Chapter Text
A/N: Trigger warning! Mature content and gore death!
In the 1950s, Vincent, the new host of the talk show, is holding a corded microphone with the audience cheering for him and cameras flashing at him. He's in his new bright sea blue color suit with a black anchor pin on it.
"And a big thank you to my producers for giving me this chance." Vincent said, looking at the two men in charge with a smile. "I know I have some mighty big shoes to fill, but, I promise, you can trust me with your entertainment." he then smiled sinisterly.
The crowd ate it up, their cheers swelling as the house lights came up. In the midst of the standing ovation, Damari stood apart, her arms crossed over her notepad. She wasn't clapping. Her sharp, analytical gaze was fixed on the stage, her pen tapping a silent, impatient rhythm against her thigh. As a journalist for the city paper, she was here to review the debut of its newest, most talked-about personality, and so far, her notes consisted of words like "smug," "calculating," and "practiced charm."
Vincent's eyes, sharp and perceptive, swept over the adoring audience. They weren't just looking for adoration; they were scanning, assessing. They landed on her, a small island of stillness in a sea of motion. He noticed the press pass clipped to her jacket, the critical set of her jaw, and the distinct lack of applause. A flicker of interest, a challenge, sparked in his gaze. He held her stare for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before turning to blow a kiss to the cheering masses.
After the show, the studio buzzed with the energy of a successful premiere. Crew members were striking the set, and the two producers were slapping Vincent on the back, congratulating him. He accepted their praise with a practiced grin, but his attention was elsewhere. He excused himself, navigating the controlled chaos with an easy confidence, his target clear.
Damari was packing her things, ready to file her review. She could feel a presence before she saw it, a shift in the air that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
"Enjoying the after-party?" a smooth, confident voice asked from behind her.
She turned to find Vincent standing there, a few feet away, looking even more imposing up close. The sea blue suit was immaculate, and that small, knowing smirk was firmly in place.
"I was just leaving," she said, her voice professional and cool.
He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Ah, yes. The ever-diligent press. Tell me," he stepped closer, invading her personal space just enough to be a power play. "Did you like the show?"
Damari met his gaze without flinching. "It was good," she replied, the words polite but clipped. "The audience certainly seemed to think so."
"Good?" she thought, her inner voice dripping with sarcasm. "The man is a peacock in a cheap suit. All flash and no substance. He's so arrogant, he probably signs his autographs with a mirror."
Vincent's smirk widened as if he could hear her thoughts. "Just 'good'? Not 'groundbreaking'? Not 'a tour de force of modern entertainment'?" He feigned a look of mock disappointment. "You're a tough critic, Miss...?"
"Valor. Damari Valor," she supplied, closing her notepad with a snap. "And I prefer to save my superlatives for something that earns them."
A genuine, sharp-toothed grin replaced the smirk. "Well, Miss Valor," he purred, leaning in just a little more. "I like a challenge. I'll make sure you earn a whole new set of adjectives by the time I'm done."
He straightened up, giving her a small, theatrical bow before turning and walking away, leaving her standing there, flustered and more than a little annoyed. She watched him go, a scowl marring her features. The man was infuriating. But as she turned to leave, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was far from over.
The next morning, Vincent sat in his penthouse apartment, sipping a coffee and basking in the glow of his first rave reviews. He unfolded the city paper with a flourish, eager to see his name in print. He found the arts section and his smile faltered. There it was: "Vincent's Vaudeville: A Masterclass in Mirrors and Ego," by Damari Valor. He read the first paragraph and nearly shattered the coffee mug in his hand.
"Mr. Vincent arrives on the local scene with the subtlety of a brass band at a funeral. His performance, a hollow echo of true showmanship, is less a 'talk show' and more a monument to his own self-admiration. One must wonder if the host needs an audience, or simply a collection of reflective surfaces to fully appreciate his own performance. The only thing more polished than his shoes is his practiced, soulless grin."
He was offended. No, he was more than offended. He was incensed. How dare she? This... this ink-stained wench with a typewriter and a chip on her shoulder. He crumpled the paper in his fist, then smoothed it out, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. A challenge, indeed.
His first attempt at winning her over came that very afternoon. A massive, ostentatious bouquet of rare, blood-red roses arrived at the newspaper office. The card, written in elegant calligraphy, read: For the harshest critic, the most beautiful flowers. Perhaps they might soften your pen. - V.
Damari glanced at the flowers, sniffed once, and promptly had them delivered to the hospital reception desk with a note that read, For the patients. May they bring more joy than they did me. - D. Valor.
Undeterred, Vincent escalated. The next day, a sleek black car with a chauffeur was waiting for her after work. The driver held the door open with a stiff bow.
"Mr. Vincent sends his regards, Miss Valor. He has reserved a table for two at Le Ciel Bleu."
Damari arched a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Please inform Mr. Vincent that I have a prior engagement with my couch and a pot of coffee. And that my couch is far better company." She turned on her heel and walked to the bus stop, leaving the chauffeur gaping.
