Chapter 3

Took a bullet?

My heart stopped.

"When?" I rushed toward Vincent. "You're hurt?"

My hands went to his shirt, trying to check for a wound.

Vincent flinched, trying to push me away, but the movement was stiff. He'd clearly pulled something.

"Three days ago," Vincent said, turning his head away. His voice was cold. "There was a situation at the docks."

"The Russians were crazier than we thought," Ava said, clinging to Vincent's side, her voice laced with a practiced fear. "They just started shooting. Vincent, to protect me…"

She traced a finger over his chest.

"The bullet almost hit my heart. But Vincent jumped in front of me, shielded me with his own body. He's my hero."

I looked at Vincent, waiting for him to deny it, to explain.

He said nothing. Like taking a bullet for her was the most natural thing in the world.

A sharp pain shot through my chest.

I remembered Mexico, three years ago. A dangerous deal.

The other party was a notorious cartel, but they controlled the black market for art in Central America.

Before I left, I went to Vincent to ask for backup.

"It's too dangerous," I'd said. "I need more men."

"This is your test, Isabella," Vincent had said, looking troubled. "The family can't make an exception for you. If you can't handle this, how can you be the Donna?"

"But Vincent…"

"Rules are rules," he cut me off. "You can walk away from the deal, but you can't ask the family to bend the rules."

I took a bullet during that negotiation to close the deal.

When I woke up, Vincent was by my bedside, looking exhausted. The nurses said he'd been there for days.

I thought he was worried. I thought he loved me.

I thought he only stayed away because the family made him.

So I forgave him.

What was this, then?

"Remember Mexico?" I demanded, my voice shaking with rage. "You left me to bleed in Mexico and called it a test. But you take a bullet for her, and that's just business?"

Vincent's face darkened. "It's different."

"How is it different?!" I finally screamed. "Because she's your so-called 'savior'?"

"What else?" Vincent's reply was ice. "Isabella, I owe Ava my life. Thirteen years ago, at your family's estate, if she hadn't pulled me out of that pool, I'd be dead. I'll spend my entire life repaying that debt. I appreciate what you do for the family, but it doesn't compare to saving my life."

My world shattered.

Hilarious.

It was just so damn hilarious.

Thirteen years ago, on a summer afternoon, the girl who jumped into the pool, who dragged his drowning ass to the side, who cried while giving him CPR… that was me.

Ava just stood there, screaming her head off.

Afterward, she was the one who ran to everyone, crying about how brave she'd been, how she'd saved Vincent.

I was so traumatized I came down with a fever and was out for three days, missing my chance to set the record straight.

So that was it. The root of this ten-year joke.

All his favoritism, all his protection, it was all for a stolen moment of heroism.

"The person who saved you that day, Vincent," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It wasn't her."

"It was me."

Vincent's eyes turned cold and disappointed, like he was looking at a lunatic. "Isabella, I know you're jealous. But you don't get to rewrite history and slander a hero."

"I'm not!" I said desperately. "That day, she was wearing a red dress, and I was in…"

"Enough!" Vincent snapped, his eyes full of disgust. "I don't want to hear you spin any more lies to hurt Ava. When did you become this kind of woman, so willing to do anything to win?"