. "Rousseau Development Group wants us to design their new luxury resort on the Port Hercule waterfront. Five-star hotel, private villas, marina expansion. Complete creative control, and the budget is essentially unlimited."
Marcus adds, "This is career-defining work, Vince. The kind of project we've been building toward for two decades. European clients, international exposure, architectural journals will be all over it."
I nod, scanning the preliminary site plans. The project is incredible. Exactly the kind of work I got into architecture to do.
"What's the timeline?" I ask, though part of me already knows I won't like the answer.
"Aggressive," Patricia admits. "They want to break ground in six months. Which means intensive design development, constant client meetings, daily construction oversight once we start."
"How intensive?"
Marcus meets my eyes. "You'd need to be on-site. Monaco. Three months minimum, possibly extending to six depending on construction delays."
There it is.
Three to six months. Across an ocean. Away from Violet.
My chest tightens at the thought, and I force my expression to remain neutral.
Neither Marcus nor Patricia can know why this assignment is a problem.
Can't know that my ex-wife's daughter lives in my house.
Sleeps in my bed. Belongs to me in ways that would destroy my reputation if anyone found out.
"That's a significant time commitment," I say carefully.
"It is," Patricia agrees. "But the fee structure compensates for it. Plus, establishing European connections opens doors we've only dreamed about."
Marcus leans back in his chair. "Look, I know it's a lot to ask. If you want to pass and let Patricia take lead, we'll understand. But honestly? You're the best in this firm. Your vision matches what Rousseau wants. This should be your project."
Pride flares in my chest. He's right. This is exactly my kind of work—modern luxury with classical influences, waterfront integration, attention to historical context.
But Violet.
I haven't gone a single night without her in two weeks. Since Paris, since I took her virginity on that plane, I've been completely consumed by her. Obsessed with her presence, her body, her trust in me.
The thought of six months without touching her makes my hands clench on the desk.
"When would I need to leave?" I ask.
"Ideally next week," Patricia says. "Rousseau wants to move fast. They've already secured permits and are waiting on final designs."
Next week. Five days from now.
My mind races through logistics. Five days to prepare Violet, to explain, to somehow make her understand this isn't abandonment.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie.
Part of me wants the distance. Needs it. Because what I feel for Violet has gone beyond rational. I text her constantly, demand to know where she is, who she's with. I fuck her almost every night, can't sleep unless she's in my bed. The intensity terrifies me.
Maybe distance would be good. Give her space to finish college, to consider whether this relationship is really what she wants. Give me perspective, a chance to break this obsessive cycle before it destroys us both.
But the thought of being apart makes my throat tight.
"Vincent?" Marcus prompts.
I take a breath, make the decision that will change everything.
"I'll do it. I'll go to Monaco."
Patricia's face lights up. "Excellent. This is going to be incredible work."
Marcus claps me on the shoulder. "Your best project yet. I'm sure of it."
The rest of the meeting blurs. They discuss travel arrangements, temporary housing near the site, client meeting schedules. I nod in the right places, take notes I'll never remember.
My mind is on Violet. How do I tell her? How do I explain that I'm leaving for three months when she's already insecure about us?
She'll think I'm abandoning her. Running away from what we have.
Maybe I am.
When the meeting finally ends, I gather the project files mechanically. Patricia and Marcus are already planning celebration drinks, discussing which European architectural journals to target.
I leave the office early, dreading what's ahead.
The drive home feels longer than usual. Traffic crawls through downtown, giving me too much time to think. I rehearse explanations that all sound hollow. It's just work. It's temporary. We can video chat, text constantly. I'll be back before you know it.
None of it matters. Violet will see through every excuse to the truth beneath: I'm choosing to leave.
Her car is in the driveway when I pull in.
I enter through the garage, and the smell of cooking hits me immediately. Garlic, tomatoes, basil. Something Italian.
I find Violet in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands as she works fresh pasta dough. She's wearing an apron over leggings and one of my t-shirts, her dark blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot.
She looks young. Domestic. Achingly beautiful.