Vincent was now genuinely perplexed. This was not how things were supposed to go. He cornered her outside the newspaper building the following day, this time forgoing the flowers and cars for a more direct approach.
"I'm beginning to think you don't like me, Miss Valor," he said, blocking her path with that infuriatingly charming smirk.
"On the contrary, Mr. Vincent," she replied, not missing a beat. "I'm sure you're a perfectly delightful person. I simply have no professional interest in writing about delightful people. I write about what's real. And so far, all I've seen from you is a very expensive, very well-tailored illusion."
"An illusion?" he scoffed, genuinely affronted. "My show is the highest-rated debut in the station's history!"
"Ratings are a measure of popularity, not substance," she countered, tapping her notepad. "A circus is popular. A freak show is popular. That doesn't make it art."
He stared at her, his smirk finally faltering. No one had ever spoken to him like this. It was infuriating. It was... intriguing. He let out a short, sharp laugh. "You are something else, you know that?"
"And you," she said, stepping around him, "are still just a man in a blue suit. Try to be something more, and maybe you'll earn a better review."
As she walked away, Vincent watched her go, the challenge no longer just a game. He wanted to prove her wrong. He wanted to see that sharp, analytical gaze soften with admiration. He was going to earn his superlatives from Damari Valor if it was the last thing he did.
The following week, Damari found solace in the dim, smoky ambiance of "The Blue Note," a jazz bar tucked away on a side street. It was her thinking spot, the low thrum of the upright bass and the melancholic wail of a saxophone providing the perfect soundtrack for her work. She sat at a small corner table, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside her notepad, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sketched out ideas for her next big exposé.
Her focus, however, made her an unwitting target. A trio of slick-haired men in tight-fitting suits, smelling of too much cologne and cheap bravado, sidled up to her table.
"Well, look what we have here, boys," the leader drawled, leaning over her and invading her space. "A pretty little writer playing with her words."
Damari didn't even look up, just waved a dismissive hand. "I'm working."
"Come on, dollface," another one chimed in, nudging her notepad with his finger. "Take a break. We can show you a better time than a piece of paper."
"I said I'm busy," she repeated, her voice tight with irritation.
Their persistence was a mistake. The leader, growing tired of being ignored, reached out and grabbed her arm, his grip firm and proprietary. "Hey, I'm talking to you. You don't need to be—"
He never finished his sentence. With a fluid, explosive motion that was pure reflex, Damari dropped her shoulder, twisted, and used his momentum against him. She hooked her leg around his and heaved, flipping him clean over her shoulder. He landed with a deafening crash on top of their table, sending glasses and peanuts flying.
She shot to her feet, her eyes blazing with a fire that made the other two men take a step back. "I told you I wasn't interested!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the jazz music. "What part of 'get lost' do you Neanderthals not understand? Touch me again and I'll break something that won't grow back!"
The two standing men looked from their groaning, splinter-covered friend to the furious woman in front of them. Their shock quickly turned to anger. They cracked their knuckles, moving to flank her. The bar's patrons scattered, sensing a fight.
Damari squared her shoulders, ready for a brawl. She might be outnumbered, but she wouldn't go down easy.
Suddenly, a figure cut through the tense standoff like a knife. It was Vincent. He strolled through the bar as if he owned the place, his sea-blue suit a beacon of calm in the brewing storm. The men barely had time to register his presence before he was on them.
Without breaking stride, he grabbed Damari around the waist, hoisted her effortlessly over his shoulder, and kept walking. She let out a shocked yelp, her notepad clattering to the floor.
"Vincent! What the hell?! Put me down!" she shouted, pounding her fists against his back. "I had it handled!"
He ignored her, his long legs eating up the distance to the door. As they passed the bar, he delivered a sharp, stinging smack to her rear end. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Damari froze, a hot wave of embarrassment washing over her, followed by a surge of pure, unadulterated fury.
He stopped at the doorway, turning back to the stunned men. His charming smile was gone, replaced by a cold, menacing glare that promised pain. "If I ever see you near her again," he said, his voice low and dangerously soft, "if I even hear that you've thought about touching her... I will not be nearly as merciful as she was. Do we understand each other?"
The men, cowed by the sheer menace radiating from him, could only nod frantically.
Satisfied, Vincent carried Damari out into the cool night air and down the street. He finally set her down in front of a small, quiet café, his hands lingering on her arms as if to steady her.
She wrenched herself away, her face flushed with anger. "Are you out of your mind?! Don't you ever, ever do that again! And you hit me!"
"I saved your life," he stated flatly, his expression unrepentant. "Or at the very least, saved you from a police record and a trip to the emergency room. You were about to fight three men in a bar, Damari. That's not handling it, that's stupidity."
"I was doing just fine until you came along and manhandled me!" she shot back.
