Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XXXVIII - PHOTOGRAPH

"Sources say the heiress began rekindling her affair with the model shortly after her billionaire father's death. The photographs above appear to confirm the alleged indiscretion, showing the Davis Holding heiress—now the wife of the Walton Group heir—in an intimate position with the internationally renowned model.

The pair were childhood friends and officially dated last year, though the relationship ended shortly before the heiress married Vincent Walton. It remains unclear whether the heiress and Mr. Walton were romantically involved prior to the marriage or whether their union was arranged for business. Judging by the photographs above, the latter seems more likely. One can only wonder how the Walton heir feels about his wife's nightlife, bar hopping, and questionable escapades. Clearly, the world-famous 'richest bitch' cannot be tamed, not even by a wedding ring."

Those were the exact words printed on the unpublished article delivered to him that morning.
The man sitting across from Vincent smirked, lounging back in the leather chair with his fingers interlaced, arrogance dripping from his expression as though he had struck gold.

"There's always a price for everything," the man drawled, stroking his beard while watching Vincent's controlled reaction. The photographs—Gabrielle in Adrijan Thorne's arms, both of them holding champagne flutes as they danced—lay scattered across the desk like a crime scene. Vincent already knew she'd attended Adrijan's party. She had been visiting him often since her father's funeral. He hated it, but he also knew she needed space... needed air... needed anything that might keep her from drowning beneath her grief.

Still, it tormented him knowing she was drifting back toward her old life—toward her ex, toward alcohol, toward the noise and chaos of parties.

And now, toward scandal.

"I could publish this for a few million," the man continued. "But I'd rather not ruin a perfectly good relationship. If these photos destroy someone's future, someone's family—well—"

He was clearly baiting him. A pathetic attempt to negotiate. But Vincent was a businessman too.

"Publish it, then," Vincent said flatly.

The man blinked. "I—excuse me?"

"You heard me," Vincent replied, leaning back and clasping his hands beneath his chin. "Your job is to publish garbage like this. Why compromise your integrity over someone's marriage? Don't you have a family to feed with the money you earn from printing this filth?"

"You're serious? This will ruin your public image—your marriage. This will be humiliating."

Vincent laughed, stood, and walked to the door, opening it as a clear dismissal.

"I have no image to protect. And marriage?" He scoffed. "The public already assumes the worst. Everyone knows Gabrielle dated Adrijan before we married. Everyone assumes she had other flings as well. None of this is new. The world has judged her already—long before you crawled into my office."

He stepped closer, eyes cold.

"If you had something genuinely new, I'd pay you. But this? This is recycled trash. My wife has been called every name under the sun. Why should I start defending her now? I married her knowing all this."

Some of that was true. But the truth burning in his chest was that it did get to him. He loathed seeing her spiral again. He knew she was hurting—but he never imagined she'd walk back into the same storms that once destroyed her.

"You're insane!" the man snapped. "People will look down on both of you!"

"Look down on us?" Vincent chuckled darkly. "Tell me, how do people look down on someone who earns more in a day than they will in a lifetime? I'm married to a woman your wife dreams of resembling. Why would I pay to suppress a story that—if anything—makes me look noble? I have the 'untamable heiress' wearing my ring. She sleeps in my bed. Our companies rule the world."

He tilted his head toward the hallway. "Now get out. Perhaps sell a kidney if you're so desperate for money."

The man left, rattled and furious.

Just as the door swung open again, Gabrielle rushed inside. She ignored the paparazzo entirely—though he stared at her with open lust—as she slammed the door behind her.

"How dare you?!" she shouted, stepping toward him. Vincent turned away, walking to the window overlooking the sprawl of London. They were standing in her father's office.

"My father's lawyer has worked with us since I was a child! You can't fire people like that! Who do you think you are?!"

"I'm the president of this company now," Vincent replied coolly. "I can do as I please."

"Go to hell! Is this who you truly are? Using my father's power to—"

"Yes!" he snapped, fury rising. "With the entire company on my shoulders, what do you expect me to do? Sit at home waiting for you while you're out flirting and lap dancing with half of London?!"

She froze, eyes widening.

"You little piece of—!"

She slapped him hard. She was always fast—too fast. Before he could think, her hand was already on his cheek.

And just as quickly, he grabbed her and crushed his mouth against hers.

She pushed, hit him, struggled—but as always, she melted just as suddenly, kissing him back with the same fierce desperation that fueled their arguments. Fire and ice—every day, every night.

"I hate you," she breathed when he finally let air between them.

"I feel the same," he murmured against her lips, lifting her thigh to his hip, unable to hide how much he needed her.

"I'm beginning to hate you, Gabrielle... but I hate myself more. For loving you despite everything." His forehead rested on hers, tears pooling in his eyes.

"You're hurting me," he whispered hoarsely. "In more ways than you know."

Her anger faltered. Guilt struck. She knew she'd disappeared after her father's death—left him, left everything, left himto clean up the pieces. She had shut him out of her world entirely.

"It's too much, Gabrielle..." he said, his voice cracking as his tears fell.

She cupped his cheek, wiping his tears with trembling fingers before leaning into his chest.

"I know what you did..." she whispered. She had found out he'd fired dozens of her father's employees—some older than she was—all because he knew she'd return to confront him.

"Firing innocent people just to drag me back is cruel, Vince," she said softly. "You can't treat people like that."

"Do whatever you want," he said quietly. "You're the only one who can stop me. I didn't marry you just for business—you know that. But you push me past every limit."

He looked at her one last time, pain deep in his eyes, before storming out.

Leaving her breathless. Leaving her shaken. Leaving her painfully aware of how much she missed the way he said her name.

She stared at the door, wiping her tears. She had known this moment would come—that he would demand she hold up her end of the deal, that she would have to step into her inheritance.

She glanced at her father's desk and spotted an envelope beside a draft article. She opened it—and gasped.

Photos of her in Adrijan's arms. Photos from various nights out. Photos of her drunk, dancing on strangers. She couldn't even remember some of them. She had been too lost... too broken... too desperate not to drown.

And now—Vincent had seen it all.

"Flirting and lap dancing with ten other men," he'd said.

The words struck her now with their true weight. He wasn't indifferent. He was jealous. Hurt.

And if she ever saw Vincent in those kinds of photos—with his ex or with anyone—she would feel sick.

She looked at the door again.

She had made a decision.

Now she would act on it.