9. Violet
VIOLET
The professor's voice drones on about preservation techniques for deteriorating frescoes, but I can't process a single word. My laptop screen blurs in front of me, the slides meaningless shapes and colors.
It's been three days since Vincent and I fought. Three days since I walked out of his house and haven't gone back.
"Miss Hayes, are you with us?"
Dr. Morrison's voice cuts through my fog. I blink, realize the entire seminar is staring at me.
"Yes, sorry. Just distracted."
Dr. Morrison gives me a concerned look but continues the lecture. I force myself to sit straighter, pretend to take notes. But my phone is on my lap, hidden under the desk, and I can't stop myself from opening my messages again.
The same texts I've read a hundred times over the past three days.
Violet, please come home. We need to talk before I leave.
I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But don't do this. Don't shut me out.
I'm leaving tomorrow morning. Please. Let me see you before I go.
Each message twists the knife deeper. I'd stared at that last one for hours yesterday, tears streaming down my face. But I didn't respond. Couldn't.
This morning at five AM: Getting ready to head to the airport. I'm sorry, Violet. For everything. I'll call you when I land. I left the keys underneath the doormat so you can enter the house once I'm gone.
That was eight hours ago. He's somewhere over the Atlantic now, on his way to Monaco. To a six-month project that will change his career.
Without me.
My chest aches with the loss of him.
Claire has been amazing, letting me crash on her couch, not asking too many questions. I told her I was going through a breakup, which is technically true. She doesn't need to know the guy breaking my heart is my stepfather.
Was my stepfather. He's not even that anymore, not really. My mother left him after less than ten months of marriage, but I stayed in his house. For three years I've lived with him, wanting him, provoking him.
And now he's gone.
The seminar finally ends. Students pack up around me, chatting about weekend plans. I move slowly, in no rush to leave.
"Violet, is everything alright?" Dr. Morrison approaches as the room empties. "You seem distant lately."
I force a smile. "Just personal stuff. I'm fine."
She doesn't look convinced. "If you need an extension on your thesis proposal?—"
"No, I'll have it done on time. Thank you."
I escape before she can press further. Outside, the late afternoon sun is almost offensive in its beauty. Autumn leaves scatter across the quad, golden light making everything look like a postcard. Students lounge on the grass, laughing, carefree.
I find an empty bench and collapse onto it. Pull out my phone again, scroll through Vincent's messages for the hundredth time.
I should delete them. Should try to move on with my life.
But I can't bring myself to let go of even these small pieces of him.
"Violet?"
I look up, expecting Tyler or another classmate.
Vincent stands a few feet away.
My brain stutters, unable to process what I'm seeing. He's supposed to be gone, supposed to be thirty thousand feet over the ocean. But he's here, on my college campus, looking exhausted and beautiful and impossibly real.
He's wearing jeans and a dark henley instead of his usual suits. A duffel bag sits at his feet. His gray eyes are locked on me with an intensity that steals my breath.
I can't control myself. I launch off the bench and run to him, crash into his chest. His arms come around me immediately, strong and familiar and everything I've been missing.
For a long moment we just stand there, me wrapped in his arms, breathing him in. His hand cups the back of my head, holding me against him.
Finally I pull back enough to look up at him. "You're supposed to be in Monaco."
Vincent's expression cracks. "I couldn't leave."
"What?" The word comes out barely a whisper.
"I got to the airport. Checked in. Went through security. Sat at the gate." His voice is low, rough. "They called for boarding. First class, then the rest. I stood up to get in line."
My heart pounds against my ribs.
"And I realized I couldn't do it. Couldn't get on that plane. Not like this. Not with things broken between us." His thumb strokes my cheek. "So I left. Walked out of the airport. Called the partners and told them to find someone else for Monaco."
I step back, suddenly aware of the students scattered across the quad, watching us. Vincent lets me go but his eyes never leave my face.
"You gave up Monaco?" I finally manage.
He nods. "I did."
"You said that's a career-defining project."
"I know."
"Vincent, you can't—you shouldn't have?—"
"I chose you, Violet." His voice cuts through my protests. "I'm choosing you."
Tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. "How do I know you won't regret it? How do I know you won't wake up in a month and hate me for it?"