"You were about to get your head bashed in," he countered, his voice rising slightly. "Now, we are going to go in that café, we are going to have a cup of coffee, and you are going to sit there and be grateful that someone in this city still has a sense of self-preservation, even if you clearly don't." He gestured towards the café door with a sharp, decisive nod. "After you."
Damari seethed, but the fight had drained out of her, replaced by a weary resignation. He was right, and she hated it. With an angry huff, she pushed past him and into the café, the little bell above the door jingling her arrival like a sarcastic applause. He followed, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
They sat in a corner booth, the air thick with the scent of brewing coffee and old pastry. A waitress poured them two steaming mugs, and for a long moment, the only sound was the clink of porcelain against the table. Damari stared into her cup, her jaw tight. Vincent simply watched her, his earlier menace replaced by a calm, patient curiosity.
"So," he began, breaking the silence. "The flipping men over your shoulder. Where does one learn that?"
Damari glanced up, surprised by the genuine interest in his tone. "My dad. He was a cop. He believed his daughter should know how to handle herself, not just wait for a prince on a white horse."
"A sensible man," Vincent nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "I don't know much about my parents, but they thought I should know how to handle a ledger and a firm handshake. Clearly, one of us was better prepared for the real world."
A small, reluctant smile almost touched Damari's lips. "So the peacock in the cheap suit has a backstory."
"The peacock has a name," he corrected gently, not with offense, but with a quiet firmness. "And the suit is tailored, thank you very much. It's an armor, just like your... acrobatics."
"Armor for what?" she found herself asking, her professional curiosity piquing through her anger.
"For the world," he said simply, his gaze drifting to the window. "You put on a show. You give them what they want. You build a wall so high and so bright that no one can see the man behind it. They see the host, the performer, the personality. They don't see you." He looked back at her, his eyes startlingly clear. "It's a lonely way to live."
The words hung in the air between them, stripping away the layers of their public personas. In that moment, she wasn't just a cynical journalist and he wasn't just an arrogant host. They were two people who understood the cost of performance.
"Why do you do it?" she asked, her voice softer now. "The show, the... ego. Is it all just for ratings?"
He swirled the coffee in his mug, a thoughtful expression on his face. "At first, maybe. But now... it's about control. In a world that's chaotic and unpredictable, I can control my three square feet of stage. I can make people laugh, make them cheer. For one hour a day, I can create a little pocket of order. It's a power, I suppose."
"And the arrogance?"
He let out a short, genuine laugh. "That's not an act. I'm afraid that's all me." He winked, and this time, it didn't feel like a power play. It felt like a confession.
They talked for over an hour, the conversation flowing easily from their childhoods to their ambitions, from their favorite books to their mutual disdain for the city's corrupt mayor. She discovered a sharp, dry wit beneath the flashy veneer, and he found a fierce, passionate intelligence behind the cynical reporter's scowl. They were two sides of the same coin, both building walls to protect the parts of themselves that were most real.
When they finally left the café, the night air was cool and heavy. The sky, which had been clear when they entered, had opened up. A sudden, torrential downpour began, soaking the pavement in an instant. Damari hesitated under the small awning, but Vincent simply stepped out into the rain, a grin spreading across his face.
He turned back to her, holding out a hand. "Come on, Miss Valor. Live a little."
She looked from his outstretched hand to the rain-soaked street, a real smile finally breaking through her defenses. She took his hand, and he pulled her out into the downpour. The rain was cold, but it felt exhilarating. They walked slowly, not running for cover, letting the water plaster their hair to their skin and soak their clothes. They didn't speak. They just walked, hand in hand, through the empty, glistening streets, their smiles illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. It was the most real, unguarded moment either of them had had in a very long time.
Their rain-soaked walk marked a turning point. The war was over, replaced by a quiet, blossoming truce. Damari started attending his show regularly, but her posture changed. She no longer stood apart with her arms crossed. She'd find a seat in the front row, her notepad in her lap, but her pen was often still. She wasn't looking for flaws anymore; she was watching him. She saw the subtle cues, the way he'd play to a specific section of the crowd, the quick glance at the camera to check his timing, the genuine flash of amusement in his eyes when a guest told a particularly good joke. Her reviews began to change. "Vincent Finds His Footing," read one headline. "Beneath the Bravado, A Heartbeat," read another. She still called him out on his ego, but now it was framed as a charming flaw rather than a damning one.
Their outings became a regular thing. It started with a simple "thank you" coffee, then escalated to dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Italian place he swore had the best cannoli in the city. He'd show up at her office with a pastrami sandwich from her favorite deli, claiming he was "in the neighborhood" when his studio was on the other side of town. She, in turn, would drag him to dusty old bookshops and obscure foreign films, where he'd complain about the subtitles but secretly hang on to every plot twist.
