Sloane didn't stop walking until she was safely inside her room.
The second the door closed behind her, she exhaled sharply, pressing her back against the wood.
She was fine. This was fine.
Her hands weren't shaking. Her pulse wasn't racing. Her skin wasn't still burning from the way Vincent had touched her, his lips pressed to the inside of her wrist like a promise he had no right making.
She was fine.
She let out a quiet, irritated sigh before ripping off her diamond earrings and tossing them onto the vanity. This was not the plan.
Vincent Saint-Clair was supposed to be manageable. Predictable. A man who operated on cold logic, not reckless impulse.
And yet tonight, he had looked at her like he wanted to devour her. And worse, she had wanted him to.
Sloane turned to her vanity, pressing her palms against the cool marble, breathing through the frustration curling in her chest.
She met her own reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was still perfect. Her hair was still flawless. And yet, all she could see was a woman who had almost lost.
Because she had let him in. Just for a second. And Vincent Saint-Clair was the kind of man who didn't need more than that.
A sharp knock at the door made her pulse jump.
She inhaled slowly, smoothing down the fabric of her dress before striding over. When she opened it, she didn't know what she had expected.
But Vincent standing there, jacket discarded, bow tie undone, whiskey still lingering on his breath?
That? That was not it.
His gaze flickered over her, sharp and unreadable. "Are you alone?"
Sloane arched a brow, leaning against the doorframe. "Would you be jealous if I wasn't?"
Vincent exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You never stop, do you?"
She smirked. "Where would be the fun in that?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out, trailing a single finger down the doorframe. Not touching her. But close.
Too close.
"You shouldn't have walked away tonight," he murmured.
Her pulse jumped, but she only tilted her head. "Why?"
Vincent's eyes burned.
"You know why."
And just like that, Sloane was drowning.
Drowning in the way he was looking at her, the way his voice sounded different now, rougher, lower.
She hated him. Hated him for making her feel anything at all.
So she smiled, slow and lethal.
"And what would you have done," she whispered, "if I had stayed?"
Vincent's jaw ticked. And for the first time since she had met him, he didn't have an answer.
Vincent didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't do a single damn thing except stare at her, like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
And Sloane hated it. Hated that her breath had hitched. Hated that her fingers had curled against the doorframe, itching to grab him, pull him inside, ruin him first.
But she wouldn't. She couldn't.
So she tilted her head, playing the game instead.
"Come on, Saint-Clair." Her voice was soft, taunting. "Tell me."
Vincent exhaled slowly, dragging his gaze over her like he was memorizing every single detail.
Then, without warning, he stepped closer. Not touching her.
Not yet.
But close enough that she felt the heat of him, the weight of his presence pressing against her like gravity.
"What would I have done," he murmured, voice silk and steel, "if you had stayed?"
Sloane's pulse skipped. Because he was playing now, the same way she had played him earlier.
And damn it, he was winning.
Vincent reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers just barely skimming her skin.
"You already know the answer, sweetheart." His breath was warm, whiskey-laced. Dangerous.
Sloane refused to step back. Instead, she tilted her chin up, a slow smirk curling on her lips. "I don't think so. And I don't think you do either."
His lips twitched. "No?"
She exhaled a quiet laugh. Just to be cruel, she let her fingers trail lightly down the undone edges of his dress shirt.
His muscles tightened. She felt it.
The way his breath came just a fraction faster. The way his body shifted, like he was holding himself back.
Good. Let him suffer.
Sloane leaned up slightly, her lips almost brushing his jaw.
"Maybe you wanted to kiss me," she whispered. "Maybe you wanted more."
Vincent's grip tightened against the doorframe. She let her fingers drag lower, barely grazing his stomach.
"But here's the thing, Saint-Clair…" Her lips hovered just over his. Close enough that she knew he could feel the heat of her breath.
Close enough that if either of them moved even an inch…
She smiled. Then, she stepped back.
Not much.
Just enough to leave him standing there, jaw clenched, breathing unevenly for the first time all night.
She watched his fists flex at his sides, his control fraying at the edges. Then, as if nothing had happened, she lifted a brow.
"Well?" she murmured.
Vincent's jaw ticked.
Then, he smirked. Slow. Dark. Infuriating.
He took one step back, the space between them suddenly feeling like a warzone. Then, with a voice as smooth as the whiskey still lingering on his breath, he said, "Enjoy your night, fiancée."
And just like that, he walked away.
Sloane hated him.
Hated the way her chest felt too tight, her skin too hot, her body aching for something she had no right wanting. Hated that, for the first time in a very, very long time, she had been the one left standing there wanting more.