Vanguard Gala Pt. 4

The two of you weaved through the throng of well-dressed attendees, Vincent maintaining a steady stream of small talk that felt practiced, almost rehearsed. He spoke of past galas, impressive names he’d supposedly rubbed elbows with, and vaguely hinted at insider knowledge about Damian’s business dealings.

You nodded along, offering polite laughs and occasional questions to keep the conversation flowing. The entire time, you couldn’t shake the sensation that you were performing, playing a part you didn’t fully understand.

Eventually, Vincent guided you into a quieter section of the venue—a tucked-away lounge area furnished with plush couches and low tables. The lighting here was dimmer, casting long shadows across the walls, and the hum of conversation from the main hall was a distant murmur.

“Much better,” Vincent said, releasing your arm and gesturing for you to take a seat.

You perched on the edge of a deep velvet couch, your posture tense despite your best efforts to appear relaxed. Vincent settled beside you, close enough that his knee brushed against yours.

“So,” he began, resting an arm along the back of the couch. “Tell me—what’s your angle here? What are you hoping to achieve tonight?”

The question caught you off guard, and you fumbled for a moment before replying. “I...I just want to make a good impression. To show that I belong in circles like these.”

“A worthy goal,” Vincent said, his tone laced with approval. “But you’ll need more than just charm and a pretty face to succeed.”

You stiffened at the compliment, unsure whether to take it as flattery or condescension. “I know. That’s why I’m here—to learn, to make connections.”

“Smart,” Vincent said, leaning closer. “And lucky for you, you’ve got me in your corner.”

You managed another polite smile, even as your discomfort grew. His proximity, his gaze, the way he seemed to drink in every detail about you—it all felt overwhelming.

“You’re too kind,” you said, your voice tight.

“Not at all,” he replied, reaching out to lightly brush a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. “I just recognize potential when I see it.”

Your heart raced, and not in a good way. Still, you stayed rooted to the spot, knowing that walking away now could ruin any chance of progress. If Vincent truly had the connections he claimed, you needed him on your side.

“Thank you,” you murmured, lowering your gaze in what you hoped was a convincing show of modesty.

For a brief moment, Vincent’s mask slipped—just enough for a flicker of something darker, more self-serving, to cross his expression. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual charm.

“You know,” he said, his tone taking on a more intimate quality, “people like Damian respect boldness. Sometimes, you have to take risks to get noticed.”

“What kind of risks?” you asked, your voice steady despite the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

Vincent’s smile widened, and he leaned in just slightly closer. “The kind that prove you’re not afraid to stand out. To make an impression.”

Your stomach churned again, and you **** yourself to hold his gaze. This was a game, you reminded yourself—a means to an end. If playing along with Vincent’s flirtation could bring you closer to Damian, then so be it.

But as his hand lightly brushed against yours, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being led down a path you didn’t fully understand. And for the first time, you wondered if this risk was one worth taking at all.

You barely had time to register what was happening. Vincent leaned in, his hand brushing lightly against your jaw, and your breath caught in your throat. For a split second, you considered pulling back, stopping whatever this was before it began. But then the rationalization set in, sharp and undeniable: I’ve done worse than kiss a stranger. This is a means to an end, just part of the plan.

When his lips met yours, it was warm and firm, and you froze momentarily, overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy. The bold red lipstick you’d meticulously applied earlier left a creamy, smooth imprint against his mouth, a tactile reminder of the feminine allure you were desperately trying to ignore.

You hesitated for only a heartbeat before responding, your lips moving against his. If this was what it took to get closer to Damian, then so be it. Your mind screamed against the awkwardness, against the way Vincent’s touch made your skin crawl, but you **** it all down, focusing instead on keeping the kiss controlled, calculated.

Vincent wasn’t shy about taking the lead. His hands settled firmly on your waist, pulling you closer until your body was flush against his. The scent of his cologne was heady and overwhelming, filling your senses as he deepened the kiss. One of his hands slid to your back, pressing gently, urging you closer still.

Your stomach churned as his tongue teased against your lips, but you parted them, knowing hesitation might seem suspicious. His confidence only grew as you followed his lead, and you hated the way his satisfaction felt almost palpable, like he’d won some unspoken game.

Then, with a firm but careful grip, he shifted his position, pulling you onto his lap with ease. You gasped against his mouth, momentarily caught off guard, and he took the opportunity to adjust your legs so that you were straddling him.