It was during one of these outings that she saw a crack in his armor. They were at a small, informal jazz club, watching a young, nervous saxophonist take the stage for his first solo. The boy fumbled his first few notes, his face flushing with embarrassment. The crowd began to murmur. Without a word, Vincent stood up, walked to the edge of the stage, and gave the kid an encouraging nod and a small, genuine smile. He then turned to the audience and raised his hands, clapping in a steady, infectious rhythm. The crowd joined in, and the renewed wave of support seemed to give the boy the confidence he needed. He launched into a solo that was raw, passionate, and brilliant. When it was over, Vincent led the standing ovation.
When he sat back down, Damari looked at him, a new understanding dawning in her eyes. "That was... kind of you," she said softly.
He looked away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. "The kid had talent. Just needed a break." He fiddled with his napkin, a gesture so uncharacteristically bashful it made her heart flutter. "Everyone deserves a chance to be heard."
The vulnerability was intoxicating. It was a side of him he kept hidden, a quiet kindness that contrasted sharply with his public persona. She found herself seeking it out, treasuring these small moments.
The shift from friends to lovers was as natural and inevitable as the tide. It happened late one night after his show. He was walking her to her apartment, a comfortable silence settling between them. They stopped under her building's awning, the same spot where their dynamic had begun.
"Your review tonight," he started, his voice low. "You called my monologue 'witty and surprisingly self-aware'."
"It was," she smiled. "Surprisingly."
"I was thinking about what you said," he continued, stepping closer. "About control. About creating order." He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But with you... it's not about control. It's just... easy."
Her breath hitched. "Vincent..."
"I don't want to be just a headline to you, Damari," he whispered, his gaze intense and earnest. "I don't want to be 'the host' or 'the peacock'." He leaned in, his lips just a breath from hers. "I just want to be Vincent."
And then he kissed her. It wasn't a performance or a power play. It was soft, hesitant, and deeply real. It was a kiss that tasted of coffee, rain, and unspoken promises. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, a rare, unguarded smile on his face.
"Well," she murmured, her voice shaky. "I suppose I'll have to find some new adjectives for you."
He chuckled, pulling her into a hug. "Just make sure they're good ones, Valor."
From that night on, they were inseparable. He was still the arrogant, charismatic showman, and she was still the sharp, cynical journalist, but now they were in on the joke together. He would call her from his office, feigning a crisis of confidence just to hear her laugh. She would leave red pens on his desk as a teasing threat. They were two master performers who had finally found their one, true audience in each other.
Their courtship was a whirlwind of stolen moments and public spectacles. He dedicated a segment of his show to "the city's toughest, and fairest, critic," reading her glowing reviews aloud with a pride that was palpable even through the television screen. She, in turn, became his unofficial confidante, the one person he'd let his guard down with after the cameras were off. The love they built was a fortress, built from shared secrets and late-night conversations.
He proposed on a Tuesday.
It was utterly unromantic on the surface. They were in her small apartment, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and Chinese takeout boxes. He was trying to convince her that a story about a city councilman's misappropriated funds was "too boring" for the front page, while she argued that it was her civic duty to expose corruption.
"Damari, you have the flair for the dramatic," he sighed, leaning back on her couch. "You could be writing about spies and secret societies, not... missing petty cash."
"Truth is more interesting than fiction, Vincent," she retorted, not looking up from her notes.
He watched her for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration, a smudge of ink on her cheek. The argument, the apartment, the entire world faded away. All he could see was her. This was his real audience. This was his home.
"You're right," he said softly. She looked up, surprised by his sudden change in tone. He was kneeling in front of her, the takeout containers forgotten. In his hand was a small, velvet box.
"Vincent, what are you—?"
"Truth is more interesting," he interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. "And the truth is, I don't want to spend another day arguing with you about newspaper headlines unless I get to do it as your husband." He opened the box. Inside was a simple, elegant diamond ring, not ostentatious, but timeless. "I love you, Damari Valor. I have from the moment you told me I was a peacock in a cheap suit. Marry me."
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the sight of him, the man she had once dismissed, the man she now couldn't imagine living without. She let out a watery laugh. "It's a very nice suit," she whispered. "Yes. Of course, yes."
He slid the ring onto her finger, and the fit was perfect. He pulled her into a kiss, a deep, celebratory kiss that tasted of soy sauce and a future they had just sealed.
After she accepted, a new energy crackled between them. The playful bickering, the comfortable friendship—it had all been a prelude. He took her hand, his grip firm and possessive.
"My place," he said, his voice a low command that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. "Now."
His penthouse was everything she expected: sleek, modern, and immaculate, with a wall of windows that showcased the glittering city skyline. But as he led her inside, kicking the door shut behind them, the grand apartment felt smaller, more intimate, charged with an electricity that hummed in the air.
He didn't give her a tour. He spun her around to face him, his hands framing her face. "I've been waiting for this," he murmured, before his lips claimed hers.
This kiss was different from their first. It wasn't hesitant or sweet. It was hungry, demanding, a culmination of months of suppressed desire. His hands roamed her body, pulling her flush against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth with a possessive urgency that made her knees weak. She responded in kind, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his.
