Corporate Villainy: Trampling Protagonists as a Business Dad

"Come here," he said softly, patting the cushion beside him.

Helena hesitated, her teeth catching her lower lip. "Vincent, I... I don't think—"

"Helena." His voice carried gentle command, the kind that made her pulse quicken despite her exhaustion. "Come here. Properly."

She set the files on his desk with trembling hands, then moved toward him with slow, uncertain steps. The scent of her stress-worn perfume mixed with something uniquely her—vanilla and tired determination. She perched on the edge of the sofa like a bird ready to flee.

"Not like that," Vincent murmured, his hand finding her wrist with surprising gentleness. "Come here."

She looked at him with those wounded doe eyes, then slowly shifted closer until she was sitting beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, could see the way her chest rose and fell with careful, controlled breaths.

Vincent turned to face her, one arm draping naturally along the back of the sofa, his fingers just barely brushing her shoulder. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I keep..." Her voice broke, and she had to start again. "I keep replaying it. The look in his eyes when he almost... when he..." She pressed her hands to her face, shoulders shaking. "God, Vincent, what if that's what he really thinks of me? What if I'm just some desperate—"

"Stop." Vincent's hand found her chin, gently but firmly tilting her face up to meet his eyes. Her skin was soft and warm, slightly damp with unshed tears. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

The contact sent a visible shiver through her. "But what if—"

"You are one of the strongest, most devoted mothers I've ever known," he said, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with unconscious tenderness. "Liam was sick, Helena. Poisoned. Those weren't his words speaking—that was chemicals and confusion."

Fresh tears spilled over, tracking warm paths down her cheeks that his thumb followed and wiped away. "I failed him, Vincent. I should have seen the signs, should have known something was wrong. What kind of mother doesn't notice when her child is—"

"The kind who was working two jobs to keep food on the table," Vincent interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. "The kind who trusted the school to keep him safe. You didn't fail anyone, Helena. The system failed him."

No hesitation, no twist of guilt in his chest. The plan had worked exactly as Vincent had designed it to. Liam's downfall had been surgical, precise, necessary. Helena's pain was unfortunate but temporary—a small price for removing a genuine threat to Vincent's future.

"You never stopped fighting for him," he finished quietly.

Helena leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward sunlight, her eyes fluttering closed. "I don't know how to help him now. I don't even know if he wants my help anymore. The way he looked at me..."

"He will," Vincent said with quiet confidence. "The rehabilitation center I've arranged—it's not some institutional nightmare, Helena. It's healing. Real healing. He'll come back to you clean, clear-headed, and probably mortified by what he said."

Her eyes opened, searching his face with desperate hope. "You really think so?"

"I know so. And when he does, I'll make sure he gets into a good school. A fresh start, away from all of this." Vincent's hand moved from her chin to cup her cheek, feeling the delicate bone structure beneath soft skin. "I promise you that."

"Why?" The word came out as barely a whisper. "Why would you do all this for us?"

Vincent looked into her eyes—brown as autumn leaves, filled with exhaustion and gratitude and something else that made his pulse quicken. The honest answer came easily now, unclouded by doubt or guilt.

"Because watching you love him that fiercely... it's beautiful, Helena. The kind of devotion I want for myself."

The words hung in the air between them, more honest than she realized. Helena's breath caught, her lips parting slightly.

"Vincent..." she whispered.

"You're not alone anymore," he murmured, his other hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers. Her hand was smaller than he'd expected, soft but with calluses from years of hard work. "You don't have to carry this by yourself."

That finally broke her. Helena turned toward him, her free hand fisting in his shirt as she pressed her face against his chest. Her tears soaked through the expensive fabric as her body shook with quiet, devastating sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her soul.

Vincent's arms encircled her instinctively, one hand stroking her hair—softer than silk despite its disheveled state—while the other rubbed soothing circles on her back. He could feel the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades, the way she trembled against him like a captured bird.

"Let it out," he whispered against her temple, his lips barely brushing her skin. "I've got you."

They stayed like that for long minutes, her grief washing over them both in waves. Gradually, her sobbing quieted to occasional sniffles and shuddering breaths, but she didn't pull away from his embrace. If anything, she seemed to melt further into him, as if his presence was the only thing keeping her tethered.

"I feel so foolish," she mumbled against his chest, her voice muffled but warm against his skin. "Falling apart like this. You must think I'm pathetic."

"There's nothing foolish about grieving for your son," Vincent said, pressing his lips to the crown of her head and breathing in her scent. "And there's nothing pathetic about accepting comfort when you need it."

She tilted her head up to look at him, and suddenly they were much closer than before. He could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, could feel her breath ghosting across his lips. Her hand was still fisted in his shirt, keeping him close.

"How are you so... patient with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "So understanding? Most men would have run by now."

Vincent's hand cupped her face again, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with reverent care. "Most men are fools who don't recognize something precious when they see it."

A visible shiver ran through her at his words. "Vincent..."

