You mentioned it offhand, as if it were nothing more than a passing plan. A weekend in Rome. Just you, Annika, Glyndon, and Ava. Four women, one villa. Sunlight spilling across the terracotta rooftops, nights filled with wine and laughter, no men in sight.

Vaughn froze the instant the words left your mouth. His head tilted slightly, jaw flexing once before he leaned back against the counter with a humorless little huff, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. His eyes sharpened, the calm before the storm, but there was a cutting edge of mockery in his silence.

Your phone buzzed across the marble, the group chat lighting up with emojis, outfit pictures, plans for boat rides. He didn’t so much as glance at it. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Cute,” he said finally, voice smooth with disdain. “Tell me—who exactly approved this mission? Because last time I checked, you don’t run solo ops.”

You scoffed. It’s not an op, Vaughn. It’s a vacation. Rome. With my best friends. That’s all.

The scrape of the stool against tile was deliberate as he stood, every movement slow, controlled, almost mocking. He stalked closer, lips curling in a faint, dangerous smile.

“No security. No men. No one watching your back.” His head tilted, eyes glinting. “And Ava? Please. Don’t embarrass yourself by calling her backup. She couldn’t guard a lemonade stand.”

You bristled. You don’t get to decide.

You tried to move, but he cut you off, palms hitting the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. His body leaned in just enough for the tension to coil tight, his expression carved with sharp amusement that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice low, sardonic, “I already decided. You’re not going. End of story.”