Chapter 3

Sloane barely slept.

By the time she returned to her suite in the Saint-Laurent Hotel, the adrenaline of the night had yet to fade. She had tossed her emerald gown to the floor, scrubbed off her makeup with more force than necessary, and changed into silk pajamas that did nothing to ease the tension in her body.

She wasn't used to feeling trapped.

Lying in the massive king-sized bed, she stared at the ceiling, replaying every second of the confrontation with Vincent.

The way his ice-blue eyes had studied her, calculated her. The way he'd seen through her when she hadn't even spoken. The way his voice—smooth, unreadable, maddeningly composed—had wrapped around her like a noose.

She hated that he had been right.

She hadn't refused. Because she couldn't.

Montgomery Atelier was hers, but only because she had fought tooth and nail to make it that way. The old money fashion elite had never accepted her, never wanted her to be more than a pretty heiress with a famous last name. Her father had indulged her ambitions, but only up to a point, always reminding her that no matter how powerful she became, she was still a Montgomery first, his daughter second, and a businesswoman last.

This arranged marriage was his final power move.

If she said no, she'd lose everything.

Her stomach twisted.

She had spent years making sure no man would ever be able to control her. And now she was expected to stand next to Vincent Saint-Clair, smile for the cameras, and pretend to be his devoted fiancée?

No.

If she had to go through with this, she would do it on her own terms.

The next morning, Sloane didn't wait for the war to come to her.

She took the battle to Vincent.

At exactly eight-thirty a.m., she stepped out of the elevator and onto the penthouse floor of the hotel.

She had spent extra time getting ready, choosing a sleek white Alexander McQueen pantsuit, the structured shoulders sharp enough to cut. Her blonde hair was pulled into an effortless chignon, and she had applied a deep shade of red lipstick, the color of power, of warning.

Vincent's suite was at the end of the hall, and when she reached it, she didn't hesitate.

She knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

Her lips curled in irritation, but before she could knock again, the door swung open.

Vincent stood there, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants and an expression of mild amusement.

Sloane's breath hitched.

She had expected him to be perfectly polished, already in one of his thousand-dollar suits, playing the part of the untouchable billionaire. Instead, he was all bare skin, sharp lines, and unapologetic arrogance.

His body was lean muscle and control, like he was carved from stone, a masterpiece in precision. His abs were defined enough to make a weaker woman swallow her pride. A dark trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and his biceps flexed slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

But what really got her?

The fact that he wasn't surprised to see her.

Like he had been expecting her all along.

"Montgomery," he greeted smoothly, his voice still edged with sleep, but no less lethal.

Sloane forced her gaze upward, locking onto his eyes with an expression of practiced boredom. "You're late."

"For what?" he asked, voice lazily amused.

"For the conversation we should have had last night."

Vincent exhaled, shaking his head slightly before stepping back and opening the door wider. "By all means, then. Come in."

She did.

His penthouse was exactly what she expected—minimalist, masculine, luxurious without being excessive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Monaco skyline, and the space was decorated in rich grays and blacks, a reflection of the man himself.

Sloane walked inside, not bothering to wait for permission to sit. Instead, she perched on the armrest of a sleek leather couch, crossing one leg over the other.

Vincent shut the door and turned to face her, arms crossed over his bare chest. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sloane didn't waste time.

"I want a contract."

His brows lifted slightly. "Excuse me?"

"If I'm going to be forced into this marriage, then we're going to have terms." She pulled a folded document from her Birkin bag and set it on the coffee table between them.

Vincent's gaze flickered to the papers, then back to her. "You came prepared."

"I always do."

He exhaled, then moved toward the table, taking a seat across from her. When he picked up the contract, he skimmed it too quickly, his sharp mind already deciphering her play before she had a chance to explain it.

Finally, he glanced up. "A one-year marriage?"

"Yes." Sloane leaned back, perfectly poised. "One year. We play the part, do the public appearances, let our families milk this for their corporate agenda. Then, we quietly divorce once it's done."

Vincent's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his gaze. "And you expect me to agree to this?"

She tilted her head, watching him. "You don't strike me as the sentimental type, Saint-Clair."

His lips quirked. "And you don't strike me as the type to surrender."

"I'm not." She met his gaze head-on. "This isn't a surrender. It's a strategy."

Vincent leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his bare chest annoyingly distracting even as he studied her. "What else?"

"No cheating scandals. No personal interference in each other's businesses. No control over each other's lives."

He hummed, flipping to the second page. Then the third.

Then, suddenly, he smirked.

Sloane didn't like it.

"Clause seventeen," Vincent murmured. "Interesting."

Her stomach tightened. "What about it?"

His gaze flicked up, amused, predatory. "'No intimacy required.'"

Her fingers curled against her palm. "This isn't a real marriage."

Vincent set the papers down and stood slowly. His bare torso suddenly feeling too close, too warm, too dangerous.

"No intimacy, hmm?" he murmured.

Sloane hated the way her pulse reacted.

He smirked. "Tell me, sweetheart… were you thinking of me when you wrote that?"

Her breath caught, but she didn't let him see it.

Instead, she smiled, slow and wicked.

"No," she murmured, standing to meet him at eye level. "I was thinking of all the women you'll have to disappoint once they realize you're a married man."

Something flashed in Vincent's gaze.

Amusement. Challenge. Desire.

And for one brief, dangerous second, she thought he might kiss her.

But instead, he did something infinitely worse.

He picked up the contract, grabbed a pen from the table, and without breaking eye contact, signed his name at the bottom.

Then, he handed it back to her.

"Fine," Vincent murmured. "One year."

Sloane didn't let herself breathe until she walked out of his suite.

And even then, she knew. 

She hadn't won.

She had just declared war.