Chapter 33 VINCENT
The guy looked at her oddly after she mentioned Vincent's name like she was a naive child who had no idea what she was walking into. He straightened up, puffing out his chest slightly.
"Who are you, and why are you looking for Vincent?" he asked, tone now more cautious than confused.
"My name is Lena," she said calmly. "I need to talk to Vincent about something important."
He chuckled, shaking his head as if she'd just told him a joke. "Do you even know who Vincent is? You think he's someone you can just show up and ask to see?"
Then his gaze narrowed, the light humor in his face quickly fading.
"How did you even get this location? Who sent you? You're definitely a spy."
Before she could speak, he added coldly, "Since I'm in a good mood today, I'll let you walk away alive. No need to waste such a pretty face."
He began to close the gate but Lena stepped forward and pushed against it, holding it open with her hand.
"Please," she said, her voice trembling just slightly but full of resolve. "I really need to see him. Just tell him someone is here to speak with him. I'll wait as long as it takes. Please."
The younger guy was just about to shove her away when a voice called out from behind him.
"What's going on here?"
A second man stepped forward, older, more intimidating, with a face that had clearly seen more than a few rough days. He eyed Lena suspiciously as he brushed past the younger one, shoving him aside.
"She says she wants to see Vincent," the younger guy muttered.
The older man scoffed. "And who told you you could walk in here and demand to see Vincent?" he said, stepping right into Lena's space, his tone sharp. "This isn't some store you stroll into, girl."
"Please," Lena snapped, trying to keep her voice steady despite the anger boiling in her chest. "It's really important. Just let me see him, for Christ's sake!"
Her patience was unraveling fast. She was two seconds from losing it from kicking down the damn gate if she had to. The longer they delayed her, the more that fire inside her roared.
Just as the argument grew louder, a third voice echoed from behind them, calm but commanding:
"What's the ruckus about?"
Lena leaned forward, trying to peer past the gate, hoping the man who had just spoken might notice her. Whoever he was, he clearly held more authority. Maybe he could give her a chance.
"It's nothing, sir," the older man said quickly, trying to downplay the situation as he moved to shut the gate.
But Lena saw her opening and took it.
Just as the gate began to close, she stomped it back open with force, slipping through before either of the men could react. Both guards stared at her, stunned, unsure if they should grab her or just watch what happened next.
Her eyes locked onto the third man, the one who had spoken taller, calmer, with an unreadable expression.
Drawing a steady breath, she squared her shoulders and said as boldly as she could:
"I'd like to see Vincent."
Lena watched him closely.
Dressed casually in jean shorts and a white polo shirt, he was tall and slender, his long hair tied neatly into a bun. His face was calm, almost serene, a stark contrast to the rough, suspicious expressions of the men she had just faced at the gate.
There was no immediate threat in his posture, no coldness in his eyes.
He didn't look dangerous at all.
In fact... he looked surprisingly good-looking. Almost too composed.
Vincent stared at the audacious young woman standing before him, her hair slightly scattered across her face, eyes burning with determination. He took a few slow steps forward, but then stopped abruptly as if he'd just seen a ghost.
The phone on Ethan's desk rang sharply. He picked it up, and Hugo's voice came through on the other end.
"We've got a problem," Hugo said grimly. "
Ethan leaned back slightly, his attention now fully on the call. "What's the problem ?"
"The guy I sent to speak with Vincent didn't even make it inside. Vincent refused to see him. Then, when his men found out he was from the Sinclair Group... they beat the hell out of him."
"Beat him up?" Ethan's voice rose, fury creeping in. "Why would he do that? If he didn't want to talk, he could've just sent him away."
"He's looking for a fight," Hugo said, his tone just as heated. "We had to rush our guy to the hospital. That wasn't just rejection that was a message. We had to rush our guy to the hospital, Ethan. Broken ribs, swelling everywhere. The man barely made it back conscious."
Ethan's jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.
"Alright then," he said coldly. "I'll speak to him myself."
He slammed the phone down, stood, and stormed out of his office, his fury barely contained.
Vincent could hardly believe his eyes.
He walked briskly to the gate, stopping just inches away from the young woman standing there. He stared, frozen in place, like the air had been knocked out of him.
It was her.
Years ago, he had walked into a dusty old studio in search of something decorative for the hallway of one of his properties. He hadn't cared much for art then not really. To him, paintings were just color and shape meant to fill space. He'd only gone to the old man's studio on a casual recommendation, expecting to be in and out in ten minutes.
But then he saw it.
The old artist was standing at his easel, carefully brushing delicate strokes across a canvas. On that canvas was the unfinished portrait of a young woman calm, her gaze fixed on something outside the frame. Her beauty had struck him, She had such a mesmerizing presence.
There was fire in her posture. A kind of silent rebellion in her eyes. She wasn't smiling, yet the expression she wore felt so full, like it spoke a hundred words she'd never say aloud.
Vincent had found himself moving toward it, studying every inch.
"How much?" he had asked casually, expecting the usual back-and-forth.
But the old man glanced at him and smiled, shaking his head.
"She's not for sale," he said gently.
Vincent had raised the offer significantly. But the old artist's answer stayed the same.
So Vincent had let it go. It was just a painting he had told himself.
But that face... It stayed with him. For years, without even realizing it, he'd found himself scanning crowds, flipping through galleries, glancing at strangers looking.
And now, here she was. Real. Breathing. Standing just a few feet from him.
Vincent stared openly, every memory flooding back at once. Her hair fell long and black around her shoulders, wild from the wind. Her skin was radiant, smooth in the sunlight . She had the same arresting presence, the same fire in her eyes except now, it wasn't trapped in paint. It was alive.
"You..." he murmured, his voice barely audible.