He backed her towards the expansive windows, the city lights a blur behind them. With a deft motion, he unbuttoned her blouse, his knuckles brushing against her skin. He broke the kiss, his eyes dark with lust as he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice hoarse. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her towards his bedroom, a large, minimalist room dominated by a king-sized bed with dark silk sheets.
He laid her down gently, his body covering hers. The rest of their clothes became a frantic, discarded pile on the floor. There was no more talking, only the sound of their ragged breaths and the rustle of sheets. He entered her slowly, his eyes locked on hers, and the world narrowed to the feeling of him, the overwhelming, rightness of their bodies joining together. It was a collision of two strong-willed souls, a passionate, tender, and fierce claiming that was both an ending and a beginning. In his arms, in his bed, she was no longer just the journalist and he was no longer just the host. They were just Vincent and Damari, two halves of a whole, finally, and completely, one.
The initial, overwhelming sensation of him filling her stole her breath. It was a slow, deliberate possession, a silent promise of everything to come. He stayed still for a moment, his weight a comforting anchor, his forehead resting against hers. The city lights glittering behind him became a backdrop of stars for their own private universe. In his eyes, she saw not the arrogant showman, but the vulnerable man who had blushed in a jazz club, the lonely boy who craved control. She saw all of him, and she loved him.
Then he began to move.
His first thrust was slow, experimental, a question she answered by arching her hips to meet him. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that vibrated through her entire being. He set a rhythm that was both tender and demanding, a deep, steady pace that built a fire low in her belly, coiling tighter with each stroke. His hands were everywhere, one tangled in her hair, holding her gently but firmly, the other tracing the curve of her hip, her waist, the line of her thigh, as if memorizing her by touch.
"You feel... incredible," he gasped, his voice rough with emotion. He shifted, changing the angle slightly, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through her. She cried out, her nails digging into the powerful muscles of his shoulders.
"Vincent," she breathed, his name a plea and a prayer.
He captured her lips in a searing kiss, swallowing her moans as he increased his pace. The slow, romantic tempo gave way to something more urgent, more primal. The bed, a silent witness to their union, began to rock in time with their movements. He was no longer holding back, his control finally snapping in the face of the overwhelming connection between them. He drove into her harder, deeper, his body a piston of raw power and need. The sounds of their coupling—the slap of skin, the headboard hitting the wall, their frantic gasps for air—filled the room, a symphony of passion more beautiful than any music.
He hooked one of her legs over his arm, opening her up to him completely, allowing him to reach a place so deep inside her it was almost painful in its intensity. The pressure built, a tidal wave of ecstasy gathering force, ready to pull her under. He reached between them, his thumb finding that sensitive, swollen bundle of nerves and circling it in time with his powerful thrusts.
That was her undoing.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a raw, dominant growl.
She forced her eyes open, her gaze locking with his. The intensity she saw there—the love, the lust, the raw, unguarded possession—was what sent her flying over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her with the force of a hurricane, her inner walls clenching around him as a wave of pure, blinding pleasure washed over her. She screamed his name, her body arching off the bed as she shattered into a million pieces.
The feel of her pulsing around him triggered his own release. With a guttural roar, he buried himself deep inside her, his body tensing as his own climax surged through him, hot and powerful. He collapsed against her, his body heavy and sated, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
For a long time, they lay there in a tangle of limbs, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The city lights continued to glitter outside, indifferent to the seismic shift that had just occurred in the penthouse above. He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, his arms wrapping around her possessively. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
"Damari," he whispered, his voice thick with a wonder she had never heard before.
She snuggled closer, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. "I'm here," she murmured, her voice sleepy and content.
They didn't speak anymore. There was nothing left to say. In the quiet aftermath, in the warm circle of his arms, Damari knew with a certainty that settled deep in her bones: she was finally, truly, home.
Their wedding was a lavish affair, covered by every major paper and televised for the nation to see. The charismatic host and the brilliant journalist, the city's golden couple. In the beginning, things were perfect. His career exploded with a velocity that was dizzying. He went from a popular talk show host to a producer, creating hit after hit. Within a few years, he owned his own television network. He was hailed as a visionary, a titan of industry, the "God of Entertainment." Damari was his partner, his confidante, the woman who kept him grounded.
But as his star ascended, a change began to creep in. He started coming home later, his expensive suits sometimes rumpled, his hair disheveled. There was a wild, frantic energy in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a look that was part exhaustion, part manic glee. He would often seem distant, lost in thought, his mind clearly still at the office. Yet, the moment he saw her, he would warm up. He would pull her into a hug, bury his face in her hair, and kiss her with a desperate intensity that was both reassuring and unsettling. She told herself he was just working hard, that the pressure of running an empire was immense.
She didn't know the darker truth behind his meteoric rise. She didn't know about the producer who "retired" to a remote country with no forwarding address, or the network executive who had a tragic "accident". She didn't see the trail of bodies that paved his golden road to the top, each one a calculated step in his bloody climb to the pinnacle of success.
