Chapter 6

The moment Emma walked away, the air between them shifted.

Sloane lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a slow sip while keeping her gaze locked on Vincent. He was watching her with that infuriatingly unreadable expression, the one that made her feel like he was already three moves ahead.

"You didn't answer her question," she said finally, setting her glass down.

Vincent tilted his head slightly. "Which one?"

"The part where she implied our engagement is bullshit."

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "I didn't realize I was supposed to convince my own cousin that I'm in love with you."

She scoffed. "You're not. And I'm certainly not in love with you. But if we want the rest of the world to believe it, you should at least pretend to try."

He hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "You're assuming I care what people believe."

Her jaw clenched. "You should. Because whether you like it or not, we are under a microscope now. One wrong move, one hint that this isn't real, and it all falls apart. You might not mind the chaos, but I refuse to let this turn into a scandal that overshadows everything I've built."

Vincent's gaze darkened, just a flicker, but enough to make her pulse skip.

"And what exactly have you built, sweetheart?" His voice was low, smooth, and entirely too controlled. "A reputation? A carefully curated brand that exists because you've convinced the world you don't need anyone?"

Her nails dug into the linen tablecloth, but she refused to let him see that he'd gotten to her.

"My company," she said coldly. "My empire. Everything I have, I earned."

Vincent leaned forward slightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "And you think I didn't?"

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" His smirk was slow, dangerous. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've already decided exactly what kind of man I am."

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't need to decide. You make it very obvious."

His blue gaze held hers, something taunting and unshakable in his expression.

"Careful, Sloane," he murmured, voice like a blade slipping between ribs. "If you spend too much time trying to figure me out, you might actually start to like me."

She let out a sharp laugh, more venom than amusement. "That will never happen."

Vincent only smiled, slow and infuriatingly certain.

The waiter arrived with their meals, and Sloane used the distraction to compose herself, though her hands still felt too tight against the table.

Vincent cut into his steak with unbothered precision, while she stared down at the seafood special she had ordered just to irritate him.

"Go on," he said, gesturing toward her plate. "You wouldn't want me thinking you ordered that just to prove a point."

She refused to give him the satisfaction.

With deliberate elegance, she picked up her fork and took a bite.

And immediately regretted it.

The second the food hit her tongue, she barely suppressed a grimace. It wasn't bad exactly, but she had never liked seafood. The texture, the taste, all of it was wrong.

She schooled her features, swallowing before taking a sip of wine to wash away the flavor.

Vincent watched her with quiet amusement. "Good?"

"Delicious," she lied smoothly.

His smirk deepened. "Liar."

Her jaw tightened. "You're insufferable."

"You're predictable."

Her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass. "So is your ego."

Vincent exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "And yet, here we are. Sharing a meal. Playing the part." He leaned back, sipping his whiskey. "Tell me, sweetheart. Have you realized it yet?"

She arched a brow. "Realized what?"

"That no matter how hard you fight this…" His gaze burned straight through her, sending a heat curling in her stomach. "You and I are already playing the same game."

Her breath caught.

Because, deep down, she knew he was right.

This was a game. A war of power, of control. But no matter how much they fought, no matter how much they denied it, they were already entangled.

And that? That was far more dangerous than anything she had prepared for.

Sloane held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. If Vincent thought he could win this battle of control, he was wrong.

"This isn't a game," she said finally, voice smooth as silk.

Vincent hummed, resting his glass against his lower lip, but didn't drink. "Then what is it?"

"A transaction," she said, lifting her chin. "One that will last exactly one year."

"And after that?" His tone was too casual, but his gaze never wavered.

Sloane leaned forward slightly, slow and deliberate, until she was close enough that only he could hear her next words. "After that, I never have to see your face again."

Vincent's eyes flickered, something dark and unreadable. "You're that desperate to be rid of me?"

She smirked. "More than you'll ever know."

He studied her for a long moment, his fingers tapping idly against the rim of his whiskey glass. And then, as if bored of the conversation, he switched topics entirely.

"Your mother called me today."

Sloane stilled.

Slowly, she placed her wine glass down. "And what exactly did she have to say?"

Vincent shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the way he was watching her. "She wanted to discuss the engagement announcement. Apparently, she's planning a gala to celebrate our upcoming wedding."

Her jaw clenched. "Of course, she is."

Vivienne Montgomery had built her life on image, status, and control. The moment she saw an opportunity to shape the narrative, she seized it with both hands.

Vincent smirked, as if reading her thoughts. "You don't seem thrilled."

"I don't like being used for someone else's spectacle," she muttered.

"And yet," he mused, lifting his glass, "we're both about to become the headliners of the season."

Sloane exhaled sharply, already imagining the headlines that would flood the media once their engagement gala was announced. Photos of them smiling for the cameras, interviews filled with carefully crafted lies, whispers of power, money, and scandal.

She had been raised in this world, molded by it, but she had never surrendered to it.

She wouldn't start now.

"If we're going to do this, we're doing it my way," she said, lifting her wine glass once more.

Vincent smirked. "Careful, sweetheart. You almost sound like a bride."

She smiled sweetly, tilting her head. "And you almost sound like you think you have a say in this."

A beat of silence.

Then, Vincent chuckled. A low, rich sound, as if she had just amused him more than she should have.

"I'll see you at the gala, then," he murmured, setting his glass down.

Sloane held his gaze for a second longer, then smiled.

It wasn't a truce. It was a warning.

And Vincent Saint-Clair?

He looked far too entertained by it.