"Her ex thought humiliating her would make him look powerful, but he never expected the feared man sitting nearby to have been watching her all along.

The sound of Tyler’s skull bouncing off the limestone balustrade echoed like a gunshot in the winter night.

Vincent didn’t use two hands. He held Tyler pinned against the balcony railing with one arm, his fingers digging into Tyler’s windpipe so deeply that Tyler’s feet dangled two inches above the terrace floor. Tyler’s face turned an ugly, mottled purple, his eyes bulging as he clawed frantically at Vincent’s arm with his uninjured hand.

“Vincent, stop!” I gasped, rushing forward, my hands gripping Vincent’s bicep. The muscle beneath his tuxedo was as rigid as iron. “You’ll kill him!”

“That was the intention,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of all emotion.

“Please,” I pleaded, looking into his lethal, unblinking eyes. “Not like this. Not for him. He isn't worth the blood on your hands.”

For three agonizing seconds, Vincent didn't move. Tyler’s heels drummed uselessly against the stone wall as his oxygen ran out.

Then, with an expression of pure disgust, Vincent released his grip.

Tyler collapsed to the frozen stone tiles in a heap, coughing violently, gasping for air and retching.

Vincent looked down at him as if he were an insect that had crawled onto his shoe. Slowly, Vincent reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief, and wiped his fingers.

“Tomorrow morning,” Vincent said softly, each word landing like a hammer blow, “Sterling Logistics will lose its commercial licensing with the Port of Chicago. Your father’s bank accounts will be frozen pending an investigation into offshore tax evasion. And your engagement to the Caldwell family will be terminated by breakfast.”

Tyler looked up through streaming tears, clutching his throat. “You... you can’t do that...”

“I already did,” Vincent replied. He dropped the silk handkerchief onto Tyler’s face. “If you ever speak to Emily again, I won't use my hands. I’ll use a bullet.”

Vincent turned his back on the broken man, offering me his arm. “Come, Emily. We are leaving.”

We didn't return to the gala. The Maybach was brought around to the private side entrance, and within twenty minutes, we were riding up the private elevator of DeLuca Tower in suffocating silence.

When we stepped into the penthouse, I couldn't hold it back anymore. The adrenaline that had carried me through the evening drained away, leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion. I kicked off my high heels, sank onto the edge of the sofa, and buried my face in my hands.

The tears came silently, hot and shameful.

I felt the cushion dip beside me. Vincent sat down, but he didn't crowd me. He simply waited.

“He’s right, isn’t he?” I choked out through my fingers. “About me. About why you’re doing this.”

“Look at me, Emily.”

I shook my head, keeping my face hidden. “I looked in the mirrors tonight, Vincent. I saw the other women in that ballroom. They’re like porcelain dolls—thin, elegant, perfect. I’ve spent my whole life being told I take up too much space. That I need to shrink. Tyler told me every single day that I was repulsive. Even tonight, in this dress... I felt like an imposter.”

Gentle fingers grasped my wrists, slowly, firmly pulling my hands away from my tear-streaked face.

Vincent was kneeling on the floor in front of me.

The most feared man in Chicago, a man who had brought billionaires to their knees, was kneeling at my feet, his tuxedo jacket discarded, looking up at me with an expression so intensely raw it made my breath hitch.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he whispered.

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“I see life,” Vincent said, his voice thick with emotion. “I have lived in a world of cold marble, blood, and calculating parasites for thirty-two years. Those women you speak of? They are hollow statues carved to please men who trade them like currency. They don’t have your laughter. They don’t have your courage. They didn't work three jobs to keep their dying mother alive while keeping their kindness intact.”

He reached up, placing his hands on my hips, his palms pressing against the lush curve of my waist. He didn't pull back. He gripped me with an honest, unvarnished hunger that set my skin on fire.

“You take up space, Emily,” Vincent whispered, leaning closer until his lips hovered an inch from mine. “And every inch of that space is breathtaking. Tyler Sterling didn't hate your body. He hated that he was too small, too weak, too pathetic to ever truly deserve a woman like you.”

“Vincent...” my voice broke.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled softly, his eyes flashing with dark fire. “Tell me right now that this is just a contract, and I will walk into the other room. But if you don't speak in three seconds, Emily, I am going to kiss you the way I’ve wanted to since the moment I saw you.”

One second.

Two seconds.