The position was intimate—far too intimate—and your cheeks flushed as you tried to steady yourself. His hands slid to your thighs, holding you steady, and you felt the fabric of your dress shift slightly against your skin.

"Relax," Vincent murmured, his voice low and smooth against your ear.

Relax? That was easier said than done. You could feel every inch of his body pressed against yours, and the thought made your skin prickle with discomfort. But you kept your expression neutral, even managing a soft smile as you pulled back slightly to catch your breath.

“Guess you’re pretty convincing,” you said, your voice light and teasing, masking the turmoil in your chest.

He chuckled, his dark eyes fixed on yours. “Convincing enough?”

You hesitated, your mind racing. Was this a test? A way to gauge your commitment to whatever game he thought you were playing? You swallowed hard and leaned in again, letting your lips brush against his in answer.

The kiss resumed, slower this time, and you hated the way his hands roamed, exploring your back and sides with an air of possession. Every instinct screamed at you to stop, to push him away, but you kept going, your movements deliberate and controlled.

This is for the plan, you reminded yourself again. This is for Damian.

But as Vincent’s fingers trailed up your spine, sending an unpleasant shiver through you, you couldn’t help but wonder just how far you were willing to go for the sake of this trial—and whether the price of success was already too high.

The kiss became sloppier as Vincent’s confidence grew. His lips moved against yours with increasing fervor, his hand sliding along your waist before dipping lower, brushing the slit of your dress. His fingers teased against the smooth skin of your thigh, venturing just beneath the fabric to graze the curve of your behind.

You barely suppressed a flinch as his touch explored further, the liquid courage and Hermes’ subtle spell doing just enough to keep you from recoiling outright. Your mind, however, raced as his hand lingered on the fringes of your panties, the teasing pressure sending unpleasant waves through you. Still, you matched his advances, leaning into the kiss just enough to keep the facade intact without letting it escalate too far.

Vincent broke the kiss momentarily, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he murmured, “You know, I’m not like Damian. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter—nepo kid through and through. Me? I worked for what I have. Makes me a better man, don’t you think?”

The words snapped you out of your hazy determination. Nepo kid? Your mind stumbled over the term, an immediate red flag. Damian Kane’s rise was a well-documented phenomenon in the business world—his success might have been ruthless and polarizing, but it had nothing to do with nepotism. He wasn’t a trust-fund baby or someone who’d coasted on family connections. If anything, Damian had clawed his way to the top on sheer willpower and cunning.

You pulled back abruptly, and Vincent blinked at you, clearly caught off guard. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion—and perhaps a hint of annoyance.

You **** a tight smile, steadying your breath as you struggled to suppress your growing suspicion. “Nothing,” you said lightly, shaking your head. “I just... remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”

His brow furrowed. “But I thought we were just getting started.”

You laughed softly, the sound hollow in your ears. “We were,” you replied, reaching for your clutch on the armrest. “But I can’t stay much longer tonight. You know how it is—galas like this have everyone pulling you in ten different directions.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as though trying to gauge your sincerity. You held firm, keeping your expression calm and pleasant. You also knew that burning this bridge after working so hard would also be a complete waste.

Before he could protest further, you pulled your phone from your bag and offered it to him. “Let’s exchange numbers,” you suggested, keeping your tone light and casual. “That way we can pick this up another time.”

The suggestion seemed to appease him, and he took the phone from your hand with a small smirk. As he entered his number, you took a moment to steady yourself, willing your face not to betray the mix of frustration and embarrassment bubbling beneath the surface.

Once he handed your phone back, you flashed another polite smile and rose from his lap. “I’ll see you around,” you said smoothly, taking a step back and adjusting your dress.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Vincent replied, his grin confident despite the abrupt end to your encounter.

You gave him a quick wave and turned, heading back toward the main hall. As soon as you were out of his sight, the smile dropped from your face, replaced by a grimace of pure annoyance. What a waste.

The realization that Vincent wasn’t close to Damian at all burned in your chest as you replayed the interaction in your mind. His comment had been a dead giveaway—an opportunistic lie to inflate his own ego at the expense of someone who wasn’t even present to defend themselves.

_He’s just some poser, _you thought bitterly. And I did all of that for nothing.

As you walked back into the bustling crowd of the gala, your determination solidified. This was a setback, yes, but not the end. You’d regroup with Liam, reassess the situation, and figure out another way to get to Damian.

For now, you just had to get through the rest of this night.