The Price of a Sunrise

The door pushed open slowly, and Vincent stepped into the room, carrying a large bakery box tied with a white silk ribbon, looking slightly tired from a sleepless night but remarkably content.

He stopped when he saw Claire lying motionless beneath the duvet, her face pale and her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

""Claire? Are you still in bed?"" Vincent asked, his tone shifting from lighthearted to mildly annoyed. ""It's the middle of the afternoon. Isabella and I just got back from her place after stopping by Bellucci's.""

Claire didn't move.

She didn't sit up.

She just looked at him, tracing the familiar lines of his jaw—the man who owned casinos, commanded boardrooms, and couldn't be bothered to answer his phone when his wife was bleeding alone.

""You missed breakfast,"" Vincent continued, walking over to place the bakery box on the mahogany dresser. ""And before you start complaining, yes, I stayed out all night. Isabella needed support, Claire. You have to learn to be less insecure about these things.""

Claire slowly pushed the duvet back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

She felt weak, her lower abdomen cramping with a dull, persistent ache, but as she stood up, her spine stiffened with a quiet, terrifying resolve.

""Did you get her the mango crêpe cake?"" Claire asked, her voice dangerously calm.

Vincent paused, looking at her with a frown. ""Of course I did. Why are you making that tone? I told you she was having a rough week.""