"Everybody kept passing drinks around. I didn't want to make a scene, so I just went along. I promise it won't happen again," Dayna said.

Her words came out gentle and careful, but Vincent's icy silence didn't waver. She tried to offer more, but then his hand made his intentions clear, stealing the breath right out of her.

Color rushed to her face, and she ducked her head, voice barely more than a whisper. "Can we... wait until we're inside?"

"No," he responded, the word brooking no argument, firm and commanding.

There was no escaping him. Flustered, Dayna tried to unfasten his shirt, her hands clumsy and slow, nerves getting the best of her.

Patience had never been Vincent's strong suit. In one swift move, he caught her dress and pulled it free.

A shiver raced over her as cool air brushed her skin, her body revealed beneath the car's subdued glow.

The yellow dress she had chosen for the night proved no match for Vincent's determination. Her undergarments soon followed, slipping away with a practiced hand.

The stillness of the garage was broken only by the metallic snap of his belt buckle, the sound echoing in the empty space.

The Lamborghini rocked gently as they moved together. Each breath mingled, hers shallow and uncertain, his measured and steady, filling the close air with heat.

Night air drifted in from outside, but the heat between them quickly outpaced the chill. Every time her hair swept across his chest, it sent another ripple through him. Their gazes locked, both of them fierce and hungry for more.

Blushing fiercely, Dayna felt torn between embarrassment and the way her body instinctively yielded to his touch. She clung to him, her arms around his shoulders, while Vincent's mouth found the soft curve of her breast.

A sudden, stinging nip made her gasp, her breath stuttering out.

Just as she thought he might stop, Vincent eased her back against the seat, and started again—his hunger undiminished, his movements only more intense.

Her mind went blank, lost in the haze of sensation.

Time slipped away until she was trembling, breathless, and too exhausted to even sit upright.

When it was finally over, Vincent got dressed, wrapping her gently in his jacket before lifting her from the back seat.

By the time they entered the house, Dayna had already fallen asleep. Her cheeks still glowed with color, and sweat dampened her lashes. Even in rest, she looked troubled, softly muttering in her dreams.

Regret crept in—maybe he had let things get too intense.

He carried her to the bathroom, drawing a warm bath to soothe her before settling her into bed. Only when she was tucked beneath the sheets did he slip away to shower.

Soon after, dressed in a robe, Vincent stood in silence at the window. The city stretched out below him as he lit a cigarette, his face ghostly in the shifting shadows of smoke.

A call broke the quiet. Zayne Adams, his assistant, spoke on the line. "Mr. Clarke, someone from Apex Entertainment is asking questions about you."

Vincent's jaw tightened as Michael's name crossed his mind. He didn't respond, simply ended the call after a moment's pause.

He had known the whole story—how Dayna had ended things with Michael and chosen to marry him instead. That had all happened three years ago, well before the wedding.

Now Michael was back, stirring up what Vincent hoped would stay buried.

The tip of his cigarette glowed as he exhaled, smoke curling around his brooding expression. He was supposed to be away for business, his trip scheduled to last a few more days. The second news of Michael's return reached him, he had cleared his agenda and caught the first flight home.

He made it to the restaurant just as Michael cornered Dayna outside. Once, she had loved Michael fiercely. If that man came back, would those feelings come with him?

Gazing out at the city, Vincent let his face slip into shadow, his thoughts hidden beneath the drifting smoke and the hush of midnight.

...

Morning crept in, painting the sky with soft gold before Dayna finally stirred from sleep.

It was nearly nine when she slipped out of bed, stretching off the last traces of exhaustion.

Crossing the hall, she stopped short. Vincent was still at home, seated at the dining table with his laptop open.

Normally, he would have left for work hours ago. Today, he lingered.

Gathering her courage, she made her way over, legs slightly unsteady, and saw that breakfast had already been set for two.

Vincent shut his laptop and set it aside. "Have some breakfast," he said, his voice as steady as ever.

She slid into the chair beside him, and the housemaid appeared with two steaming cups of milk.

Silence settled between them as Vincent began to eat, each motion calm and precise. He never spoke while he was eating—a habit she had come to expect.

After a few minutes, the maid placed his favorite morning magazine at his elbow. He always read something during breakfast, another small ritual.

Glancing down, Dayna caught a glimpse of the cover—and felt her stomach drop.

A familiar image stared back at her.

Noticing her sudden stillness, Vincent picked up the magazine and looked it over.

Splashed across the front page in bold print: "Apex Entertainment's New President Reunites With His First Love—Old Sparks Ignite."

The photo featured last night's encounter outside the restaurant. Michael's face was shown clearly, and though only her profile appeared beside him, anyone who knew Dayna would recognize her instantly.

A knot formed in Dayna's stomach as she caught sight of her own profile on the magazine cover. Without thinking, she glanced at Vincent, worried he would take it the wrong way. "I was just heading home last night—"

Her voice faltered when she saw Vincent open the magazine.

