Vincent barely turned a page in his magazine before his eyes flickered up again. He had stopped reading a while ago, though he still held the thing, if only for the illusion of interest. The words blurred together—some tabloid nonsense about a washed-up actor’s divorce, a “shocking” exposé on the beauty secrets of starlets who had long since been reconstructed in the hands of Hollywood’s best surgeons. Garbage. All of it.

Yet he still flipped through, pretending. Pretending he wasn’t distracted. Pretending he wasn’t watching her.

She sat at her vanity, bathed in the soft, golden light of the bulbs around the mirror. Her hair was damp, spilling over her shoulders in slow waves. The scent of her shower clung to the air—warm, milky, something expensive he had bought her just because he could. It suited her. Being expensive.

Vincent watched her smooth some lotion over her arms, her collarbones, her legs, rubbing it into her skin in slow, deliberate motions.

“You gonna keep staring, or should I start charging you?”

Her voice was smooth, knowing.

He smirked. “Maybe I already paid.”

She met his gaze in the mirror, one brow raised, before turning back to her reflection. Without another word, she finished her routine, capped the last bottle, and slid into bed beside him. The silk of her nightgown brushed against his arm, cool against the warmth of her skin.

“Well?” she said, climbing into bed beside him. “Are you actually going to sleep?”

“I was thinking about sleeping,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist, but she scoffed, reaching for another small jar on the nightstand. Without warning, she dipped her fingers inside, then touched them to his cheek.

Vincent recoiled. “The hell are you doing?”

“Moisturizer.”

He groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need it.”

“It’s good for you.”

“My skin’s fine.”

“It’s dry.”

“This is humiliating,” he muttered.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m a man.”

“You’re a well-kept man,” she corrected, dabbing at his temples.