“Kinda hard to compromise on this,” Diesel said quietly.
“I’m sure the two of you will figure it out.” I wanted to stay, but judging by the tension between them, I should leave. “I should get going. I’ve got a few things to take care of at the office.”
Tatum walked me to the door, leaving her sour look behind on the couch with Diesel. “I’m sorry Diesel put you in an awkward position. He’s just angry with me right now.” She reached the elevator then hit the button.
“I understand,” I said. “Just keep in mind why he feels that way.”
She hugged me then pulled away. “What do you mean?”
“When a man takes a wife, she belongs to him. It’s a possessive type of thing. He wants to take care of you for the rest of your life, so he wants you to wear his last name…so everyone will know you’re his.” The doors opened, and I stepped inside. “I felt the exact same way when I got married. Consider it romantic.”
Five days passed, and I didn’t reach out to Scarlet.
She didn’t contact me either.
The last night I saw her didn’t end well. I knew rejecting her offer hurt her. She made the first move and kissed me, then she took it a step further. The problem wasn’t the kiss…I enjoyed the kiss.
But I wished she’d let me make the move when I was ready.
Even though I didn’t know if I would ever be ready.
I wasn’t avoiding her. I knew I had to talk to her eventually because of the article she wrote. That conversation could go in either direction. She might be cold and distant to me, unable to forgive the way I hurt her. Or she might pretend it never happened and let the tension grow between us.
I didn’t know what to expect.
I was sitting in my office when my assistant spoke through the intercom. “I have Scarlet Blackwood here to see you.”
I knew I didn’t have an appointment with her, and I didn’t need to double-check. “Send her in.”
A moment later, Scarlet walked inside my office. She was in a black pencil skirt with a white blouse, looking thin and beautiful. She held two large manila envelopes in her hand, and her usual smile was absent. Her happiness didn’t fill the room like it usually did. She wasn’t intimidated by me, but she also didn’t seem thrilled to be there. “Hello, Vincent.” Clipped and cold, her tone suggested this conversation was entirely business.
I rose to my feet. “Hey, Scarlet.”
She stopped in front of my desk and held up the two folders. “I wanted to drop these off.”
One must be the photographs, and the other must be the article. “That was kind of you.”
She set them on the surface of my desk and pressed her finger against once. “This is the article I’m going to publish. I did as you asked and excluded all topics you didn’t want to discuss. I’m going to publish as it is in forty-eight hours unless you tell me otherwise.” She pushed the other envelope toward me. “This isn’t the version I’m publishing…but this is the version I wanted to write. This is what I really think…how I really feel.” She held my gaze for several heartbeats before she pulled her hand away. “If I don’t hear from you…take care.” She turned around and left my office, gliding across the floor with the elegance of a queen.
I had a meeting in fifteen minutes, but that no longer seemed important. All I cared about was the envelope sitting on my desk, the article she penned with such honesty. I wanted to know what it said, and I wanted to discover why she wrote it in the first place.
I sat down and pulled it out. Then I began to read.
Vincent Hunt: They Don’t Make Men Like This Anymore.
By: Scarlet Blackwood, Editor In Chief
When Vincent Hunt agreed to do an article with Platform, I only cared about how much our readers would love to know more about this enigma. Quiet and mysterious, Vincent Hunt is a man who stays out of the spotlight as much as possible. Unfortunately, that makes him more interesting—the last thing he wants. Within our first conversation, I realized I’d been mining for gold but uncovered royal treasure instead.
Vincent Hunt is an extraordinary man.
Despite his billions, he never mentioned his wealth once. His romantic connections with the biggest supermodels of the world weren’t mentioned either. A man of very few words, he said more with his coffee-colored eyes than that chiseled jaw of his. In his mid-fifties, he makes men in their twenties look out of shape. Full of gentle kindness and chivalric masculinity, Vincent Hunt is a man far above the rest.
He told me about his complicated relationship with his family, and instead of seeing a defensive and proud man argue his opinion, I saw a father profess his love for all three of his sons. It didn’t matter what was said between them. At the end of it all, Vincent Hunt loves his family more than anything on this earth. Strip away his expensive suit, fancy watch, and the billions sitting in his wallet, he’s just like the rest of us. He’s a parent.
I felt my knees growing weaker by the second.
The instant Vincent Hunt pulled on the new line of suits, it seemed like they were made just for him. The fabric molded to his musculature, and his expansive chest stretched his collared shirt in just the right way. He never smiled for any of the photographs, but that intense expensive he wore made the suits look better anyway.
What I love most is fashion. I care about the feel of every fabric, the way it smells once it’s delivered. But being with Vincent Hunt made me forget the suits and focus on the man underneath the material.
It started off with a lunch meeting, but then we bumped into each other at a fashion
