Her fingers curled into the silk sheets as she let out a slow breath.
Why did it bother her?
Vincent had always been persistent. Too persistent.
Did that mean he had finally given up?
The thought lingered in her mind, unwelcome.
Had he decided she wasn't worth chasing anymore?
Had he realized that his gestures meant nothing to her?
Had he moved on?
Her grip on the sheets tightened.
For some reason, her chest felt tight.
She should have felt relieved.
This was better.
Wasn't it?
Her mind told her that this was irrelevant.
Her pride told her that she should not care.
And yet—
A new thought entered her mind, one that made her blood turn ice-cold.
"Did he find someone else?"
The idea was so absurd that she nearly laughed.
Vincent? With another woman?
No.
Impossible.
He wasn't allowed to.
She didn't know why, but the very idea of it—of him giving those roses to another girl—made something vicious coil in her stomach.
Her blue eyes darkened.
That would be unforgivable.
She wasn't jealous.
Of course not.
She had no reason to be.
And yet, her first thought was not about the girl—whoever she might be.
Her first thought was that she would simply kill Vincent.
If he truly dared to give his attention to someone else—if he truly dared to choose another—then there was only one solution.
She would kill him.
Not out of love.
Not out of jealousy.
But because he belonged to her.