Vincent had struck a nerve and Sloane refused to let it show.
She kept her shoulders square, her expression blank, her breathing perfectly even, despite the slow burn of irritation crawling beneath her skin. Losing wasn't an option, not in business, not in reputation, and certainly not in whatever this was becoming.
Vincent, of course, looked entirely too pleased with himself.
She hated that. Hated that he could say something so calculated, so effortless, and leave her standing there feeling exposed.
She inhaled sharply, smoothing the silk of her dress before tilting her chin. "You think you've won something here, Saint-Clair?"
Vincent hummed, slipping his hands into his pockets as he watched her. He was relaxed in a way that made her uneasy. The way a predator is relaxed when the prey hasn't realized they're already trapped.
"I think," he said, voice deep and smooth, "that you don't like how much this is getting to you."
Sloane let out a soft, humorless laugh. "You give yourself too much credit."
"Do I?"
His gaze flickered lower, not inappropriate, but enough to make her pulse jump. He was playing with her now, testing how far he could push before she snapped.
She wouldn't give him that.
So instead, she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice into something just as dangerous.
"You should be careful, Vincent," she murmured. "If you push too hard, you might end up losing control yourself."
His smirk was slow, dark.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice like smoke curling against her skin. "Who says I ever had control to begin with?"
Her breath caught, her fingers twitching at her sides, and that was all Vincent needed to see.
His smirk deepened.
Then, he walked away.
Sloane stared after him, frustration curling in her chest, hands clenched at her sides.
She hated him. She hated that for one second, just one, she almost believed him.
The rest of the photoshoot passed in a blur.
Sloane went through the motions, let the photographers pose them in perfect, intimate angles, let Vincent's touch linger just a second too long for the cameras.
She played the role flawlessly.
But inside, she was still thinking about what he said.
By the time they wrapped up for the day, the team was already celebrating the success of the shoot. The editor-in-chief of LUXE Business was beaming as she reviewed the shots, murmuring about how they had just created the most iconic power couple spread of the decade.
Sloane barely heard her. Her thoughts were still back on that terrace.
By the time she changed out of her last outfit and slipped into her own dress, she needed a moment alone.
She made her way to the far end of the estate, where a small library overlooked the manicured gardens. The space was empty, dimly lit with antique chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that smelled like leather and old money.
Finally.
A breath of silence.
She walked to the nearest window, pressing her palms against the cool glass as she stared outside. She needed to clear her head.
She was Sloane Montgomery. She didn't get flustered. She didn't get shaken.
So why the hell was her heart still racing?
"You keep running from me, sweetheart."
Her breath hitched. She turned sharply, already knowing who she'd find.
Vincent.
Standing by the doorway, watching her with the same unreadable expression he always wore.
She let out a slow breath, composing herself in seconds. "If I was running, you wouldn't have caught me."
Vincent exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping further inside. "True."
His gaze swept over the room before settling back on her. "You're avoiding me."
Sloane tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Is that what your ego tells you?"
Vincent didn't blink. "It's what the evidence tells me."
He took another step forward, and she hated that she noticed the way the light from the chandelier caught the sharp angles of his jaw.
Hated that, despite everything, she could still feel him, like the air between them was charged with something neither of them wanted to name.
She crossed her arms, keeping her voice smooth. "What do you want, Vincent?"
He studied her for a long moment, his fingers flexing at his sides, like he was debating something.
Then finally, he said, "Tell me why you're fighting this so hard."
Sloane's breath stalled for a fraction of a second.
Then she laughed. Low, soft, almost mocking.
"You're mistaking strategy for resistance," she said smoothly. "I'm not fighting anything, darling. I'm controlling it."
Vincent hummed, stepping closer. "That's where we disagree."
She lifted a brow. "Oh?"
He closed the distance between them with unhurried steps, his presence overwhelming in a way she refused to acknowledge.
He stopped just a foot away, gaze flickering over her face like he was seeing something no one else could.
Then he leaned in. Not to kiss her.
Not yet.
But close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the subtle graze of his fingers at her wrist, the slow, deliberate way he was removing every inch of space she had left.
"You're not in control, Sloane," he murmured, voice deep and smooth. "You're just pretending you are."
Her pulse skipped.
She should have stepped back. Should have put more space between them.
But instead, she stayed exactly where she was.
That was her first mistake.
Vincent's lips barely curved.
"I could kiss you right now," he murmured, voice softer than it should have been. "And you wouldn't stop me."
Sloane's breath felt too tight. The air too thin.
The worst part, she wasn't sure if she wanted to stop him at all. But she'd be damned if she let him see that.
So she tilted her chin, smirked, and did what she did best. She turned the game back on him.
"You're right," she whispered.
Vincent's gaze darkened.
Sloane leaned in, just enough that her lips grazed the corner of his jaw. Not a kiss. But close.
"But if I kiss you first," she murmured against his skin, "I win."
So she pulled back.
Vincent exhaled a slow breath, his control fraying at the edges.
She smiled. Slow and dangerous.
Then, without another word, she walked away.
And this time, Vincent was the one left standing there, wanting more.