He turned the pages until he reached a full spread that laid out every detail of her history with Michael.

Irritation flared. Why would anyone waste time spinning this into a headline?

She opened her mouth to set things straight, but the phone rang, breaking the tension.

Vincent answered, and Zayne's voice filtered through. "Mr. Clarke, Michael Barnett went public with a press conference this morning. He's telling everyone he and his first love are back together. Apex Entertainment is running with it. It won't take long before people realize he's talking about Mrs. Clarke."

A cold silence filled the room.

Seated so close, Dayna heard every word. Panic shot through her. She leapt to her feet, voice ringing with urgency. "That's a lie. Michael and I haven't spoken in years!"

She reached out to grab the phone, nearly losing her balance in her haste. Vincent caught her around the waist, steadying her without breaking stride, his focus still on the call.

His words were ice. "You have one minute. Make that story disappear."

"Yes, sir." Zayne's reply was crisp before the call ended.

The magazine featured a photo of a pair of matching watches, claiming they were symbols of a love that had never faded.

Vincent remembered seeing a woman's watch—identical to the one in the photo—tucked away in Dayna's vanity drawer, matching the one shown in the spread.

Maybe if she hadn't kept the watch, he would believe her heart was truly free from the past.

Vincent's silence pressed in around her, and worry twisted in Dayna's gut.

Without another word, he rose from the table and strode toward his study. "I have work to do. Eat your breakfast," he said, his tone flat and final.

Once inside, he sat behind his desk, opened his laptop, and stared at the screen without seeing a thing.

His mind wandered back to a call just two days ago. She had answered while visiting her family, and he had overheard the entire conversation.

The pressure from the Roberts family had been relentless—pushing her to give him a child, as if a baby would tie their fates and fortunes together.

For her family's sake, Dayna had stayed in this marriage, bound by responsibility instead of desire.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Dayna found herself restless and uneasy.

She paced the hallway outside his study, then finally tapped on the door.

"Come in."

Vincent's voice, muffled but unmistakable, reached her from inside.

Sunlight filled the room, pooling gold across polished floors.

Behind his desk, Vincent looked every inch the composed businessman, surrounded by piles of documents and quiet command.

He raised his eyes, steady and unreadable. "Is something wrong?"

Dayna stepped closer, her hands twisting nervously. "I don't know if you let that story get to you, but I wanted you to hear my side."

A flicker of surprise crossed Vincent's face, his pen slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the desk.

Dayna kept her voice low and steady. "I had no idea Michael would be there last night. There's nothing between us, not anymore. And about that watch—people have it all wrong. It was a birthday gift from my mother when I turned eighteen. Michael only bought the same one because he liked the style. That's the whole story."

She finished, raising her eyes to see how he would take it.

Vincent's face gave away nothing, unreadable as ever.

He wondered, was she trying to convince him for his sake—or just afraid he would take his anger out on her family?

Just then, her phone buzzed. She glanced down. It was Clara Gordon, her assistant.

Uncertain, Dayna hesitated, but her thumb brushed the answer button by accident.

Clara's voice rang out in the study, slicing through the quiet. "Dayna, the chairman needs you at the office right now."

"Understood." She hung up, turning to say more to Vincent, only to see him already standing, reaching for his jacket.

"I'm heading out too. I'll drive you," he said, pausing only long enough to meet her eyes before moving for the door.

Words still caught in her throat, Dayna hurried after him.

Outside, the car idled by the curb. Vincent stood by the open door, waiting. When he realized she wasn't right behind him, he glanced over his shoulder.

Moments later, she appeared, handbag in hand and dressed for the office—a soft pink silk blouse paired with a sleek pencil skirt, her hair falling in polished waves down her back. Even without makeup, there was an easy grace to her.

Vincent gave her a quick look, then slipped into the car. "Roberts Group," he instructed David.

Vincent spent the entire drive fielding one business call after another, barely leaving a gap for conversation.

Once they reached Roberts Group, Dayna slipped out of the car, her heels tapping softly as she made her way toward the front entrance.

Vincent lingered for a moment, eyes following her silhouette until the glass doors closed behind her. Only then did he finally look away.

From the driver's seat, David glanced back. "Sir, Mrs. Clarke left her bag."

Vincent turned to find a delicate designer purse resting on the seat, forgotten in her haste.

When Dayna arrived on the executive floor, Clara was waiting by the door, nerves showing in her posture.

Clara's warning was quick and quiet. "Tread lightly. Mr. Roberts's in a foul mood."

With a nod, Dayna straightened her shoulders and entered the office.

"Dad—" She didn't even get the word out before a magazine sailed across the room, the edge catching her cheek and leaving a thin sting behind.

Glenn Roberts stood rigid behind his desk, eyes blazing. "What is this, Dayna? Care to explain?"

