Vincent didn't see Sloane again for the rest of the night.
Not because he wasn't looking—he was—but because she had mastered the art of disappearing when she wanted to. She moved through the crowd effortlessly, always just out of reach, her laughter blending with the soft hum of conversation, her presence felt but never claimed.
It irritated him more than it should have.
By the time the gala started winding down, Vincent had spent far too much time indulging in expensive whiskey and shallow conversations. He had shaken hands with business moguls, exchanged pleasantries with politicians, and endured another conversation with Stefan Edgar that had tested his patience.
And still, Sloane remained just beyond his grasp.
It wasn't until later, when the last of the guests had trickled out of the Montgomery estate, that he finally found her.
Alone.
She was standing on one of the private balconies overlooking the gardens, a champagne flute dangling from her fingertips. The night air was cool, the faint scent of roses drifting up from below. Her red dress—the same one that had driven him insane all night—clung to her figure, the thigh-high slit revealing long, bare legs that glowed under the moonlight.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
Vincent should have let her have this moment of solitude.
He didn't.
Instead, he walked up behind her, slow and deliberate, letting the quiet of the night settle between them before speaking.
"Running away, sweetheart?"
Sloane exhaled softly, tilting her head but not turning. "And here I thought I'd finally escaped you."
Vincent smirked. "You should know by now that's impossible."
She let out a quiet laugh, bringing her champagne to her lips. "So, what now? Have you come to issue some kind of warning?"
Vincent stepped closer, until they were just inches apart. "No warning." His voice was low, measured. Dangerous. "Just a reminder."
She turned then, slowly, looking up at him through thick lashes. "And what exactly do you think I need reminding of?"
Vincent reached out, tracing the delicate stem of the champagne flute in her hand. He could feel her pulse skitter beneath her skin, no matter how much she tried to hide it.
He leaned in, his lips just barely brushing against the shell of her ear.
"That no matter how far you run, Sloane…" His fingers trailed up her arm, slow, deliberate. "You always end up right back here."
Her breath caught. And for the first time that night, she had no immediate response.
Vincent smiled. Finally.
But just as he started to pull back, she moved.
One second, she was still. The next, her hand was on his chest, fingers grazing the smooth fabric of his tuxedo, holding him in place.
He felt it then, the slight tremor in her touch.
Not fear. Something else entirely.
Sloane tilted her chin up, her emerald eyes dark and unreadable. "Tell me something, Vincent."
He didn't blink. "What?"
She dragged her nails slowly, torturously down his chest before stopping just over his heart.
"When you close your eyes at night…" Her voice was soft, dangerous. Deadly.
She leaned in, lips barely brushing against his jaw.
"…do you see me?"
Vincent's grip on his control snapped.
He moved before he could stop himself.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, tilting her face up. Their breaths mingled, lips barely apart. One shift, one moment of weakness, and he would taste her.
And he wanted to. God, he wanted to.
But instead, he exhaled a quiet laugh, tightening his grip just enough to make her pulse race.
"Yes," he murmured. "And that's exactly why I'll never let you go."
Sloane's breath shuddered.
Then, with a slow, defiant smile, she pulled back.
Not in retreat. In victory.
She turned, walking back inside without another word, leaving him standing there, fists clenched, pulse thundering, already craving more.
Sloane Montgomery was going to be his ruin. And Vincent Saint-Clair had never looked forward to anything more.
He watched her walk away, the soft click of her heels against the marble floor fading into the night.
He should have let her go. Should have let her have this moment, let her think she had won. But he wasn't in the mood to be generous.
So instead of standing there like a man with self-control, he followed.
Sloane had just stepped through the tall balcony doors, her movements calm, deliberate—calculated. She knew he was still watching. She was waiting for him to make his move.
And Vincent had never been the type to disappoint.
He reached for her wrist, gently, yet with enough force to stop her.
Sloane inhaled sharply, but when she turned back to him, her expression was unreadable.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Vincent did something reckless.
He didn't kiss her. Not yet.
Instead, he lifted her hand, his thumb grazing slowly over the inside of her wrist, feeling the way her pulse skipped beneath his touch.
"Sloane," he murmured, voice dangerously low.
She didn't pull away. Didn't move.
She just stood there, letting the moment stretch, letting the weight of everything unsaid settle between them.
Finally, she tilted her head, lips parting slightly.
"Careful, Saint-Clair," she whispered. "You almost sound like you want me."
Vincent exhaled a soft laugh, shifting closer, his body almost brushing hers.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath warm against her jaw. "Wanting you was never the problem."
Her pulse jumped.
But before she could react, before either of them could lose the last shred of restraint keeping them from making a mistake, Vincent did something that pushed the knife in deeper.
He lifted her wrist—the one he was still holding—and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of it.
The move was too intimate, too devastating.
Sloane's breath hitched, her body going rigid. For the first time tonight, she looked genuinely unsteady.
And Vincent?
Vincent had never wanted anything more than he wanted her in that moment.
But this was their game.
So he pulled back, just enough to meet her gaze. To challenge her.
And just like that, she recovered. Her eyes flashed, her lips curling in a slow, lethal smirk.
She reached out, tracing a single, torturously slow finger down his tie, down his chest. Without warning, she stepped closer, until there was nothing but air between them.
"Good," she whispered, voice like silk. "It's so much more fun when you suffer."
Then, she turned and walked away.
This time, Vincent let her go.
Because now?
Now, he was more than happy to chase her.