Vincent closes the distance, takes my hand. His fingers lace through mine, warm and solid.
"Because the past three days without you have been the worst of my life. Because I'd rather have you and no career than Monaco without you." His gray eyes bore into mine. "Because I love you, Violet. Completely. Irrevocably. And I'm done being scared of that."
I'm crying fully now, unable to hold it back. Students are definitely staring, but I don't care anymore.
Vincent pulls me against his chest, holds me while I sob into his henley. His hand strokes my hair, his other arm banded tight around my waist.
"I thought you didn't want me," I choke out.
"I want you more than anything." His voice is fierce against my ear. "I'm sorry I made you doubt that. I'm sorry I was a coward."
The drive home is quiet. Vincent doesn't let go of my hand, even when he needs to shift gears. My car is still in the parking lot—he says he'll take care of it like before. Right now he needs me with him.
I stare at our joined hands, still processing that he's here. That he came back. That he chose me over Monaco.
When we pull into the garage, the house we've shared for three years feels different. Not heavy with secrets anymore, but full of possibility.
Inside, we go to the living room. Sit on the couch facing each other. Vincent's knee touches mine, the contact grounding.
"I need to explain," he says. "About Monaco, about the fight, about everything."
I nod, waiting.
"When the partners offered me the project, my first thought was you.
How much I'd miss you. And that scared the shit out of me.
" He runs a hand through his hair, a rare nervous gesture.
"I've been obsessed with you for months, Violet.
Completely consumed. It's not healthy, the way I need you.
The way I think about you constantly, want to know where you are every second, can't function when you're not near me. "
I stay quiet, letting him talk.
"And I thought maybe distance would help. Give me perspective. Help me get control of myself."
"But that's not what you told me," I say quietly.
"I know. I said it was for you, that you needed space. That was bullshit." His jaw tightens. "I was protecting myself, too much of a coward to admit the real reason."
He looks at me directly. "I was terrified. Of how much I love you. Of how badly I need you. Of what that means for your life, your future."
"You don't get to decide what's good for my future," I say firmly.
"I know that now. I'm sorry."
I take a breath, share my own truth. "I thought I was just convenient for you. A live-in arrangement, someone available when you wanted sex. I didn't think you could actually love me."
Vincent looks stricken. "Violet?—"
"Let me finish." I hold up a hand. "You're this incredible man—successful, experienced, mature.
And I'm just me. Twenty-one, still in college, inexperienced at everything.
Why would you choose me over someone appropriate?
Someone your own age, someone you could actually have a real relationship with? "
"Because I don't want anyone else." Vincent leans forward, his intensity focused entirely on me. "Appropriate doesn't matter. Age doesn't matter. You're it for me, Violet. You're the only woman I want, the only woman I'll ever want."
The words hit me like a physical force.
"I love you," I say, the first time I've said it aloud. "I've loved you for longer than I'm willing to admit. Maybe since that first year, when you let me stay after my mother left."
Vincent closes his eyes briefly, absorbing my words.
"I love you," he echoes. "I'm in love with you. Not just obsessed, not just possessive—though I'm definitely both those things. But actually in love. The kind where I want to build a life with you, not just fuck you in secret."
The words are everything I needed to hear.
"I want that too," I whisper.
Vincent cups my face with both hands. "I'm staying. I chose you over Monaco, and I don't regret it. I'll never regret it. You're mine, Violet. And I'm yours. Completely."
I kiss him. It's soft and sweet, different from our usual desperate, hungry kisses. This one is tender, promising, full of emotion that doesn't need to be rushed.
When we break apart, Vincent rests his forehead against mine.
"Take me to bed," I say quietly.
Vincent leads me upstairs to his bedroom. It's the first time I've been inside beyond passing the open door. The space is masculine—dark wood furniture, gray bedding, minimalist decor. But it smells like him, and I feel safe here.
We undress each other slowly. Not the desperate tearing of clothes from before. This is deliberate, reverent. Vincent traces the curves of my body with his hands as he reveals them.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs.
He lays me back on his bed, covers my body with his. Our kiss deepens, tongues sliding together. But there's no rush, no urgency. Vincent takes his time exploring me—kissing my neck, my breasts, down my stomach.
