Chapter 42 OBSESSION(S)
Vincent paced his apartment like a caged animal, frustration etched into every movement.
"Why the hell didn't I get her number?," he thought. It's been Forty-eight hours since Lena barged into his warehouse like a storm, and left his mind in complete disarray. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since.
He moved like a man on edge, muttering to himself, circling the space with restless energy. Behind closed doors, Vincent was like a mad man.
Years of substance abuse had rewired him, loosened the screws in his mind. But when he stepped outside, he wore composure like armor. No one saw through his fake calm.
He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing as the memory replayed again. her voice, her defiance, her face. But something else lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a detail that unsettled him.
Why was Ethan Sinclair even in the picture?
He had been too thrilled by the idea of going after the Sinclairs to stop and think. Only now, in the quiet of his apartment, did the questions start to creep in.
What business did Ethan have with that old artist?
Vincent frowned, replaying every angle, analyzing the possibilities but none of them added up.
Strange, he muttered under his breath. Still, he shoved the thought aside with a shrug.
"Well, I'll definitely find out soon enough."
Lena turned a small business card over in her hands as she wandered through the Sinclair mansion. It had become something of a habit roaming the grand halls and serene gardens, quietly marveling at the house's intimidating beauty.
As she strolled through the garden, her thoughts returned to the card. She couldn't decide whether to make the call.
That night at the warehouse still played vividly in her mind she'd left by sheer luck, or maybe grace. Vincent was undeniably strange, unsettling even.
She hesitated, weighing her options.
Then, without giving herself time to overthink, she dialed the number. Curiosity had finally won.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then
"Hello," a calm voice answered.
"Hi... uh, it's Lena," she said, a bit uncertain. "You gave me your card and asked me to call."
Vincent had buried himself in one of his usual distractions, something mischievous enough to keep his mind off Lena, at least for a few hours. When his phone rang, he glanced at it without much interest. It was his personal line. Probably nothing important.
"Hello," he answered casually, already preparing to brush the caller off.
But then he heard her voice.
Unmistakable. Unforgettable.
He froze.
Whatever he was doing, he dropped it immediately. His posture straightened. His grip tightened on the phone. Every ounce of his attention was suddenly on her.
As Lena spoke, his mind drifted back to her face, those eyes that fire in her tone, the way she'd stood her ground without fear. A rare kind of woman. His lips curled into a slow smile.
He didn't respond right away. Just listened. Mesmerized.
"Hello?" she said again, her tone laced with curiosity and a touch of hesitation.
That pulled him back to the moment.
"I'm here," he said quickly, voice lower now, softer. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear from you."
Lena was caught off guard by his words.
"Really?" she asked, clearly thrown. "Why?"
"Yes," Vincent replied without hesitation. "I've been anticipating your call."
There was something unsettling about how calm and certain he sounded. Lena instinctively tried to steer the conversation back to safe ground.
"Right... about the paintings," she began, hoping to keep things professional.
But Vincent cut her off smoothly. "I think we started off on the wrong foot," he said. "Let's talk over dinner. Somewhere quiet. We can figure out more... responsible ways to handle this situation."
Lena hesitated.
Dinner with Vincent was a terrible idea. She was Ethan's wife being seen with a man like Vincent could set off alarms she wasn't ready to deal with. Especially if it got back to Ethan.
"Thanks for the offer," she said politely, keeping her tone steady, "but I'll pass. I think we can discuss everything just fine over the phone."
Dinner wasn't really the point, not for Vincent. He just needed to see her. Talking over the phone wouldn't cut it. But he knew better than to push.
"Fair enough," he said easily, masking his disappointment.
He leaned back, his voice laced with just enough charm to sound sincere. He was a master at this. Years of reading people had taught him one thing: pressure made people defensive. And with someone like Lena, he needed her guard down low enough for him to slip through without her even realizing it.
Truthfully, the paintings didn't matter anymore. He could hand them over without a second thought if that's what it took to keep her talking. To keep her close.
Because somewhere between her fierce defiance and that unforgettable face, Vincent had found something he hadn't expected: obsession.
And he always fed his obsessions.
"You see, your father was a very good friend of mine," Vincent said smoothly. "I bought a lot of paintings from him before his passing."
"Really?" Lena asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, of course, Lena. That's why I could lend him such a large sum of money. He promised to pay it back."
Lena's expression didn't change, but inside, she was skeptical. Her father hadn't had many close friends certainly not anyone like Vincent. If this man had been in his life, she would have known.
"That's... great to know," she said, choosing her words carefully. Then she added gently, "If my father really was a friend to you, please pay him his last respects by returning those paintings. Before he passed, he told me to keep them safe never to sell them. I know it would break his heart if he knew what happened."
Her voice softened, persuasive but sincere.
Vincent paused. He inhaled deeply, as if weighing something serious. Then with a calm, collected tone, he said, "You know what, Lena? You can have them."
She blinked. "Really?"
"Yes," he replied smoothly, watching her reaction closely. "Thinking about it now... it's the least I can do for a late friend's daughter. And don't worry you don't need to pay me back."
Lena was stunned. The joy hit her all at once she could hardly contain it.
"Thank you. Thank you so much, Vincent," she said excitedly.
"It's nothing," he said, his tone cool and controlled. "I'll send you a location. You can come pick them up."
"Alright," she replied, already brimming with relief.
Vincent sent the location it was near the same warehouse where they'd first met, but this one was quieter, more secluded. Lena scanned the address, hesitated only for a moment, then grabbed her keys and headed out.
The drive was tense, she tried to block out any negative thoughts. she just wanted to retrieve those paintings. That was what mattered.
When she arrived, she parked in front of the old, quiet building and dialed his number.
"Hey, I'm outside," she said.
"You got here fast," Vincent replied, sounding almost impressed. There was a spark of eagerness in his voice he didn't bother to hide.
Within seconds, she saw him.
He stormed out of the building, his long strides urgent, purposeful like he couldn't wait a moment longer to see her.