Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XVI - Châteaux

Vincent could only watch her.

The jet banked gently, descending toward what appeared to be an ancient castle surrounded by emerald fields, and still Gabrielle hadn't spoken a single word since take-off. Not one. Not even a breath shaped by thought.

She sat curled into the reclining leather seat, staring out the window with a hollow, grim expression carved deep into her beautiful features. Apart from the slow rise and fall of her chest and the quiet, irregular sob that escaped now and then, she had barely moved.

Vincent sat opposite her, hands steepled, helpless.

Her silence frightened him more than her screaming ever had.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came the captain's voice, "we are now landing in Dover Castle. Please keep your seatbelts fastened until we come to a complete stop."

The plane trembled lightly as it touched down on the vast stretch of grass. The engines gradually died into silence.

Still she did not stir.

Vincent stood and stepped closer.
"Gab... we've landed."

She turned her head, jaw clenched, eyes blazing as she glared at him.

"This used to be the best place on earth for me," she whispered — furious, broken. "This château holds—held—" She stiffened as memories struck. "Held the most beautiful parts of my childhood. And now it will hold the worst. Marrying a paid swine like you in the very place where I was born."

She pushed past him, cold shoulder against his chest, and marched down the steps of the jet, ignoring the maids who rushed to greet her with bright eyes and eager smiles. They faltered mid-curtsy as she swept past without so much as a glance.

Vincent followed at a distance.

She crossed through the towering gates and halted at the threshold of the great courtyard — the château's heart. The space had been transformed. Half the courtyard was already draped in flowers: pink tulips and white roses weaving around golden trellises. A stage had been erected beneath the tall secret wall, crowned by a rose-gold Cleopatra chair under a glittering Swarovski chandelier.

It was stunning. Unexpectedly so.

She stared at it all with a kind of aching disbelief.

She had never imagined her father could produce something so beautiful. Something so... tender. It should have been a dream wedding.

But the man she was meant to marry wasn't her beloved. Not her boyfriend. Not even her friend.

Just a swine.
A paid swine.
A power-hungry robot controlled by her father's money.

Her gaze slid to Vincent.

And the sight of him — tall, breathtaking, silent — cut into her chest like a cold blade.

If he'd wanted to stop this marriage, he could have. He could have spoken. He could have stood up to her father. He could have refused.

But he hadn't.

He was here. In her childhood home. Ready to say I do tomorrow.

Selfish.
Ambitious.
Driven by power.

All the fragile, foolish hopes she'd once nurtured — the confusing warmth she'd felt when he cared for her, the night he treated her wound, the way he had seemed different — all of it was dead now.

She had been wrong.
Again.

He was just like the rest.

He'd marry her for the Davis fortune, then — perhaps — remove her once she'd outlived her usefulness. Just like in the films. Morbid, yes, but possible. She was willing to believe the worst of him now.

He didn't want this marriage either. He'd said so.

So what came next?
Taking her out of the way.

Vincent looked at her then — really looked — his eyes deep, soul-searching, painfully gentle.

As though he cared.

She whipped her gaze away and strode toward the château once more, refusing to let his deceptively soft eyes fool her.

Men wanted two things:
Money.
And sex.

He could have the first.
He would never have the second.
And he would certainly never have her heart.

"Mr. Walton...?"

An elderly woman in an old-fashioned dress scurried toward him, catching him by the wrist before he could follow.

"I'll lead you to your room. Best leave that young woman be. You're not to see her until the wedding tomorrow."

He frowned, and she chuckled knowingly.
"'Tis an old superstition, son."

Vincent exhaled sharply but nodded, looking once more toward Gabrielle's retreating figure before forcing himself to follow the woman across the manor.

She was talkative — unusually so — recounting tales of the château, its history, its lineage. Gabrielle Davis was, apparently, the great-granddaughter of the lord who had owned the castle in the fourteenth century. The woman, once Gabrielle's childhood nanny, spoke fondly of her — of a little girl who had loved to run barefoot through the courtyard and hide in the old libraries.

Eventually she opened a massive wooden door.

"This will be temporary," she said. "Just until tomorrow. Once you exchange vows, you'll be allowed into Gabrielle's suite. Just one night, dear." She winked and shut the door behind him.

Silence swallowed the room.

Vincent walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain.

The château stretched below — ancient stone, endless gardens, intimidating grandeur. Beautiful, yes. But overshadowed by the knowledge that the woman he loved now despised him entirely.

He dragged a hand through his hair in frustration.

He had to reach her.
He had to explain.
He had to make her understand.

But tonight... tonight she would not hear him.
Tonight she would shut out every word.

He felt it in his bones — her hatred, her fury, her heartbreak.

Vincent sank onto the bed, hands covering his face.

He had admitted it to himself, finally.
He loved her.

He hadn't expected that. After Cathy, after the damage and betrayal, he'd assumed love was simply not possible anymore.

And yet here he was.
Falling.
Already fallen.

For the girl he should never have touched.
The girl he should never have wanted.
The girl he had promised himself to avoid.

Gabrielle Ralph Davis.

The wildest, most dangerous heiress had wrapped her claws around the empty spaces in his chest — and filled them.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as reality settled firmly around him.

He was getting married.

This was it.

Tomorrow she would bear his name.

The only battle left would be the hardest — not the ceremony, not the spectacle, not her father — but her heart.

And winning her heart...
winning her...

That would take far more than a ring.

For now, at least, she would be his wife.

For now.

For now, that was enough.