Page 49 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

Franklin nods slightly, his expression unreadable. “Very well, Master Vincent. But if I may offer advice?—”

“You may not,” I cut him off, turning to glare at him. “This is my decision, Franklin.”

“As you wish,” he says smoothly, retreating a step. But the weight of his words lingers, the unspoken reminder that I can’t avoid this forever.

I flip the egg onto a plate, my mind still racing. Willow might join us, or she might not. Either way, I need to figure out how to handle this dinner. Because if they so much as look at her the wrong way, I don’t trust myself to stay calm.

________________

So breakfast is harder than it looks, and I had to kick Franklin out to get him to stop laughing at me.

As I make my way to Willow’s room my palms sweat against the edges of the plate and the handle of the mug. I don’t know why I’m nervous—this is just breakfast, right? But it’s different with her. Everything feels different when it comes to Willow.

I push the door open slowly, not wanting to wake her too abruptly. But as soon as I step inside, I’m hit with a soft, familiar scent— cherry vanilla and spice—and the sight of her sprawled out under the covers, her hair tumbling messily over the pillow, looking like something out of a dream.

Her eyes flutter open, a slight frown forming as she blinks at the sunlight streaming through the window. For a second, I wonderif she’ll be annoyed—if she’ll lash out at me for waking her up too early or for being... well, me. But then she sits up, her expression softening just slightly as she takes in the sight of the breakfast I’ve made.

“Morning,” I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended, and I hold the plate out toward her like a peace offering.

She blinks a few more times, clearly still waking up, but her gaze settles on me with a strange, sleepy warmth. “You made breakfast?” she asks, sounding both surprised and... appreciative.

“Yeah.” I grin, feeling a surge of pride, even though I’m still unsure if this meal is actually edible. “Eggs, toast, and coffee. Nothing too fancy.”

She takes the plate from me, and I can’t help but watch her closely as she moves—watching her fingers gently curl around the edges of the plate, her eyes searching mine for any hint of a joke.

Then she lifts a forkful of eggs to her mouth, her face shifting into an expression I can’t quite place.

“These are... burnt.” Her voice is soft, amused, but there’s a hint of laughter in her eyes.

I wince, feeling my face flush a little. “I, uh, didn’t exactly nail it, first time and all,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck, as her eyes flash with awe, or excitement. I clear my throat, “But the coffee’s good, right?”

She takes a sip of the coffee and nods, her lips curling into a half-smile. “It’s fine. Really.” Then, she glances at me again, her smile growing. “Thank you for trying. It’s... sweet.”

I breathe out, the tension in my chest easing just a bit. “I could, uh... make it up to you,” I say, glancing at her as I sit down beside the bed. “Maybe take you out to dinner? Somewhere nice. I promise I won’t burn anything.”

She looks at me, a little skeptical at first, but the soft glint in her eyes makes it clear she’s considering it. Finally, she nods, the corners of her lips curving into that smile I’ve been dying to see more of.

“Okay,” she says, her voice quieter now, but warm. “Dinner sounds nice.”

A rush of satisfaction floods through me, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face.

“Good. It’s a date, then.”

15

WILLOW

The closet is filled to the brim with designers and gowns that I will never have a reason to wear. Racks upon racks of fabric in every color imaginable spill across the space like a kaleidoscope of impossible luxury. Gowns of silk and tulle hang beside sharp tailored suits, their names whispered in the gleam of their tags—Versace, Dior, Valentino. Shoes, hundreds of them, perch on their shelves, their pointed toes and deadly heels gleaming under the soft light.

I run my fingers over the fabrics, the textures sliding beneath my touch—cool satin, rough tweed, buttery leather. It’s overwhelming, like stepping into someone else’s life. Someone who belongs in a world of gala invitations and private jets, not…me.

“Do you like it?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and dark like the espresso he drinks religiously. Vincent leans against the doorframe, watching me with an unreadable expression.

I turn to face him, my brows pulling together. “Like it? Vincent, this is ridiculous. There’s enough in here to outfit an entire city.”

He steps into the room, his movements unhurried, calculated. “You’ll need options.”

“For what? My everyday life doesn’t exactly require couture.”

---