Vincent sat behind the mahogany desk in his study. A pile of papers and files cluttered the space, yet he couldn't bring himself to look at a single page. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, too bright for eyes that hadn't slept. The clock struck nine. His gaze was hollow, his temples throbbed, and the heavy bruises beneath his eyes felt like weights dragging him into the desk.
He hadn't slept.
He had stood outside Jennifer's door through the night, knocking softly at first, then harder, until silence swallowed him whole. When he'd finally gone back down the hallway, ready to vent his fury on his mother, he'd found her weeping — and the anger died. So he paced outside Jennifer's door till dawn, haunted by her silence.
Now, in daylight, a new worry bloomed, why wasn't she up for work?
He rose from the chair, shoulders tight, breath uneven. A darker thought clawed at him — what if something happened to her? He cursed the thought under his breath and walked down the hall.
He knocked on her door. No answer. Again. Still nothing.
He was just turning to leave when a faint voice slipped through the crack of the door — weak and muffled.
"Vincent…"
That was all it took. He rammed his shoulder into the door, the wood giving way with a sharp crack.
Jennifer was curled beneath the bedsheets, her body trembling, her skin flushed. She held her head in both hands, sweat pouring down her temples. The sight of her like that stopped his heart.
"Jennifer!" He rushed forward and gathered her into his arms. Her body burned like fire against his chest, her breathing shallow. Panic roughened his voice. "Carlos!"
The old man appeared almost immediately, drawn by the crash.
"Call Ray," Vincent barked.
Carlos didn't hesitate. He made a single sharp call and ended it. Within half an hour, Ray was at the estate, his white coat flaring behind him as he moved down the hall with the quick certainty of a man who had run this road too many times.
"Move," he ordered, his tone clipped, but Vincent didn't. He still held Jennifer close, unwilling to let go.
Ray checked her pulse, his brows knitting. "She's burning up. Fever. Stress, probably exhaustion." He worked quickly, preparing an injection and IV drip. Within minutes, her trembling eased, her body going slack.
"She needs rest," Ray said, packing his tools back into his case. "This kind of strain will keep destabilizing her."
He turned to Vincent, eyes narrowing slightly. "What's she been doing lately?" He paused, and then recognition flashed in his gaze. "Wait—she's that debut model, isn't she? Alice won't stop talking about her."
Despite himself, Vincent's lips curved faintly. "Modeling's hard work. Long hours, no rest," Ray continued. "Make sure she eats. Let her sleep as long as she needs."
"She's stubborn," Vincent murmured, almost fondly.
"I've never heard you call anyone that before," Ray teased. Then, grinning, "It's good to see you again, Vincent."
"I can't say the same," Vincent replied dryly, earning a laugh from the doctor.
Ray straightened his coat. "Dorothy sends her regards."
Vincent looked up briefly. Ray and Dorothy — his friends from university — two of the few people who still came when he called. He hadn't been good to them in the years since, but their loyalty never wavered.
"Maybe dinner sometime," Vincent said quietly.
"You owe Alice a tour of your stables," Ray said with a grin. "Her birthday's next month. Maybe then." He smiled before leaving the room.
Downstairs, Carlos waited with a sealed envelope. Ray didn't need to open it to know it was full of banknotes. The old man hadn't changed.
"You seem to get younger every time I see you." Ray teased.
"And the years are pulling you to the grave, kid" Carlos responded in the same spirit. Ray laughed it off. Then he focus shifted to the envelope in his hand.
"Carlos You don't have to—he's going through a rough phase now and the least I can do is care for those around him without charging—"
"It's not for you," Carlos interrupted, tucking the envelope into Ray's inner coat pocket. "It's for Dorothy and Alice."
Ray sighed, but accepted it with a quiet nod. At the door, he paused. "She's carrying a lot of pain. You can heal fever with medicine, not trauma. Be gentle with her."
Carlos nodded. "Always listen to the doctor."
Ray gave a last nod, then disappeared down the drive.
Upstairs Carlos found the two, one kneeling beside the other. He watched Vincent for a while before speaking.
"She'll be fine."
Vincent turned to him. "She'll need something to eat when she wakes up."
"You could use a plate yourself too. I'll have the chef fix something" He turned to the door.
"Thank you." Vincent called after him. The words were low yet sincerity flowed in them. Carlos sniffed, in all his years he hadn't known Vincent to be the kind to offer positive remarks let alone gratitude—but something was changing, perhaps he had discovered he was not untouchable.
Jennifer didn't wake till sunset. The room glowed gold with dying light, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood. She blinked, confused, before realizing where she was.
Vincent stood near the window, sleeves rolled up, his broad shoulders framed by sunlight. He looked translucent, as though light passed through him. She watched him for a long moment before coughing softly.
He turned instantly and crossed the room, kneeling beside her bed. "Hey. How do you feel?" His hand found hers.
"Like the world is ending," she muttered.
He almost laughed, the sound breaking something heavy in the room. "You look beautiful like this."