One night, the strain finally broke her. He came home well past midnight, smelling of cigar smoke and something else, something metallic and coppery that she couldn't quite place. He was pacing their living room, his tie loosened, muttering about market shares and hostile takeovers.
"Vincent," she said softly, her voice cutting through his monologue. "Stop."
He paused, turning to her, his eyes still holding that manic gleam. "What is it, love? I've had a hell of a day."
"Have you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Or have you had another hell of a night? I don't know you anymore, Vincent. You're obsessed. You're never home. When you are, you're a million miles away. I see the change in you. I feel it."
His expression hardened, the warmth vanishing in an instant. "Don't start, Damari. Not tonight. I'm doing this for us. For you. So you can have anything you want."
"I don't want any of this!" she cried, gesturing around at the opulent penthouse. "I want my husband! I want the man I married, not this... this creature you're becoming!"
"This is who I am!" he roared, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "You think this is easy? You think they just hand you an empire? You have no idea what it takes to climb the ranks, the things you have to do! I have to shine, Damari! I have to be the brightest star in the sky, or I'm nothing!"
The words hit her like a physical blow. The cold, selfish ambition in his voice chilled her to the bone. Hurt and a profound sense of loss washed over her. "I see," she whispered, her heart breaking. "It was never about us. It was always about you." Without another word, she turned and walked towards the bedroom, needing space, needing air, needing to get away from the monster her husband had become.
The moment she walked away, the fire in his eyes died, replaced by a wave of immediate, gut-wrenching regret. He saw her retreating back, the slump of her shoulders, and it shattered him. He rushed after her, catching her just as she reached the door to the bedroom. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest, burying his face in her hair.
"No, no, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking with desperation. "I'm so sorry, Damari. I didn't mean that. I'm an idiot. I love you. I love you so much, and I mean it. Every word." He held her tighter, as if afraid she might disappear. "Please... just give me tonight. Let me handle one last thing. I promise, when I come back, I'll explain everything. All of it. Just... please don't leave me."
She could feel his heart hammering against her back, could hear the genuine terror in his voice. Her anger melted away, replaced by a weary, aching love. She turned in his arms, looking up at his face, seeing the man she loved beneath the desperate, haunted mask.
"Okay," she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Okay, Vincent. I understand. I love you too."
He let out a breath of pure relief, and kissed her. It was a deep, passionate, heartbreaking kiss, a promise and a plea all at once. He held her for a moment longer, then pulled away, his eyes lingering on hers as he backed towards the door.
"I'll be back soon," he promised.
She watched him go, her hand resting on the door. The moment it clicked shut, sealing her in the silent, opulent apartment, a profound sense of dread washed over her. She didn't know why, but as she stood there, alone in the home they had built, she knew with a chilling certainty that this was their last moment. That this was the last time she would ever feel his arms around her.
Meanwhile, Vincent is talking to the people who are part of his cult he secretly made with TVs everywhere as they're in an abandoned aquarium, standing in the middle of the floor full of water with Vincent on his throne.
"The other studios want to feed you the same old crap everyone's seen before. You want newer, you want bigger, you want brighter!" he encouraged them as the people sang the chorus.
Brighter!
"I will be your voice, and we will redefine what it means to rule the airwaves. Trust me, and your future will be brighter!" he continued on.
Brighter!
One of the TVs starts going loose from the broken cord.
"Now who's ready to be baptized into a new era of entertainment?!" Vincent asked loudly.
Brighter!!
The TV falls and lands on his head, making him wear it, as it electrocutes him to death along with the people who are part of his cult. Vincent let out a bloody murder scream in pain as everything along with the aquarium went black.
The knock on her door came. She woke up with hope that he's home. She rushed over and opened it, only ro see two officers. The moment she saw them, the world tilted on its axis. They didn't need to say the words. Their faces said it all. Vincent was dead. An accident, they said, at the old aquarium. A freak electrical malfunction. Her eyes widened in horror as tears starts spilling.
But that wasn't the worst of it. In the following days, the truth came out in a torrent of headlines more sensational than anything she had ever written. "God of Entertainment Was a Devil in Disguise," "The TV Tyrant's Bloody Reign," "Cult of Personality: Vincent's Reign of Terror Ends in Fire." They detailed everything. The murders, the blackmail, the cult of brainwashed followers he called his "viewers." He wasn't just a workaholic; he was a monster.
Damari was shattered, her grief a complicated, tangled mess. She was heartbroken, widowed, and the wife of a serial killer, all at once. The world saw a villain, but she saw the man who had blushed in a jazz club, the man who had held her in the rain, the man who had promised her a future. Even after learning the horrifying truth, a part of her couldn't stop loving him, couldn't stop missing the man she thought he was.
She attended his funeral, a small, sparsely attended affair overshadowed by public outrage. She stood alone, her black veil hiding her tears, mourning a ghost.
