10. Vincent
VINCENT
This has become routine. Violet finishes her last class of the day, texts me, and I arrive within fifteen minutes to pick her up. Every time. Without fail.
It's territorial. I know that. A public claim on her even if we can't explicitly define what we are to the world.
Students pass by, some doing double-takes at the obviously older man in the college parking lot.
I'm wearing dark jeans and a fitted black shirt—casual but expensive.
The SUV behind me is black and pristine, without a single scratch.
I look exactly like what I am: wealthy, established, out of place among twenty-somethings carrying backpacks.
I don't care about their looks.
The humanities building doors open, and Violet emerges with a group of classmates. She spots me immediately, her face lighting up with a smile that makes my chest tighten.
She says something to her friends, waves goodbye, and walks toward me. Jeans, oversized sweater, backpack over one shoulder. She looks young, beautiful, entirely mine.
When she reaches me, I pull her into my arms without hesitation. Kiss the top of her head, breathe in the scent of her shampoo.
The gesture is deliberate. Possessive. Public.
"How was class?" I ask against her hair.
"Long." She leans into me, her body fitting perfectly against mine. "Ready to go home."
I'm reaching for the passenger door when a voice calls out behind us.
"Violet!"
We both turn. My jaw clenches immediately.
Tyler Brennan approaches with two other male students. I recognize him from the parking lot confrontation two weeks ago—the kid who's been harassing Violet since the semester started.
His expression is mocking as he takes in the scene: Violet in my arms, my hand still on the door handle, the expensive SUV.
"So this is him?" Tyler says, looking me up and down. "The boyfriend?"
Violet stiffens against me. "Tyler, don't?—"
"What? I'm curious. We're all curious." He gestures to his companions, who look uncomfortable but interested. "You've been getting picked up by this guy for weeks now. People talk."
"Dude, he's old enough to be your dad," one of them mutters.
My hands clench into fists. I force them to relax, let Violet handle this.
"That's none of your business," Violet says, her voice firm.
Tyler smirks. "Come on, Violet. We're just trying to understand. What does a twenty-one-year-old see in a guy who's, what, fifty?"
"Forty-seven," I correct coldly.
"Oh, big difference," Tyler says with heavy sarcasm.
Violet steps forward, her voice hard. "What I see is a man who respects me, treats me well, and makes me happy. Unlike boys my age who think they're entitled to my time and attention."
The pointed comment makes Tyler flush red.
"This is fucked up," he mutters.
That's when I speak, my voice low and dangerous. "Worry about your own life, kid. Violet's choices are none of your concern."
Tyler looks like he wants to say more. But something in my expression—the barely controlled violence, the promise of what I'll do if he keeps pushing—stops him.
"Whatever," he finally says. "Your funeral."
He and his friends leave. My hands are still clenched, my control hanging by a thread.
Violet touches my arm. "Ignore him. Let's go."
In the SUV, I'm silent for the first few minutes. My jaw is tight, the urge to turn around and break that kid's face still burning through me.
Violet reaches over, puts her hand on my thigh. "He's not worth it."
"I wanted to break his jaw."
"I know. But you didn't, and I appreciate that."
I glance at her, my hands gripping the steering wheel. "Does it bother you? The looks, the comments, the judgment?"
Violet considers this, her thumb rubbing small circles on my thigh through the denim. "Sometimes. But I meant what I said—I'm happy. That matters more than what Tyler or anyone else thinks."
My hand covers hers, squeezes. The simple contact grounds me.
"I hate that you have to deal with that," I say.
"It's worth it." Her voice is simple, certain.
We're quiet for a moment. Then Violet asks, "Where are we going? I thought you said home?"
"Changed my mind. Taking you to dinner first."
Violet smiles. "You're always taking me to expensive places."
"You deserve expensive places," I say firmly.
The possessive pride in my voice makes her cheeks flush. She laces our fingers together on her thigh, and we drive in comfortable silence toward downtown.
Marcello's is an upscale Italian restaurant with dim lighting and white tablecloths. We've been here twice before since I chose her over Monaco.
I like taking her out. Treating her publicly like the girlfriend she is, even if we can't explicitly define our relationship to strangers.
The ma?tre d' recognizes us, seats us at my usual table by the window. It's intimate despite being public—a corner booth with leather seats and a candle flickering between us.
We order. Wine for me, sparkling water for Violet—she's never been much of a drinker. Pasta dishes, tiramisu to share later.