My chest constricts looking at her.
She glances up when I enter, and her face brightens. "You're home early. I'm making dinner—carbonara, your favorite."
She's trying. Making an effort to be what she thinks I want.
And I'm about to shatter her world.
"Violet, we need to talk."
Her smile falters immediately. She knows my tone, reads the tension in my shoulders.
"What's wrong?"
I cross to the kitchen island, lean against it. Put physical distance between us because if I touch her right now, I won't be able to do this.
"Let's sit down."
Violet wipes her hands on a towel, anxiety clear on her face. We sit at the island, and I force myself to meet her eyes.
"I got assigned to a new project today."
She waits, already tensing.
"It's in Monaco. Major resort development. The biggest project the firm's ever taken on."
Violet's hands clench on the counter. "How long?"
I swallow. "Three months minimum. Possibly extending to six depending on construction timelines. I leave next week."
The color drains from her face. She stares at me, processing, and I watch her expression shift from shock to hurt to something harder.
"I see."
"It's just work, Violet. It's not?—"
"Not what?" Her voice rises. "Not you leaving me? Because that's exactly what it sounds like."
"This is a huge opportunity. Career-defining. I can't turn it down."
"I'm not asking you to turn it down!" Violet stands abruptly, starts pacing. "But three to six months, Vincent? That's half a year!"
"I'll be back?—"
"Will you?" She spins to face me. "Or is this convenient timing? A way to end whatever this is without actually saying it?"
I stand too, frustration building. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it? Because it feels like you're running away."
I try a different approach, knowing even as I speak that it's the wrong thing to say. "Maybe it's good for us. Give you space to focus on school, to think about whether this is really what you want."
Violet stops pacing. Stares at me like I've slapped her.
"Are you serious right now?"
"You're young, Violet. You have your whole life ahead of you. Maybe you need to consider?—"
"Don't." Her voice cuts sharp. "Don't use my age as an excuse. Don't pretend this is for my benefit."
Tears fill her eyes, and the sight tears at something in my chest. But I can't seem to stop myself from making it worse.
"I'm not?—"
"You are! You're treating me like a child who doesn't know what she wants. But I do know, Vincent. I know I want you. And apparently you don't want me the same way."
My jaw clenches. I can't articulate what I really feel, can't admit how completely I need her. "It's not that simple."
"It is that simple!" Violet is crying now, angry tears streaming down her face. "Either you want to be with me or you don't. Which is it?"
I hesitate, and that's the fatal mistake.
Violet laughs bitterly. "You can't even answer. That tells me everything."
"Violet, this is a work commitment?—"
"Then take me with you!" The words burst out of her. "Take me with you to Monaco. I can take a semester off, come back to school in the spring?—"
"No." The response is immediate, too harsh.
She flinches. "Why not?"
"Because you need to finish college. You can't put your life on hold for me."
"That should be my decision?—"
"You're twenty-one years old. You don't understand the implications?—"
"Stop treating me like a child!" Violet screams, her control breaking completely.
Something cold settles in my chest. Self-protection. The instinct to push her away before she can hurt me worse.
"You're twenty-eight years younger than me," I say flatly. "Maybe I should treat you like one."
The words land like a physical blow. Violet's face crumples, and I immediately want to take them back. But pride keeps me silent.
"Fuck you, Vincent."
She turns and runs for the stairs. I follow on instinct.
"Violet, wait?—"
But she's already gone, her bedroom door slamming hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand in the hallway outside her room, listening to muffled sobs through the wood. Every instinct screams at me to go in, to hold her, to take back every cruel word.
But I don't move.
Maybe she's right. Maybe this is a convenient escape. I've been so consumed by her, so obsessed, it's terrifying. The intensity of what I feel for Violet scares the hell out of me.
What if I ruin her life? What if she wakes up in five years and realizes she wasted her youth on a man nearly three decades older?
The age gap has never bothered me before, but saying it out loud made it real. Twenty-one to my forty-nine. It's wrong. Potentially destructive.
I raise my hand to knock, then drop it.