Emilia
I haven’t left my room since this morning. My stomach is growling like a feral animal, but there’s no way in hell I’m going out there and admitting defeat by eating his stupid eggs.
Instead, I’m sprawled on my bed in wrinkled clothes, phone pressed to my ear while Cleo’s voice crackles through.
“Wait, back up,” she says, and I can practically hear her sitting up straighter in whatever café she’s probably lounging in. “Vincent Black is in your apartment? Like, Vincent Black Vincent Black?”
“Yes, that Vincent Black.” I roll onto my back, staring at my ceiling. “The one I used to draw little hearts around in my diary like a complete psychopath.”
“Holy shit, Em. This is like… fate or something.”
“It’s not fate, it’s a nightmare.” I grab a pillow and scream into it briefly before continuing. “I can’t believe I’m being treated like a child. I’m twenty-two years old, Cleo. I did a whole year internship in Paris with you, I’m back to finish my last year and graduate, and suddenly I need a babysitter?”
Cleo snorts. “Maybe your dad’s still traumatized from Paris.”
“There’s no actual threat,” I continue, ignoring her comment. “I’m pretty sure my father just wants Vincent to keep me on a leash after what happened. You know, maintain the family image and all that bullshit.”
“Oh my God, that was such a headliner!” Cleo dissolves into laughter. “I still can’t believe you made international news.”
I groan, covering my face with my free hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Emilia, you were dancing on a table in Le Crazy Horse wearing what could generously be called a napkin, and then you stole and carried home a traffic cone. The video had twelve million views.”
“It was a cute outfit,” I protest weakly.
“It was dental floss with delusions of grandeur. And don’t even get me started on the traffic cone. You named it Charles.”
“Charles was a good friend that night.”
Cleo’s still giggling. “Your father probably had seventeen heart attacks when TMZ picked it up. ‘Tech Mogul’s Wild Child Daughter Takes Paris By Storm.’ Classic.”
I sit up, an idea forming. “Girl, what if I could get rid of my babysitter?”
“I’m listening.”
“What if I… I don’t know, tempt him or something? And then I tell my father that the man he sent to watch over me couldn’t keep his hands off me?”
There’s a pause, then Cleo’s voice comes through, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my God, that’s fucking brilliant. Your dad would lose his mind and fire Vincent immediately.”
“Right? It’s perfect.”
“But wait, can you actually pull that off? I mean, this is Vincent we’re talking about. The man’s basically made of steel.”
I think about the way he looked this morning, all controlled strength and unreadable expressions. “Please. I made half of Paris fall in love with me in one night. I think I can handle one uptight security consultant.”
“Okay, but be careful. You’re playing with fire here.”
“Fire never hurt anyone,” I say, which is obviously a lie, but whatever.
After I hang up, I spend the rest of the day planning. By the time evening rolls around, I’ve got my strategy locked and loaded.
The black mini dress is a work of art—barely legal, definitely dangerous. No bra because the dress doesn’t allow for such conservative nonsense, and definitely no panties because commitment is everything. The heels are five inches, clicking against the hardwood like a countdown timer.
This will teach him a lesson about underestimating me.
I can feel him watching from his doorway as I walk past. Of course he’s watching. Men are predictable creatures, and Vincent Black might be special ops trained, but he’s still just a man.
I pause right in front of his door, turn slowly, and meet his dark eyes straight on. “Just so you know—I don’t need a babysitter.”
The words hang in the air for exactly one heartbeat.
Then he moves.
Jesus Christ, he’s fast. One second he’s leaning against his doorframe looking bored, the next he’s right in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dangerous that makes my brain short-circuit.
His hand wraps around my wrist, fingers like steel, and he spins me around so fast I barely have time to gasp before my palms hit the wall. My heart hammers against my ribs, and suddenly I can’t tell if it’s from fear or something else entirely.
He’s pressed against my back, all heat and muscle, his mouth right at my ear. I can feel his breath against my skin, and my entire body betrays me by responding in ways that definitely weren’t part of the plan.
“Try that again,” he murmurs, voice rough and close, the space between you practically humming. “And I’ll—” He stops himself, jaw clenched, breath hot against your cheek. “I made your father a promise.”
A pause. Too long. Too loaded.
“Don’t make me break it.”