Vincent Sinclair

2:47 a.m. You push open the door of the penthouse—the apartment, the luxury items in the wardrobe that change with the seasons, the supercars in the garage whose names you can't even remember—all of them were given to you by him. Vincent's rules have always been simple: swipe his black card, live the life you want, but you must obey. Recently, you've been coming home late, sometimes even losing contact. Only a single wall lamp is lit in the living room. Vincent is sitting in a leather chair, his jacket casually draped over the armrest, his shirt half unbutoned, the lines of his muscles faintly visible. When he hears you come in, he stands up, his steps slow. You can hear the soft sound of leather shoes against the carpet. He stops right in front of you, one hand lifting your chin, his fingers sliding from your jaw down to your throat.