The mutilated orchid petals lay between us like a warning written in ivory and green. Vincent's final words – Not before the night is over – hung in the air, colder than the fish knife glinting in his hand. The performance of shattered nerves wasn't enough anymore. He was moving beyond testing, towards claiming what he saw as his contractual due. Rule Five: The physical expectation. I shuddered I couldn't do this, I barely even know him, I had to find a way to evade him.
Panic, clawed its way up my throat, momentarily drowning Nyx's cold thought's . The thought of his hands on me, after witnessing his casual brutality, after hearing him describe Cavalier's torture with detached precision… it wasn't just repulsion; it was terror. I couldn't. Nyx couldn't afford the distraction, the vulnerability, the sheer violation of it. But refusal? Defiance? That was the path Cavalier took. That ended with Silas and a paperweight.
I needed a different weapon. A shield forged from the persona he believed in: Penelope, the broken, traumatized woman. I needed to weaponize a vulnerability so profound, so personal, that even Vincent de la Rosa's ruthless pragmatism might hesitate.
As the silent maid cleared the fish plates (untouched by me, a detail Vincent noted with a flicker of his eyes), I let the manufactured trembling escalate into something closer to genuine convulsions. My breath hitched, ragged and too loud in the oppressive silence. I pushed my chair back slightly, a tiny, recoiling movement.
"Vincent…" My voice was a thin, broken thread. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, shrinking in the chair, making myself small. "Please…"
He raised an eyebrow, a silent command to continue. His gaze was watchful, assessing the level of my distress.
"I… I can't." The words tumbled out, choked. "Not tonight. Not…" I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing tears – real tears born of genuine fear and the horror of the day – to well and spill over. "It's not… not refusal. It's…" I took a shuddering breath, the picture of someone struggling against a rising tide of panic. "It's… me."
He remained silent, utterly still, but his focus was unstinting.
"When I was seventeen," I whispered, the words raw, scraping my throat. I kept my eyes closed, not meeting his gaze, focusing inward on a constructed memory, layering it with every nuance of genuine trauma I could muster. Nyx recalled psychological profiles, victim testimonies, the visceral language of violation. Penelope projected it. "A friend of my father's… he… he was supposed to drive me home from a school event." My voice cracked. "He didn't take me home."
I let the sentence hang, heavy with implication. I hugged myself tighter, rocking slightly. "He… took me somewhere else. Dark. He…" A choked sob escaped, perfectly timed. "He was strong. So strong. I fought…" I let my voice trail off into a whimper, the picture of helplessness. "He said… he said I was asking for it. That I led him on." The lie tasted like ash, but I sold it with every fiber of my being, channeling the very real terror I felt of Vincent into the performance. "He hurt me. Badly."
I finally opened my eyes, letting him see the raw, unfiltered terror and shame I projected. Tears streamed down my face. "Afterwards… the hospital… the police… it was… awful. Like being violated all over again." I met his gaze, letting him see the haunted look. "My father… he paid the man off. Made it go away. To protect the family name, he said. To protect me from the scandal." I injected bitterness into the tremor. "But it didn't go away. It never goes away."
I looked down at my hands, twisting them together. "Intimacy… closeness… a man's touch… especially… uexpected touch…" My voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, thick with genuine panic. "It… it brings it all back. The dark. The pain. The… helplessness." I risked another glance at him, letting my gaze flicker towards the mutilated orchid petals, then back to his face, wide with terror. "Especially… especially when I feel… trapped."
The silence that followed was profound. Thicker than the dining room's oppressive grandeur. Vincent hadn't moved. His expression remained an impassive mask, but his eyes… his hard grey eyes held mine . He was dissecting my words, my tears, my trembling posture. Was he looking for the lie? Or assessing the potential truth?
Nyx held her breath beneath the layers of Penelope's terror. This was the gamble. Would he see a convenient excuse? Or would the specter of non-consensual violence – a line even a monster might hesitate to cross when it was laid bare as trauma rather than defiance – give him pause? His own words echoed: I am not a rapist, Penelope. I take what is offered according to the terms.
What I was offering now was not consent, but the raw, debilitating aftermath of violation. Was it enough to make the terms…
He slowly placed his fish knife down on the tablecloth, the clink unnervingly loud. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, his gaze never leaving my tear-streaked face. The silence stretched, each second feeling like forever.
"Your father," he finally said, his voice dangerously low, devoid of inflection, "was a fool. And a coward." The condemnation was absolute, but it wasn't directed at me. "To allow such a thing. To compound it with silence." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It explains… certain aspects of your disposition. The skittishness. The aversion."
He pushed his chair back and stood. The movement was deliberate, powerful. I flinched, shrinking back instinctively. He walked around the table, stopping a few feet from me. He didn't reach out. He simply stood there, looking down at me, a dark, imposing figure radiating controlled power and chilling assessment.
"The contract," he stated, his voice flat, "remains. The expectation stands." My heart plummeted. Nyx braced for the worst. But then he continued. "However…" He let the word hang, heavy with unspoken conditions. "I have no interest in… reenacting your nightmares, Penelope. Nor do I derive pleasure from unwilling partners." He said it with cold finality, a statement of fact rather than compassion. "It is inefficient. Messy."
He took a step closer. I held my breath, the terror spiking again. He reached out, not to touch me, but to the back of my chair. His knuckles brushed the wood, inches from my shoulder. I recoiled violently, a small, choked cry escaping me – half performance, half genuine reaction to his proximity.
He paused. Withdrew his hand. His expression remained impassive, but a flicker of… something… irritation? Understanding? … passed through his eyes.
"Your suite," he said, his voice clipped. "Go. Now. Compose yourself. This display is… tiresome." He turned away, dismissing me. "We will revisit the terms of the contract when you are capable of fulfilling them without hysterics."
He didn't look back as he walked towards the door leading to his private wing. "Mrs. Lamy!" His voice cracked like a whip. The head housekeeper appeared instantly in the doorway. "Escort Mrs. de la Rosa to her suite. Ensure she rests. She is… unwell."