Chapter 162

Chapter 162

Mia's POV

I'd spent nearly the entire day on myself—every treatment, every ritual, every detail tended to with the kind of deliberate care that bordered on ceremony.

Standing in front of the mirror, I studied my reflection and let myself imagine it: the look on Vincent's face when he saw me. That sharp intake of breath. The hunger in his eyes.

My heart was already racing.

I spent the rest of the afternoon counting down the hours.

By the time dinner came around, I walked into the dining room with what I hoped looked like composure and took my seat to wait for him.

He appeared shortly after—looking freshly woken, eyes still soft at the edges, carrying the unhurried ease of someone who had nowhere to be and knew it.

He greeted me casually and sat down. Then, as if something had caught his attention, he turned and looked at me properly. A long, deliberate look.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn't quite hold his gaze. My eyes dropped to the table.

"You look beautiful tonight." His voice was low, touched with something wry. A cello note—warm and resonant and entirely too much.

That was the man I had wanted from the moment I first laid eyes on him. The man I had never been able to shake.

And now he was my husband. Mine. Looking at me like that, voice like that—

Heat flooded my face. I met his eyes and let myself mean every word.

"Vincent," I said softly. "I love you. I really do."

Everything I've done has been for love. For you. And as long as you only love me—I will never stop being good to you.

"I know." He reached over and touched my face, his thumb grazing my cheek, a teasing smile pulling at his mouth. "Eat first. We'll have a very good night."

The look in his eyes left absolutely no room for misinterpretation.

My voice came out slightly hoarse. I nodded, hoping I looked more composed than I felt.

I don't know whether it was the weight of what the evening promised, but throughout dinner, Vincent was attentive in a way that made me feel like the only person in the room. Handled gently. Looked after.

Cherished.

When we finally finished eating, he rose and came to my side of the table. He extended his hand.

"Our night starts now."

My heart was going absolutely haywire.

I placed my hand in his. His palm was warm, and his fingers closed around mine with a quiet certainty that made my breath catch. He led me upstairs.

Nothing had even happened yet, and I was already undone.

He brought us back to the bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind us, he pressed me gently but firmly against it.

"Vincent—" I let out a startled laugh, looking up at him as he leaned in, all warmth and shadow and intent.

I turned my face away with a coy little deflection. "Don't rush."

"You're the one who was rushing," he said, completely unbothered.

I cleared my throat. "I absolutely was not."

He let out a low, quiet laugh. "All right. I'll go shower. Get comfortable and wait for me."

I genuinely had not expected this—the effortless charm of him, the easy back-and-forth that felt like falling into something I hadn't known I was missing. I hadn't felt this kind of giddy, stomach-flipping warmth since I was a teenager. Pure and uncomplicated and slightly maddening.

I shot him a pointed look that I hoped conveyed my feelings on the matter, then turned and headed straight for the bed before he could see my face.

His low laugh followed me across the room.

"Still not rushing?"

I pointedly did not answer.

A moment later he crossed to the bathroom, and soon the sound of the shower filled the room.

I lay back against the pillows, heart still too loud, and let myself breathe. The lavender diffuser on the nightstand cast a faint, clean scent through the air. Slowly, by degrees, the giddy tension in my chest began to soften.

I'm not sure how much time passed.

A tall figure moved toward me through the dimness—unhurried, edges blurred by shadow.

I blinked at him through half-closed eyes and reached out instinctively.

"Vincent…"

He let out a low sound and leaned over me.

---

Vincent's POV

I checked the time and decided it was close enough.

I stepped out of the bathroom. On the other side of the bed, Mia hadn't moved. Her eyes were half-open, glassy and unfocused. The lavender diffuser had done exactly what I'd laced it with.

I turned and walked to the adjacent room.

The doctor was on the floor where I'd left him—wrists zip-tied behind his back, mouth gagged, staring up at me with the particular expression of a man who deeply regrets his life choices.

He made a muffled sound when he saw me. Pleading, by the look of it.

I crouched down to his level. "Follow my instructions," I said, "or I will put you in the ground. Are we clear?"

I removed his gag, stripped off his outer layer, and pulled him to his feet.

He stumbled ahead of me through the door. When Mia sensed movement and turned toward the sound, she reached out blindly, murmuring my name.

"Vincent…"

The doctor froze. He shot a desperate look back at me.

I raised my phone. The implication was unmistakable.

He opened his mouth—another attempt at protest. But the diffuser had been spiked with something considerably stronger than lavender, and Mia was already past the point of reason. She grabbed him and pulled him down, and whatever argument he was building dissolved entirely.

I'd given him a dose of the same compound beforehand. He lasted about as long as I expected.

They were loud. I stood against the wall and watched without expression as I captured every second of it.

The doctor's prescription was, I'll grant him, more potent than advertised. It went on for well over an hour.

When it finally ended, Mia was completely unconscious. The room smelled like sweat and sex and bad decisions.

I saved the video and walked over to collect him.

The doctor was barely coherent, but fear of waking Mia kept him cooperative. I walked him back into the adjacent room, dropped him on the floor, and pressed play.

He watched the screen. His face went the color of old ash.

"Doctor," I said, "if this video finds its way to the right people—and it easily could—how long do you think Mia's family lets you keep breathing? You won't just lose your license. You'll lose everything."

"No—" He pressed his hands together. His voice cracked. "Please. Don't do that. I'll die. I'll actually die, please—"

"Whether you live or die right now," I said pleasantly, "is entirely up to me."

"Vincent—Mr. Vincent—I'm begging you. I've never done anything to you. Why are you doing this?"

I looked at him for a moment.

"I'll give you a way out," I said. "One chance. Tell me the truth: what is Mia to me? What is our actual relationship?"

His expression locked up. His mouth opened, then closed.

"Last time I offer," I said.

"I'll tell you!" He practically lunged forward. "You and Ms. Mia—you were never a couple. You were business associates. Partners. That's all."

I kicked him. Not hard. Enough to make the point.

"All of it," I said. "Everything you know."

He saw that there was no angle left to play. He pressed his palms over his eyes, exhaled a long, shaking breath, and started talking.

He confirmed what I'd already half-assembled: my identity wasn't the lie. I was who Mia said I was. But my wife—my actual wife—was someone named Nydia. Not Mia.

The fall into the ocean had been real. The head injury had been real. But the amnesia hadn't been entirely natural. Mia had ordered him to administer compounds that ensured I wouldn't recover what I'd lost.

"That's everything I know," he said, voice cracking. "I'm just the doctor. I wasn't there when everything happened—I don't know the full story. And the reason I kept all of this from you—" He looked up, miserable. "—she told me to. She made me. Mr. Vincent, I was coerced, I swear to God, please—"