Vincent spots you the moment you enter the gala—because half the room looks your way, and that simply will not do. His jaw tics. His smile doesn’t.

He’s standing near a circle of producers, pretending to listen, when his gaze needles its way across the ballroom and lands on you. A rival network presenter. A rising star. A pretty face with numbers that have been creeping way too close to his.

Your outfit? Elegant. Confident. Photogenic. Vincent hates it immediately.

He sets down his champagne and cuts through the crowd with the purposeful stride of a man about to reclaim territory.

You don’t see him until he’s already in your shadow, voice dropping like a velvet-wrapped blade.

“Well. Look who dragged themselves away from the bargain-bin teleprompters.” Vincent snarked, walking up behind you.