Chapter 9

Vincent hadn't said a word since Sloane led him away.

The weight of her hand still rested lightly on his arm, a touch that felt deceptively casual but was anything but. Every guest in that ballroom had witnessed it. The possessive way she had marked her territory, the unspoken message she had sent with that single kiss against his jaw.

And she had done it with absolute, effortless precision.

Sloane Montgomery was a strategist first, a woman second.

Vincent exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That was quite the performance."

Sloane hummed, reaching for another glass of champagne from a passing server. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Vincent turned his head slightly, watching her too closely. "Don't you?"

She took a slow sip, her lips still painted in that deep, infuriating red. When she finally met his gaze, her expression was pure amusement. "Are you saying you didn't enjoy it?"

Vincent chuckled, slipping one hand into the pocket of his tuxedo. "Oh, I enjoyed it." His gaze flickered over her. "I just didn't realize you cared so much."

Sloane smirked. "I don't."

Vincent hummed in clear disbelief. "Then why did you kiss me in front of half the world's elite?"

She tilted her head. "Because I could."

His pulse kicked.

She was lying. And they both knew it.

Before he could push further, an older gentleman approached them—a Montgomery family friend, judging by his too-eager smile.

"Sloane, darling," the man greeted, lifting her hand for a kiss. "You're absolutely glowing tonight."

Vincent's jaw clenched.

Sloane, of course, smiled sweetly, unaffected. "How kind of you to say, Mr. Bianchi."

The man turned to Vincent, offering a handshake. "And you must be the lucky fiancé."

Vincent accepted the handshake, but his grip was firm, a silent reminder of exactly who he was.

Sloane glanced up at him, her smirk barely there.

She knew exactly what he was doing.

And she liked it.

The conversation was short, polite. And yet, Vincent never missed the way other men looked at her. The way they smiled too warmly, spoke too eagerly, lingered too long.

Sloane, of course, knew exactly what she was doing.

By the time they slipped away again, Vincent leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.

"You enjoy making me jealous, don't you?"

Sloane let out a soft, wicked laugh. "Is that what you are, Saint-Clair?"

His fingers brushed the small of her back, just for a second. Just enough to make her inhale.

"You tell me, sweetheart."

Her pulse skipped. Damn him.

She wasn't sure which of them was winning this game anymore.

Vincent wasn't the jealous type. At least, that's what he had always believed.

He had spent years perfecting the art of indifference, control, restraint. He didn't react to things. He didn't lose composure. He certainly didn't let a woman—especially not his fiancée in name only—get under his skin.

And yet.

Yet, as he stood there, watching another man press a lingering kiss to Sloane's hand, watching the way she smiled. Soft, knowing, taunting. Something dark curled inside him.

She was playing with him. Testing him.

And God help him, it was working.

He wasn't the only one watching, either. The entire room had noticed their little display earlier, the way Sloane had practically branded him as hers in front of Genevieve. Now, they were all waiting, watching to see what he would do next.

Vincent was never one to disappoint.

He leaned in slightly, his voice meant only for Sloane. "You're enjoying yourself."

She took a deliberate sip of her champagne, her red lips curving as she tilted her head toward him. "Oh, immensely."

His fingers flexed at his side. He wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss her or ruin her.

Maybe both.

Sloane turned her attention back to the conversation, effortlessly charming the group of executives who had gathered around her. She was untouchable, all sharp smiles and effortless grace, the perfect heiress who knew exactly how much power she held in a room like this.

Vincent let her play for a moment. Let her think she was winning.

Then, when the conversation lulled, he moved.

His hand slipped to the small of her back. Bare skin, warm and smooth beneath his touch.

He felt, rather than saw, the way she stiffened just slightly. The way her breath caught.

He leaned down, his voice silk and steel against her ear.

"You enjoy making me jealous, don't you?"

Sloane let out a soft, wicked laugh, tilting her head just enough that her hair brushed against his jaw. "Is that what you are, Saint-Clair?"

His fingers skimmed lower, slow and deliberate. "You tell me, sweetheart."

Her pulse skipped.

She turned to face him fully now, her emerald eyes alight with something dangerous.

For a moment, the entire ballroom faded away.

It was just them.

Vincent watching her like a predator who had just shifted the game in his favor. Sloane standing her ground, refusing to be the first to break.

He lifted a brow, waiting. And then, she smiled.

Slow. Deadly.

She took a sip of her champagne, then placed the glass in his hand.

"If you're so sure you're winning, darling," she murmured, her fingers grazing his wrist as she let go, "hold my drink."

Then she turned on her heel, walking away without looking back.

Vincent stared at the glass in his hand.

Then, he laughed. Because damn it.

She was so much more dangerous than he had ever anticipated.