The conversation flows easily. Violet tells me about her day: the seminar discussion on Borromini's architectural theory, progress on her thesis proposal about women patrons in Baroque Rome.
I talk about the new project my firm just landed: a sustainable housing development on the outskirts of the city. Nothing as prestigious as Monaco, but satisfying work. Good work.
I don't regret Monaco anymore. Haven't since the moment I chose her.
Midway through our pasta, someone approaches the table.
"Vincent? Vincent Drake?"
I look up. Recognition flashes immediately.
James Hammond. Mid-fifties, well-dressed, successful real estate developer. We've worked together on three projects over the past decade.
"James." I stand, shake his hand. "How are you?"
"Good, good. Just finished a business dinner across the room." His eyes drift to Violet, curious. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"This is Violet," I say carefully.
Violet smiles politely. "Nice to meet you."
James's expression shifts—confused recognition crossing his features. "Violet...Hayes? Your stepdaughter?"
The word hangs in the air, awkward and sharp.
"Former stepdaughter," I correct. "After my divorce."
James looks between us, clearly trying to understand the dynamic. The intimate dinner. The corner booth. The way Violet's hand rests casually near mine on the table.
"Right, I heard about that. Quick marriage, quicker divorce." An uncomfortable laugh. "Messy situation."
"Violet's in her senior year at Whitmore," I offer, deflecting.
"How nice," James says, still looking confused. "So you two...stayed close? After the divorce?"
"Something like that."
James is processing. I can see it on his face—the pieces clicking together. The age difference. The former stepfather-stepdaughter relationship. The intimate dinner that looks very much like a date.
His expression shifts to something uncomfortable. Disapproving.
"Well," he says finally, his tone carefully neutral. "Good to see you, Vincent. Enjoy your dinner."
He leaves. But I can feel his eyes on us from across the restaurant, watching, judging.
Violet sees my expression. "That was uncomfortable."
"He'll gossip," I say flatly. "People in my professional circle will hear about this."
"Will that be a problem for you?" Concern crosses her face.
I reach across the table, take her hand. Let James and anyone else watching see the gesture.
"I don't care. Let them talk."
After dinner, we drive back to my house. The evening is mild, the house welcoming as we enter through the garage.
I've been thinking all through dinner about James's disapproving look. The reminder that society views our relationship as inappropriate, wrong, borderline immoral.
But watching Violet kick off her shoes in the entryway, laughing about something the waiter said, I can't find it in myself to care.
She's mine. I'm hers. Fuck everyone else's judgment.
Violet heads toward the kitchen for water, but I catch her hand. Pull her against me, kiss her deeply.
She melts into it immediately, her arms wrapping around my neck.
"Bedroom?" she murmurs against my mouth.
"No. Here."
I back Violet toward the living room couch. We've been claiming the whole house as ours over the past two weeks—no more hiding in bedrooms, no more restraint.
I lay her back on the leather cushions, cover her body with mine. We undress each other with practiced ease: shirts pulled off, jeans pushed down and kicked away.
Violet in simple cotton underwear. Me naked and already hard.
I remove her bra first, toss it aside. Then her panties, leaving her bare beneath me on the couch.
"You're so fucking beautiful," I say, taking in the sight of her. Blonde hair spread across the dark leather, blue eyes bright with desire, her body soft and yielding.
I lean down to kiss her breasts, suck her nipples until she's gasping and arching into my mouth.
My hand slides between her legs, finds her already wet.
"Always ready for me," I note with satisfaction.
I slide two fingers inside her, work her until she's soaking. Her hips rock against my hand, small sounds escaping her throat.
When she's ready, I position myself between her legs. Guide my cock to her entrance, push inside in one smooth thrust.
"Oh—yes—" Violet cries out, her back arching off the couch.
I set a steady rhythm. Deep, claiming thrusts. The couch isn't the most comfortable surface, but neither of us cares.
I watch her face as I fuck her: eyes closed, lips parted, expression blissful.
"Look at me," I command.
She opens her eyes, meets my gaze. The intimacy of eye contact intensifies everything—every thrust, every clench of her pussy around my cock, every gasping breath.
"I love you," I say.
"I love you too," Violet responds breathlessly.
Her pussy clenches around me, signaling her approaching orgasm. My hand finds her clit, circles it firmly.
"Come for me, baby."
She does. Her back arches, a loud cry tearing from her throat: "Vincent—fuck?—"
Her orgasm triggers mine. I drive deep and hold, releasing inside her with a groan.
Both of us gasping, sweaty, satisfied.