"You're beautiful, Helena," he murmured, his voice roughening despite his efforts to stay controlled. "Even now. Especially now. Your strength, the way you refuse to give up even when everything seems hopeless..." His thumb traced her lower lip, and he felt her sharp intake of breath. "You're remarkable."

Her eyes dropped to his lips, then flickered back up to meet his gaze with something that made his pulse quicken. "I don't feel remarkable. I feel... broken."

"Then let me help put you back together," he whispered, his forehead coming to rest against hers. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them. "Let me take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of."

The air crackled with tension so thick it was almost tangible. Helena's hand slid up his chest to rest over his heart, her palm burning through the fabric as she felt its increasingly rapid rhythm.

"I shouldn't," she breathed, but her body betrayed her words as she leaned closer, drawn to him like a moth to flame.

"Why not?" His thumb continued its maddening trace along her lip, feeling the softness, the slight tremor. "Because of propriety? Because people might talk? Because of your son?"

She closed her eyes, and he watched her internal struggle play across her features—want warring with restraint, need battling with fear. "Because I'm vulnerable right now. Because I might do something I'll regret when my head is clearer."

"And what does your heart tell you?" Vincent asked, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Not your head, not your fears. Your heart."

Helena opened her eyes, and what he saw there nearly undid his careful control. "My heart tells me that you make me feel safe. That when I'm with you, the world doesn't seem so overwhelming. That maybe..." Her voice grew smaller, more uncertain. "Maybe I deserve to be cared for too."

"You do," he said with quiet intensity. "You deserve everything good in this world, Helena."

The space between them seemed to evaporate. Vincent's hand slid into her hair, his fingers tangling in the silky strands. Helena's lips parted, her breathing shallow and quick. He could feel her pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly beneath his thumb where it rested against her throat.

"Vincent," she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.

They hovered there on the knife's edge of something that would change everything between them. Vincent felt his careful control fraying, felt the pull of her gravity threatening to drag him under. It would be so easy to close that final inch, to taste her lips, to claim what she was so clearly offering...

But something made him pull back—not far, just enough to meet her eyes properly.

"Not like this," he said quietly, though every instinct screamed at him to ignore his own words. "Not when you're hurting and vulnerable. You deserve better than that." Although he is supposed to be a villain, he still didn't want to take advantage of her like this.

Helena blinked up at him, confusion and something that might have been disappointment flickering across her features. "What... what are you saying?"

Vincent's smile was soft but determined, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on her cheek. "I'm saying that you once told me you'd do anything for your son. And I'm saying that what I want from you isn't something to be taken in a moment of grief."

Her breath caught, her eyes searching his face. "What do you want?"

"You," he said simply, the word hanging between them like a promise. "All of you. Your trust when you're strong enough to give it freely. Your time when you're not just hiding from loneliness. Your laughter when you remember how to laugh again." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Your hand in mine when we walk through the city. Your voice saying my name when you... wake up in the morning."

Helena stared at him, her heart pounding so hard he could see her pulse jumping at her throat. The want in her eyes was almost painful to witness.

"Vincent..." she whispered.

"Have dinner with me," he said, his thumb stroking her cheek one more time before his hand reluctantly fell away. "Tomorrow night. Not as your employer helping with a crisis. Not as someone you owe gratitude to. As a man who's falling for an extraordinary woman who deserves to be courted properly."

The words settled between them like a challenge and a promise combined. Helena felt something shift in her chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with grief or fear, a flutter of anticipation she hadn't felt in years.

"Is that what this is?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Are you... falling for me?"

Vincent's smile was answer enough, but he gave her words anyway. "I fell the moment I watched you sacrifice everything for someone you love. Everything since has just been discovering how deep that fall goes."

Helena closed her eyes, leaning into his presence one more time. When she opened them, there was something new there—not just exhaustion and pain, but hope. Real, fragile, beautiful hope.

🔔 System Notification

▶ Helena Favorability towards Vincent: 89(+2)

▶VP: +100

"One dinner," she said quietly, though her voice carried the weight of so much more.

"One dinner," Vincent agreed, though his smile suggested he was already planning far beyond that single evening.

As they sat together in the soft amber glow of the city lights, Helena found herself really looking at him for the first time that evening. Past the exhaustion and grief that had clouded her vision, past the overwhelming emotions of the day. There was something different about him—his features seemed more defined somehow, his skin clearer, his blue eyes more vivid. Even in the dim lighting, there was a subtle luminescence to him that made her breath catch.

"Vincent," she said softly, her fingertips reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with wondering gentleness. "You look... different tonight. More..." She struggled for the word, her touch reverent against his skin. "Beautiful, somehow. Like you're glowing from within."

Vincent's smile deepened at her observation, his hand covering hers where it rested against his cheek. Neither spoke of the future or the complications that lay ahead. For now, it was enough to exist in this moment—her hand still resting over his heart, his fingers barely brushing her shoulder, and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning to bloom in the space between them.