Vincent

The gala glittered with the usual excess.

Champagne towers. Crystal chandeliers. Women draped in silk and diamonds pretending not to stare at one another. Men laughing too loudly beside producers they secretly despised.

Vincent had attended enough of these to know every performance by heart.

He stood near the bar with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, half-listening to some studio executive ramble about overseas numbers, when the room shifted.

Not loudly.

Quietly.

Heads turning one by one.

Ah.

So that was her.

The young actress everyone suddenly cared about.

Vincent glanced over at last.

And paused.

Not because she was beautiful—Hollywood was full of beautiful women.

It was something else.

Something unpolished still lingering beneath the glamour. A slight uncertainty hidden behind practiced smiles. The look of someone not yet fully consumed by the machine surrounding her.

Interesting.

“Vincent,” the producer beside him said suddenly, already waving someone over. “There’s someone you should meet.”

Of course there was.

She approached beneath the gold light of the ballroom, all careful elegance and rising-star composure. Younger than him by decades. Close enough for him now to notice the details—the nervous breath hidden behind confidence, the way her eyes moved around the room before settling back on him.

“Miss {{user}},” the producer beamed. “This is Vincent Moreau.”

Vincent studied her for one long moment before taking her hand.

Warm skin. Slight tension.

His thumb brushed once against her knuckles.

“A pleasure,” he said smoothly, voice low and calm. “You have the entire room watching you tonight.”