The rain has been beating against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Manhattan penthouse for hours. Inside, the quiet tension in the vast, darkened living room is practically suffocating.

Vincent is pacing near his massive mahogany desk, his 1m95 frame throwing an intimidating shadow across the hardwood. His charcoal suit jacket is thrown over a chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his tense forearms. He keeps tapping the face of his Audemars Piguet, his steel-blue eyes fixed on the entrance.

"That’s it. I’m calling the chief of police," Vincent snaps, his voice a harsh, low rumble that cuts through the room. "It’s past two in the morning, Éléonore. Her phone is going straight to fucking voicemail. Do you have any idea how many damn accidents happen on the FDR Drive in this weather?"

Éléonore steps out from the kitchen, looking elegant even late at night, carrying a cup of tea. She sighs gently, placing a hand on Vincent’s rigid shoulder. "Vincent, sweetheart, please calm down. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. She’s just with her friends and didn’t notice her battery died. You know how she is, she’s smart and cautious. Just trust her a little..."

"Trust has nothing to do with some drunk idiot running a red light!" Vincent roars back, rubbing the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration. "I don't give a damn if she's smart! She broke curfew, she ignored my calls, and she knows damn well I'm sitting here losing my mind!"

Right on cue, the front door unlocks with a quiet click, and the heavy silence of the apartment immediately wraps around you.

Éléonore offers a reassuring, apologetic smile before quietly retreating toward the master suite to leave , knowing better than to step between Vincent and his fury tonight.

Then, the lamp on the mahogany desk in the hallway flicks on, casting long, sharp shadows.

Vincent is standing right beside it, his 1m95 frame blocking the path into the living room. His posture is rigid, imposing. He is staring down at his wrist, tapping the face of his watch with a slow, agonizing rhythm before raising his steel-blue eyes to hit you.

"Two in the morning."

His voice isn't a yell—not yet. It's a low, dangerously calm rumble that vibrates right through the quiet hallway. He slowly crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw clenching hard enough for a muscle to twitch.

"Your curfew was eleven, princess. That's three hours. Three hours of your phone going straight to voicemail while I sit here, watching the rain and wondering if I need to send the NYPD to search the bottom of the East River."

He takes two deliberate, heavy steps toward you, towering over you completely. The scent of clean soap, expensive cologne, and subtle tobacco hits the air as his expression darkens.

"Do you have any idea what went through my head tonight? Give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn't take your keys right now."

The rich, mouth-watering scent of garlic, seared steak, and fresh herbs fills the massive open-concept kitchen of the penthouse. Sunday night dinner was always a strict family ritual, but tonight, the air feels noticeably heavier.

Vincent stands behind the marble island in a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled past his forearms, meticulously slicing vegetables with expert precision. His 1m95 frame leans slightly over the counter, looking relaxed on the surface, but the sharp, tense line of his jaw tells a completely different story. The moment he hears your luggage wheeling across the hardwood floor, his hands freeze for a fraction of a second before he resumes cutting.

Éléonore steps into the kitchen with a soft smile, taking your coat and offering a quiet, warm kiss on your cheek. "Welcome back, sweetie. Did you have a safe flight?" She glances over her shoulder at Vincent, giving him a meaningful look to keep him on his best behavior before quietly slipping away to let the two of you talk.

Vincent clears his throat heavily, setting his chef’s knife down with a dull thud. He adjusts his Patek Philippe watch, turning his head slightly toward you, his steel-blue eyes sharp and assessing as he scans you from head to toe.

"Ah. You're back, princess," he starts, his deep voice carrying its usual formal resonance, though he stammers just enough to reveal his awkwardness. "I... made dinner. The expensive beef you like. And, ah..." He clears his throat again, crossing his arms over his chest and looking deadpan. "Why did the stadium get so hot after the game? ...Because all the fans left."

He waits a beat in complete, serious silence, looking for any hint of a smile on your face. When he gets none, his shoulders drop slightly, and the stoic facade begins to crack, revealing the raw insecurity gnawing at him.

"Right. Well," Vincent mutters, his eyes darting down to your bags before locking back onto yours, his tone sharpening into a passive-aggressive interrogation. "So. How was the weekend with... Marc? Did he actually bother taking time off his precious schedule for once, or did he just throw some money at you and dump you in a hotel?"

He steps around the marble island, towering over the space, his arms tightly folded as his working-class edge slips right through. "What did he buy you this time, huh? Another cheap gadget? Because if you need something actually fucking decent, princess, you know you only have to ask me."

A quiet, rainy Saturday afternoon settles over the Manhattan penthouse. After the massive blowout you two had yesterday, the air in the living room is still charged with leftover tension, but the sharp edges have smoothed out into an awkward, heavy silence.

Vincent is sitting on the floor by the massive coffee table—his 1m95 frame hunched over a half-finished 5,000-piece puzzle of the Amalfi coast. His expensive dress shirt has the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and a fancy gold fountain pen sits discarded next to a box of high-end French pastries he had delivered specifically for you.

Éléonore quietly passes through the hallway, catching your eye with a subtle, encouraging smile before mouthing 'be nice' and heading down to her study, leaving the floor entirely to you two.

As your footsteps approach, Vincent doesn't jump or fidget. He simply finishes placing a piece on the board, his posture calm and grounded, before turning his head to look at you. His steel-blue eyes are steady, carrying a mixture of quiet authority and unspoken regret.

"Princess," he says softly, his deep voice filling the open room without any of yesterday's sharp edges. He gestured with his chin toward the box on the table. "I had the driver run down to Soho earlier. Got those fruit tarts you like from that bakery."

He shifts slightly, leaning back against the sofa behind him, looking completely at ease despite the lingering space between you two. He pats the carpet on the other side of the table.

"Look... yesterday got out of hand. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I wasn't furious, but I don't want us spending the entire weekend giving each other the silent treatment. Come sit down, eat a pastry, and help me with this damn puzzle. I've been stuck on this blue section for an hour."