Chapter 6 - A Kiss Before the Betrayal
Lena stared at the photograph until the faces blurred.
The little girl couldn't have been older than four.
She wore a yellow dress and held a stuffed rabbit.
Her hair was dark brown.
Her cheeks were round.
And beneath her left eye was a tiny crescent-shaped birthmark.
Lena touched her own face.
She had the same mark.
Vincent watched her reaction.
“You recognize yourself?”
She nodded slowly.
“But I don't remember this picture.”
“Do you remember anything before living with Margaret?”
“Of course.”
She stopped.
The truth arrived with a strange, hollow sensation.
She remembered the farmhouse.
Her grandmother's greenhouse.
Her sister's birth.
But before the age of five, everything was fragmented.
A white hallway.
A woman's perfume.
A man's voice singing.
And fire.
Always fire.
Lena looked at Vincent.
“What happened to me?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Someone does.”
“Yes.”
“Nathan.”
Vincent didn't deny it.
Back at the estate, Marcus delivered a report from the lakeside lodge.
The gunman had escaped.
The building had been used recently, but Sophie was gone.
Investigators recovered a burner phone, several empty medical supply packages, and a torn piece of fabric matching Sophie's sweatshirt.
There was also a receipt.
A receipt from a private medical clinic owned by a corporation called Bellweather Holdings.
Vincent recognized the name.
It belonged to Nathan.
“Why would he take Sophie to a medical clinic?” Lena asked.
Vincent studied the receipt.
“I intend to find out.”
But Lena had another question.
One that frightened her more.
“If I'm not Lena Brooks, who am I?”
Vincent looked toward the photograph.
“We'll start with your birth records.”
That night, Lena couldn't sleep.
She wandered downstairs shortly after midnight and found Vincent standing alone in the kitchen.
He had removed his jacket.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
He was staring at a frying pan.
Lena stopped in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
He turned.
“Attempting to make an omelet.”
She examined the pan.
“Is that what we're calling it?”
Vincent looked down.
The eggs had become a blackened disaster.
“I followed the instructions.”
“Which instructions?”
“The ones on the internet.”
Lena laughed.
It was the first real laugh she'd managed since Sophie's kidnapping.
Vincent watched her.
Then he smiled.
A genuine smile.
It transformed his face.
For a second, he looked younger.
Less burdened.
Almost ordinary.
“Come here,” Lena said.
She took the pan from him.
“You're using too much heat.”
“I've been accused of that before.”
She glanced at him.
“By women?”
“Mostly business associates.”
“I'm sure.”
She cracked fresh eggs into a bowl.
Vincent stood beside her, watching.
“You make it look easy.”
“Because I've been doing this since I was ten.”
“My mother used to cook.”
“Really?”
“She insisted everyone sit together for breakfast. Even my father, who sometimes came home at four in the morning.”
Lena smiled.
“She sounds stubborn.”
“She was.”
“Like you.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Like you.”
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
It had been building through every frightening hour they had spent together.
Lena looked away first.
She poured the eggs into the pan.
“Tell me about your mother.”
Vincent leaned against the counter.
“She loved terrible romantic movies. She cried at every wedding. She believed people could change.”
“And you?”
“I used to believe that was foolish.”
“Used to?”
He watched her.
“I'm reconsidering.”
The silence grew warm.
Lena finished the omelet and placed it on a plate.
Vincent tasted it.
His eyebrows rose.
“That's considerably better than mine.”
“An impressive achievement.”
He laughed quietly.
Then his expression softened.
“You're exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“You should rest.”
“I can't.”
“Because of Sophie?”
“Because every time I close my eyes, I imagine what she's going through.”
Vincent set down his fork.
He stepped closer.
“I won't stop looking.”
Lena nodded.
“I know.”
He lifted his hand, then paused.
“May I?”
She understood.
Slowly, she nodded.
Vincent brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.
His touch was gentle.
Almost hesitant.
Lena's breath caught.
She had spent years believing men like Vincent would never look twice at someone like her.
Not because she disliked her body.
She had learned to love it.
But because the world had repeatedly told her that women her size belonged in kitchens, not love stories.
Vincent looked at her as though none of those rules existed.
“You're beautiful,” he said.
Lena's eyes filled.
“Don't say that because you feel sorry for me.”
“I don't.”
“Vincent—”
“Look at me.”
She did.
“I have spent most of my life surrounded by people who want something from me. You looked at me and saw a man about to die.”
He paused.
“You didn't ask what saving me would cost.”
Lena whispered, “I didn't have time.”
“That's what makes it remarkable.”
His thumb brushed her cheek.
“May I kiss you?”
Her answer came softly.
“Yes.”
The kiss was slow.
Careful.
A question rather than a demand.
Lena placed one hand against his chest.
Vincent drew back just enough to look at her.
For a moment, the world outside the kitchen disappeared.
No Nathan.
No missing sister.
No deadly secrets.
Just two people who had found something unexpected in the middle of danger.
Then Vincent's phone rang.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I'm beginning to hate that sound.”
Lena smiled faintly.
“Answer it.”
Marcus was calling.
Vincent listened.
His expression hardened.
“What do you mean, she's gone?”
Lena stepped back.
“Who?”
Vincent ended the call.
He looked at her.
“Everett Pryce.”
“The executive chef?”
“He escaped from the security wing.”
Lena frowned.
“How?”
“Someone used my access credentials.”
A cold sensation moved through her.
The same credentials used to disable the kitchen camera.
Vincent continued.
“Before he escaped, Everett left a message.”
“What message?”
Vincent hesitated.
Then he told her.
“He said the poison wasn't intended to kill me.”
Lena stared.
“Then who?”
May you like
Vincent's face darkened.
“You.”