A month later, a visit to the doctor confirmed her suspicions when she had been getting suddenly sick recently along with her strange eating habit. She was pregnant. And not with one child, but two. A boy and a girl. The twins. It was the final, bittersweet piece of him she had left.
Knowing the city, the press, and her former colleagues would never let her live in peace, she made a decision. She quit her job, leaving the world of journalism behind. She packed a single bag, and with the help of a lawyer, she had the movers pack only a few precious things from the penthouse: his favorite armchair, a box of his old vinyl records, a photograph of them on their wedding day. She left the rest—the empire, the blood-soaked legacy, the empty, opulent home—behind.
She drove away from the city that had built them up and torn them apart, starting a new life in a quiet, forgotten town where no one knew her name. She was alone, heartbroken, and pregnant with the children of a monster, but she was free. And as she drove, she placed a protective hand on her swelling stomach, a silent promise to the new life growing within her. They would be her future now.
Four years later, Damari was a different woman. The sharp, cynical journalist was gone, replaced by a warm, tired, and fiercely protective mother. The small town called Dream Harbor she had chosen was a sanctuary, a place where the biggest news was a prize-winning pumpkin at the county fair. She walked down the sun-dappled main street, her hands held tightly by two toddlers—a boy with his father's sharp, intelligent eyes and a girl with his same mischievous grin. They were her world, her anchors in the life she had rebuilt from the ashes.
"Good morning, Damari!" called Mr. Henderson from his flower shop, waving a trowel.
"Morning!" she replied with a genuine smile.
"Hii! Hii! Good morning!" her twins, David and Matilda, shouted in unison, their tiny voices full of cheerful enthusiasm. The entire town had fallen in love with them, and they in turn loved the attention, waving and greeting every person they passed like long-lost friends.
As they neared the end of the street, Matilda suddenly dug her heels in, tugging insistently on her mother's hand. "Momma! Momma, look!" she pointed with a chubby finger towards the window of "Old Treasures," the local antique shop.
Nestled amongst dusty books and tarnished silver was a black music box with skull and demon decorations and a large pentagram on top of the cover with a keyhole in it. It has seven different colored gems—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and pink. It was beautiful, and it seemed to call to her. "Alright, sweetie, let's go see," Damari said, leading them into the musty-smelling shop.
The old shopkeeper, a woman with kind eyes and white hair, smiled as they approached. "Ah, the little ones have good taste. That one just came in. No one knows where it's from."
It was an impulse buy, a whim she couldn't quite explain. She paid the few dollars the shopkeeper asked for, and the woman also handed her a black heart key that had been found with it. Outside, on a bench by the town square, her children clamoring to see the "pretty box," Damari fitted the key into the lock. It turned with a soft click.
She lifted the lid.
There was no music. Instead, a blinding, nauseating flash of multi-colored light erupted from the box, engulfing them. The world dissolved into a sickening vortex of screaming color and disorienting vertigo. The scent of fresh-cut grass and sunshine was replaced by the acrid stench of sulfur and something burning. David and Matilda screamed in terror, clinging to her legs. Damari's heart hammered against her ribs as the light finally subsided and she felt solid ground beneath her feet again.
They were not in Dream Harbor anymore.
They stood on a cracked, cobblestone street under a blood-red sky that was perpetually twilight. Monstrous architecture, twisted and jagged, clawed at the heavens. The air was thick with smoke and the distant, cacophonous sounds of screams, jazz music, and maniacal laughter. Demons of all shapes and sizes, some humanoid, some beasts of pure nightmare, stalked the streets. This was Hell. The stories, the myths, they were all real.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. But it was immediately burned away by a white-hot surge of maternal instinct. Her children. She had to protect her children.
"Close your eyes, babies," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. She scooped them up, one under each arm, their faces buried in her coat. "Momma's here. Don't look."
She scanned the terrifying landscape, her mind racing. They couldn't stay here, out in the open. She spotted a narrow, foul-smelling alley between two buildings that looked like they were made of bone and obsidian. It was dark, it was disgusting, but it was hidden.
Without a second thought, she darted into the alley, her heart pounding with every step. She pressed herself and her children deep into the shadows behind a stack of rotting crates, her body a shield between them and the horrors of this world. David and Matilda were sobbing quietly into her shoulders, their small bodies shaking with fear. Damari held them tight, her own tears silently falling as she rocked them, murmuring promises she wasn't sure she could keep.
"It's okay," she lied, her voice a desperate whisper against their hair. "Momma's got you. I'll keep you safe. I promise." She was a mother alone in Hell, and she would tear this world apart before she let anything harm her children.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Hell, a certain old television head demon was having a hard time sleeping in bed as he tosses and turns. In his dream, he finds himself in a dark room back in his original human body as Vincent. He looks around, the familiar shape of his penthouse bedroom feeling both comforting and terrifying. He hears the soft click of the door closing and turns to see Damari standing there, her face a mask of horror and revulsion. Newspaper clippings of his crimes are scattered at her feet, the headlines screaming his guilt.