When he settles between my legs, I'm already wet.
He licks me slowly, thoroughly, bringing me to the edge but not over. His tongue circles my clit, then slides down to taste my entrance.
"Please," I breathe.
"I want you ready." His words rumble against my pussy.
He slides two fingers inside me, curls them to hit that perfect spot. Works me until I'm soaking, desperate, my hips rocking against his hand.
Only then does he move up my body, position himself between my thighs.
"Look at me," Vincent commands gently.
I meet his eyes as he pushes inside. The stretch is familiar now, my body accepting him easily. But the eye contact makes it intimate, vulnerable in a way we've never been.
Vincent holds my gaze as he begins to move. Slow, deep thrusts that hit every perfect spot inside me.
"I love you." Each word punctuated with movement.
"I love you." My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in.
This isn't fucking. This isn't just physical release. This is making love, genuine intimacy.
Vincent's hand finds mine, laces our fingers together, pins my hand to the bed beside my head. His other hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek. His eyes never leave mine.
"You're everything," he whispers. "Everything I need, everything I want."
My orgasm builds different than usual—not explosive, but rolling, deep, emotional. It starts low in my belly and spreads outward.
"Vincent—I'm?—"
"I know, baby. Let go. I've got you."
I come with his name on my lips, my pussy clenching around his cock. The intensity overwhelms me, tears streaming down my face from the sheer emotion of it.
Vincent follows moments later, his release triggered by mine. He drives deep and holds there, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me.
"I love you," he groans against my neck.
We stay locked together, both trembling. He's still inside me, neither of us wanting to break the connection.
I'm crying softly, overwhelmed.
Vincent kisses my tears away, holds me close. "Are you okay?"
I nod. "Yes. I'm just happy. I didn't think I would be, but I am."
He strokes my hair. "Me too."
Eventually he withdraws, and we rearrange ourselves—my head on his chest, his arms around me. The evening light through the windows fades to dusk.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now we figure it out. Together."
"We can't tell people." I trace patterns on his chest. "The stepfather-stepdaughter thing?—"
"I know. We'll keep it private. But that doesn't make it less real."
I'm quiet for a moment. "What about your career? Monaco was huge."
"I'll find other projects. My firm is established, I have options." His hand tightens on my waist. "And none of them matter if I don't have you."
"I don't want you to resent me?—"
"Never," Vincent interrupts firmly. "This was my choice. I chose you. I'll keep choosing you."
We order Chinese food, eat it in bed like teenagers. Talk for hours about our relationship, our future, what we want. I tell him about the grad school programs I've been looking at for museum studies. Vincent encourages me, promises to support whatever I decide.
Around eleven I start to fall asleep, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day. Vincent watches me drift off, his hand stroking my hair.
I wake slowly, confused and drowsy. Something feels different. I'm on my back, and there's pressure between my legs. Pleasure blooming low in my belly.
"Vincent?" I murmur, my voice thick with sleep.
"Shh, I've got you." His voice is rough, strained.
I blink my eyes open, disoriented. He's above me, inside me, moving slow and deep. Moonlight streams through the window, illuminating his face.
"Oh—" I gasp as he hits deep.
My body responds automatically—arching, inner muscles clenching around him. I'm wet, so wet, my body having responded to him even in sleep.
"That's it, baby. Just feel me."
My hands come up to grip his shoulders. I'm present now, awake enough to participate. We transition seamlessly—no longer him using my sleeping body, but both of us moving together.
Vincent increases his pace, and I meet him thrust for thrust. Our eyes lock, the intimacy intense.
"I love you," he says, his voice rough.
"I love you too," I breathe.
The emotion overwhelms the physical. We come together, crying out simultaneously.
"Fuck—Violet?—"
"Yes—oh God—Vincent?—"
My pussy spasms around his cock, milking him. He fills me with his cum, holding himself deep as he pulses inside me.
Afterward, we collapse together, gasping. I'm fully awake now, smiling drowsily.
"Best wake-up ever," I murmur.
Vincent laughs, kisses my forehead. "Go back to sleep."
I curl against him, secure and loved. My last conscious thought before sleep claims me again: he chose me. He's mine. We're going to be okay.