She flushed. "Maybe you should get your eyes checked."
He leaned closer. "Maybe you should get sick more often."
"On one condition."
"Oh?"
"You have to look like this every time" she said, voice small. "So I can wake up to that view."
He smiled — that quiet, private smile that stripped him of the man the world knew. For a moment, they just looked at each other, suspended in that golden light. Then he brushed her hair back and said softly,
"You need to eat."
Carlos had left a tray on the table — grilled salmon with roasted vegetables and quinoa. The scent filled the room.
"Did you make this?" she asked, hopeful.
He chuckled. "Carlos made it."
He lifted the lid.
The aroma hit her, she sized up the dish a perfectly seared wild-caught salmon fillet, brushed lightly with olive oil, lemon juice, and a sprinkle of sea salt and cracked pepper. It was served atop a bed of fluffy quinoa—cooked in vegetable broth for extra flavor—and accompanied by a colorful mix of roasted seasonal vegetables like zucchini, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, and asparagus.
She caught herself before she drooled.
She dug into the food, and while she ate he pushed her hair off her face. He didn't know how to tell her she had to take a break from modeling and so he waited for her to get half the food down.
"Ray said you need rest. Lots of it"
She looked up at him. "Who's Ray?"
"Doctor" he said.
"But I have work"
"I know." He nodded. "But you really do need your rest, maybe take a week off."
"I can't take a week off. Natalia would outpace me" she snapped.
Vincent frowned "Who's Natalia?"
Jennifer sighed. "A rival, at Veloura Models"
"Your debut?" Vincent asked. She nodded. He laughed for a moment. The sound of it stired her strangely.
"What's funny?"
"All this rivals of a thing, feels like bad fiction" he said. It was her turn to laugh now.
"Novels? You? Bad fiction?"
"Yes, me. You think I'm all boardrooms and contract?" He asked.
"I do" they laughed.
"But seriously, you need your rest" he said
"I can't take a week off. But I'll talk to Cookie so I can get off early and rest." She said.
He nodded "Fair enough."
When silence settled again, he said. "My mother's staying here for a while."
She was quiet, then said gently, "Then maybe it's time you both talked, and made up for the lost years. Don't let this chance waste"
Her tone was so soft, so human, that he could only nod. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
The door opened. Carlos stood there, hat in hand. "Sir, the car is ready." His eyes fell on Jennifer, alive and well. "Ms. Jennifer — good to see you back in the land of the living."
"Thank you," she said with a small smile.
Vincent rose. "I'll be back before midnight."
The car pulled out of the estate. Dusk deepened into night.
***
Meanwhile — Downtown Beverly Hills
Michael Salvatore moved quickly through the marble halls of the James Gordon Criminal Justice Center. The sharp click of his shoes echoed like a metronome of guilt. He bore the look of man going to hide sins.
After Marcus Lee had frozen his accounts, panic clawed through him. Sheila couldn't find out — not about the bribes, not about the false statements, nothing to suspect the affair.
The reaction he got from the people—respect for a man of his position. He had clawed his way up from the pits of the society, and he wasn't going to fall from the elite life. His resolve was cemented in stone.
He reached the District Attorney's office and stepped in.
"Michael!" Marcus spread his arms in mock welcome. "Just the man I wanted to see."
"Cut the act, Marcus. You froze my assets."
"Precaution, my friend. Nothing personal." The DA's grin was a wolf's grin. "What brings you here?"
Michael's fists clenched. "You know damn well why."
Marcus leaned back. "I might. But I'd rather you say it."
Michael glared. "Vincent—"
"Ah-ah," Marcus interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. "Let's not use names too freely."
He rose and gestured toward an adjoining room. Inside, the air was colder, the lighting harsh. A table. Three chairs. A camera pointed squarely at the center seat.
Michael froze. "What is this?"
"A formality," Marcus said smoothly. "The judge will want something more than hearsay. You're going to give him your statement — on record."
"This wasn't the deal," Michael growled, voice trembling.
"It is now," Marcus replied. His tone dropped to a near-whisper, deadly calm. "Or should I make that anonymous call to Sheila Salvatore? About your hidden accounts… and that payment to make those videos go away?"
The color drained from Michael's face.
Marcus slid a chair toward him. "Sit."
Michael hesitated, then sank into it. The camera's red light blinked on.
"You're going to say that Vincent Moretti ordered Father Andrew's death, and he asked you to make those transfers to pay off the shooters" Marcus said softly. "And you're going to make it sound convincing."
The room closed in around him — the smell of cold air, the hum of electricity, the press of guilt.
Michael swallowed hard. "Vincent is innocent?"
Marcus smiled faintly. "Let's not pretend this is your first time letting an innocent man take the fall."
The DA pressed record. The tape began to roll.
Michael stared into the camera — the same lens that could damn or free him — and the words began to form on his trembling lips.
But deep inside, something cracked.
He wanted to tell the truth.
He wanted to end the lie.
The frame blurred with his tears. He was ready to confess.