Chapter 3 - The Penthouse Sanctuary
The penthouse occupied the top two floors of the tower. It was a stunning expanse of dark hardwood, floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the stormy expanse of Lake Michigan, and minimalist leather furniture illuminated by soft, warm recessed lighting.
Vincent led Clara down a carpeted hallway to a spacious master guest suite featuring a king-sized bed topped with crisp white linens, a private fireplace humming with warmth, and a terrace overlooking the city lights.
"There are clothes in the closet," Vincent said, leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved into his suit pockets. "They should fit you. Fresh towels are in the bathroom. The doors are locked from the outside, and security guards are stationed on every floor. No one can hurt you here."
Clara stood near the edge of the large bed, holding herself tightly. "Why are the clothes here, Vincent? Do you keep women here often?"
A faint, wicked smile touched the corner of Vincent’s lips. "I had my assistant purchase them an hour ago while you were finishing your second bourbon. I don't keep women anywhere, Clara. I’m a busy man."
Clara flushed, looking away. "Thank you. For... for the clothes. And the room."
Vincent walked into the room, stopping two feet away from her. The scent of his expensive cologne—spiced tobacco and crisp rain—filled her senses. He reached out, his long fingers gently hooking beneath her chin, tilting her face upward so she had to look at him.
His gaze traced the full curve of her lips, the tear tracks on her cheeks, and the deep, green fabric of her dress where her chest heaved with anxious breaths.
"You’re beautiful, Clara," he said softly, his thumb tracing the soft line of her jawline. "Don't ever let a weak man make you feel small because you have curves that belong on a statue."
Clara’s breath hitched in her throat. For months, Brandon’s subtle, cruel insults about her weight and her body had chipped away at her self-esteem until she felt completely invisible and unlovable. Hearing Vincent say those words—with total conviction, his dark eyes burning into hers—made something deep inside her snap.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned slightly into his hand, her lashes fluttering closed.
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He let out a low, rough breath, his fingers sliding from her chin to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"Sleep, Clara," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to her ear. "We have a long day ahead of us."
He stepped back, turned, and walked out of the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a soft, decisive click.
Clara stood alone in the quiet warmth of the suite. She walked over to the closet and opened it. Inside hung soft silk pajamas, cashmere sweaters, tailored pants, and velvet robes—all in her exact size.
May you like
She stripped off her damp green dress, washed her face with luxurious botanical soaps in the marble bathroom, and slipped into a pair of cream-colored silk pajamas that felt like air against her skin.
She climbed into the massive bed, buried her face in the soft pillows, and for the first time in three months, she didn't cry herself to sleep. She slept deeply, wrapped in the terrifying, beautiful protection of Vincent Moretti.