Vincent might have managed to scrub the story from the Internet overnight, but there was no calling back print. One of those magazines had landed right here, in Glenn's hands.

A cold gleam passed through Dayna's gaze. "If I told you Michael did this on purpose, that none of it was my fault, would you believe me?"

"None of it was your fault?" Glenn slammed a palm on the desk, pointing a finger straight at her. "You're not just any employee. You're Roberts Group's director and head designer. You know exactly how Apex Entertainment's media works. If Michael stirs up trouble, the whole family suffers!"

Her face stayed blank, voice steady. "If you're worried about the Clarke family, don't be. Almost no one knows Vincent and I are married. His reputation is safe."

But Glenn refused to listen. "You've kept Vincent at a distance for three years—just waiting for your old flame to show up so you could pick up where you left off? You have no idea how much you've let me down."

Dayna's hand tightened at her side, and her eyes—icy, silent—met his without wavering. There was no warmth in her expression, only a calm frost.

For a moment, Glenn hesitated. In that look, she was the mirror image of her mother. His voice turned even sharper. "You're going to apologize to Vincent. Remember, you don't just represent yourself—you carry the entire Roberts family."

A short, dry laugh slipped from Dayna's lips. All her life, that was all they saw—a bridge to the Clarke fortune, never a daughter.

Glenn's tone grew heavier, words landing like weights. "You're going to do what's needed. We have a massive branding campaign coming up, and Vincent's investment is crucial. Right now, your job is to keep him happy—whatever it takes."

Lifting her head, Dayna's voice cut through the tension. "You're talking about the same campaign built on Mom's old sketches, right? The ones you trot out every time you need approval? Even after everything, you're still squeezing her for every last drop."

"Watch your mouth, Dayna!" Glenn shouted, hand raised in sudden anger.

Before his hand could fall, the door swung wide. The entire atmosphere shifted.

Vincent appeared in the doorway, his expression impossible to read, but the air crackled with presence. He must have caught the tail end of their exchange.

Glenn's fury vanished in an instant. His arm dropped, and a hasty smile flickered on his face. "Vincent! I didn't expect you here today."

Dayna's gaze slid past her father, cold and unwavering.

Vincent entered, flawless in his suit, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding her forgotten purse. His eyes passed over her with a brief, searching look.

Glenn rushed to fill the silence. "What a surprise. Please, have a seat. Dayna can bring you coffee."

"That's not necessary. I came to return her bag." Vincent lifted it slightly, then added, "I also wanted to take a look around while I'm here."

Despite the connection between the Roberts and the Clarke families, this was Vincent's first visit to Roberts Group. Glenn could barely contain his excitement, immediately shifting focus to business. "About that proposal I mentioned—have you had a chance to review it?"

Vincent loosened his tie, his voice composed and cool. "I've had a packed schedule. I'll get to it when I'm able."

Glenn swallowed his eagerness and nodded, turning sharply to Dayna. "Don't just stand there. Go on, give Vincent a tour."

Dayna turned away from her father without a second thought, walking straight out of the office.

She made her way back to her workspace, hearing Vincent's footsteps behind her a moment later.

Clara and Zayne stood nearby, lingering at the threshold.

Fighting to keep her voice steady, Dayna accepted the purse from Vincent. "I rushed out earlier and left it behind. Thanks for bringing it over."

Vincent's gaze lingered on the thin red mark marring her cheek—a silent acknowledgment of what had happened between her and her father.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he spoke up unexpectedly. "Do you want me to get involved?"

Dayna looked at him, thrown off by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Your father's branding project," he said, voice matter-of-fact. "I haven't reviewed the details yet. But if you actually think it has merit, I'll take a look."

Her teeth pressed gently into her lower lip. "Roberts Group only managed to stay relevant in luxury because of my mother's legacy. She was the creative force behind everything. For years, my father's cashed in on her name—selling her designs, pushing me to hand over my own work. I'm done letting him bleed her dry."

Meeting his eyes, she straightened her shoulders. "I know Roberts Group made it this far with help from Clarke Group. But I'm sure I can turn things around myself. All I'm asking for is a little time."

The certainty in her voice made Vincent pause. A subtle nod, almost approving, passed over his face. "Alright. I get it."

Relief washed over her features. She took a small step forward, meaning to thank him, but her foot snagged on the edge of the rug and she stumbled.

Vincent reacted instantly, reaching out and steadying her with an arm around her waist.

In an instant, the space between them vanished, and Dayna's pulse hammered so hard she felt dizzy.

She realized she was flush against Vincent's chest, the shape of her lips stamped in rose on his crisp white shirt.

Heat crept up her neck as embarrassment swept over her. "I... I didn't mean to. I just tripped."

Vincent looked down, eyes lingering on her blushing cheeks, then leaned in until his words tickled her ear. "If you want to be close to me, you only have to ask. No need to stumble into me."