Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Mirror
The fallout from Dominic's visit came two days later, wrapped in silk and delivered with a sharp tongue.
Arya stood at the foot of Vincent's bed, her arms crossed over her chest, tapping a stiletto heel against the hardwood floor. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes flashing with a cold resentment that had grown sharper with every passing week.
"Dominic says you threatened him," Arya spat out, not bothering with a greeting. "Vincent, are you out of your mind? He's running half our operations while you rot in this bed! We need him!"
Vincent was reading a financial report on his tablet, his thumb lazily scrolling down the screen. He didn't look up.
"Dominic forgot his place," Vincent said calmly. "He needs to be reminded that a dog doesn't bite the hand that feeds it, even if the hand is resting in a lap."
"Oh, stop with the mobster philosophical crap!" Arya snapped, slamming her hand down on the bedpost. The metal frame rattled. "You're living in the past! You're paralyzed, Vince! You can't run the syndicate from a mattress! Dominic is making alliances, he's securing funds, and you're alienating him over some ridiculous pride trip!"
Vincent finally lowered the tablet. He looked at her, his gaze as cold as winter ice.
"If Dominic wants to run the syndicate, let him try. But he walks into my house, he respects my roof. And he certainly doesn't touch the staff."
Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. "The staff? You mean that mousy little maid? Dominic was just joking around, and you pull a knife on him? Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? My fiancé, sitting here like a bitter invalid, threatening my business associates over a hired hand!"
Vincent's jaw tightened. "She is a human being, Arya. Not a piece of furniture."
"She’s hired help!" Arya yelled, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Just like the cooks, the drivers, and the physical therapists! You care more about a twenty-five-dollar-an-hour maid than you do about our wedding plans! Do you even care that the venue is booked for October? Do you care about my dress?"
She thrust her left hand forward, waving the five-karat diamond ring inches from his face.
"Look at this! Everyone in society is talking about us! They're wondering when the great Vincent Corvino is going to wheel himself down the aisle, or if I'm going to be stuck pushing a cripple toward the altar!"
The word hung in the air like a poisoned dart.
Cripple.
Vincent didn't flinch outwardly, but inside, a cold, dark fury ignited. He looked at Arya—really looked at her. He saw the shallow ambition, the desperate need for social status, the absolute emptiness behind her beautiful face. She didn't love him. She had never loved him. She had loved the power, the fear he commanded, and the diamond ring on her finger. Now that the power was seemingly gone, she resented him for failing to live up to her aesthetic.
"Then leave," Vincent said quietly.
Arya stopped pacing. She stared at him, blinking in disbelief. "What?"
"You heard me," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that used to make strong men tremble. "If I'm a burden. If the wedding embarrasses you. Take your bags, take your clothes, and take your diamond ring off my table. Go find a man who can walk you down the aisle. You're free to go, Arya."
Arya's breath hitched. She looked down at the ring on her finger, then up at Vincent's unyielding eyes. Panic flickered behind her anger for a split second before her pride slammed the door on it.
"You're bluffing," she whispered, her voice shaking slightly. "You need me. Without me, everyone will know you've been abandoned. You're too proud to admit you're alone."
"Try me," Vincent replied, tilting his head toward the door.
Arya stood frozen for a long, agonizing moment. The tension in the room was so thick it felt tangible. Finally, she spun on her heel, her stiletto clicks echoing like gunshots down the hallway as she stormed out, slamming the door so hard a small piece of plaster chipped from the frame and fell to the floor.
Vincent exhaled slowly. His chest felt lighter, as if a heavy anchor had just been cut loose.
Ten minutes later, the door handle turned with its usual quiet click.
Tessa stepped inside, holding her tray of cleaning supplies. She took one look at the chipped plaster on the floor, then at Vincent's calm, composed face. She didn't ask questions. She walked over to the bedside table, set her tray down, and began organizing the medical supplies.
"She left," Vincent said softly.
"I saw her in the foyer," Tessa replied, her back turned to him as she straightened the pill bottles. "She was crying into her phone about her Louis Vuitton bags not fitting in her cab."
A low, unexpected chuckle rumbled in Vincent's chest. It was the first time he had genuinely laughed in six months.
Tessa turned around, a faint, rare smile playing on her lips—a smile that reached her eyes and completely transformed her face.
"Not funny, Mr. Corvino," she said, though her eyes were twinkling. "A woman's designer luggage is serious business."
Vincent looked at her, really looked at her—the messy brown knot of hair, the small scar over her eyebrow, the fierce, quiet dignity that no amount of money could buy.
"Tessa," he said, his voice earnest. "Why do you stay here? Really?"
Tessa stopped smiling. She walked over to the edge of the bed, resting her hands lightly on the rolling tray.
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"Because," Tessa said, her voice steady and clear, "everyone else in this house treats you like a ghost or a monster. They're waiting for you to die so they can pick the bones clean. But you're still fighting. And someone has to make sure you win."
Vincent felt a jolt run through him—stronger than any electric shock, deeper than any physical therapy. For the first time since the bullet shattered his spine, Vincent Corvino felt invincible.
