Vincent wasn't used to wanting things he couldn't have.
But as he watched Sloane disappear down the hallway, her red dress swaying with every calculated step, he realized something.
She wasn't running. She was daring him to follow.
And damn it, he wanted to.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stayed on the balcony, exhaling a slow breath, trying to ignore the way his pulse still thundered from the feel of her skin beneath his lips.
This was getting out of hand.
They had rules. Boundaries. An agreement.
One year. No complications.
And yet, with every look, every taunt, every near-kiss that left them both hanging on the edge, she was becoming a complication he didn't know how to walk away from.
"Jesus Christ, Vincent."
He turned just as Emma Saint-Clair stepped onto the balcony, arms crossed, amusement flickering in her sharp blue eyes.
She had clearly seen everything.
Vincent sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Spare me the lecture."
Emma smirked. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of lecturing you." She leaned against the balcony railing, glancing toward the now-empty hallway. "But I do have one question."
He arched a brow. "What?"
Emma tilted her head, watching him like she was studying a puzzle she had already solved.
"When exactly did you start falling for her?"
Vincent didn't react.
Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
But that only made Emma's smirk widen.
"That bad, huh?" she teased.
Vincent exhaled a slow laugh, shaking his head. "You're insufferable."
Emma shrugged. "And you're in denial."
He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat. "I don't do love, Emma."
She hummed, unconvinced. "That's funny. Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're already halfway there."
Vincent ignored that.
Emma sighed dramatically, patting his shoulder before turning back toward the ballroom. "Just don't come crying to me when you finally admit it," she called over her shoulder.
Vincent didn't answer.
Because for once, he didn't have a response.
And that?
That was the most dangerous part of all.
Emma had already turned to leave when Vincent finally spoke.
"I'm not falling for her."
She paused, glancing back, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Oh? Then what would you call this?"
Vincent exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "It's a game, Emma. You know that."
Emma hummed. "A game where you kissed her wrist like she was your last breath?"
His jaw clenched.
She smirked. "Tell me, cousin, was that part of the contract?"
Vincent said nothing.
Because what was there to say? That he had meant to do it? That he had thought about kissing her all damn night, and when the moment came, he had gone for her pulse instead of her lips. Because that was somehow safer?
That was bullshit. And he knew it.
Emma studied him for a second longer before shaking her head with a soft laugh. "You know, you're always the smartest person in the room, Vincent."
He took another sip of whiskey. "Obviously."
Her smirk widened. "And yet, when it comes to her? You are so incredibly stupid."
Vincent sighed, setting his glass down on the balcony railing. "Emma—"
"She's going to wreck you," Emma interrupted, her voice light, but her eyes knowing.
Vincent scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "She's not capable of that."
Emma raised a brow, watching him for a long moment. Then, she smiled, slow and almost pitying.
"Oh, Vincent," she murmured. "She already has."
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, whiskey in hand, staring at the spot where Sloane had been minutes ago.
Vincent wasn't in love with her.
He wasn't.
But if that were true, then why the hell was he still standing here, heart racing, fingers tingling, craving a woman he was supposed to forget the second this deal was over?
Why the hell did he already know, deep down, one year wasn't going to be enough?