"Murderer," she whispers, her voice cracking with betrayal. "All this time... it was all a lie."
"No, Damari, no!" he pleads, rushing towards her, his human hands reaching for her. "I did it for us! For you!"
She flinches away from his touch as if he's poison. "Don't touch me. You're a monster. I don't know you." She turns and begins to walk away, her silhouette dissolving into the darkness. He tries to run after her, but his feet are rooted to the spot. The room stretches into an endless, black void, and her image gets smaller and smaller, until she's just a speck of light, and then nothing.
"DAMARI!" he screams, his voice echoing into the emptiness. He's still screaming her name when he jolts awake, sitting bolt upright in his bed. Cold sweat, or whatever the demonic equivalent was, beaded on the casing of his television head. He was breathing heavily, his internal fans whirring in a frantic attempt to cool him down. He clutched his chest, the phantom feeling of his human heart pounding violently still lingering.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window of his tower. He looked out at the sprawling, chaotic landscape of Hell, the neon glow of Pentagram City a chaotic tapestry below him. The nightmare was just that—a nightmare. A pathetic weakness. He pushed the image of Damari's disappointed face from his mind, replacing it with cold, hard ambition. He had a plan.
A slow, sharp-toothed smile spread across his screen. He needed to solidify his power, to expand his influence beyond the flickering screens he already commanded. He knew exactly who to talk to. He quickly changed his clothes. He was ready.
The jazz club was smoky and loud, a perfect place for a private conversation. Vincent slid onto the barstool next to Alastor, the Radio Demon, whose perpetual smile was as unsettling as ever up close.
Vincent leaned in, voice warm, animated.
"You're inspiring! Really! And when you think about it, modern entertainment actually started with radio."
Alastor set his drink down with a quiet clink, humming under his breath.
"Ah, am I boring you with my compliments?" Vincent rubbed the back of his head, almost shy.
"Perhaps," Alastor replied, though his tone carried amusement.
Vincent swallowed, gathering himself. "Well, look, I'll just get to the point. We've been close for a few years now, right? I mean, people know us, they love us. And with new Overlords popping up every day, and before you hit me with a—" He made a ridiculous Alastor impression that actually coaxed a chuckle out of Alastor. "'Well, you're pretty new yourself.' I know, okay, but I'm much more forward-thinking, so it's in your best interest to hear me out."
"I'm listening, pal." Alastor gestured toward the bartender. "Barkeep, another whiskey."
Vincent’s screens brightened as he smiled. The bartender slid a new whiskey across the counter and Alastor tossed a coin without blinking.
"So, I've been thinking, Alastor," Vincent began, tone hopeful, "with your incredible power and my massive influence, we would be unstoppable. Radio AND video. Me and you—we could rule Hell, together, as partners."
He extended a hand.
Alastor burst into sudden laughter.
Vincent froze, hand still outstretched.
“Oh, that’s—oh, you’re serious?” Alastor’s shoulders shook. “Ah-ha-ha, come now, Vox!” He buried his head in his arms, still laughing. “I knew you could be pathetic at times, but I didn’t realize you were so WEAK.”
“What?” Vincent chuckled weakly, trying to laugh it off.
Alastor slammed a hand onto the table. “Oh, fuck!” He laughed even harder. “You need me to join your team. And here I thought you might actually be approaching my level, but asking for assistance?? A partnership?” His grin sharpened cruelly. “I am quite disappointed in you.”
Vincent's screen dimmed. His posture wilted as he slowly sat back down, staring at his lap while his vision flickered.
“I—I just thought you know, since we’re friends—”
“FRIENDS?!” Alastor’s ears snapped up sharply. “There ARE no friends in Hell, Vincent! I thought that was something you understood. How embarrassing.”
The word landed like a blade.
Vincent’s screen glitched violently. His frown tightened. For a split second, a tear form at the corner of his glowing eye before anger washed over it like static. He shot up from his stool, his screen flashing a furious red.
"Fine! Fuck you, Alastor! I don't need you! I'll rule this shithole on my own!" He stormed out of the club, leaving the Radio Demon's mocking laughter echoing behind him.
He walked aimlessly through the chaotic streets, his anger slowly simmering into a familiar, hollow ache. He was an Overlord, a master of media and technology, yet he felt utterly, completely alone. He missed her. He missed the sound of her voice, the way she'd look at him, the feeling of her hand in his. He pulled at the collar, a phantom habit from when he used to loosen his tie.
As he passed a narrow alley, a faint, familiar sound drifted out, cutting through the din of Hell. It was a simple, tinny melody, the tune from a music box. His steps faltered. It couldn't be.
He peered into the darkness, and there she was. A silhouette, her back to him, her hair, her form... it was her. It was impossible. It was a dream. It had to be another cruel trick of his mind.
He took a hesitant step into the alley. "Damari?" he whispered, his voice a static-filled rasp.
She froze, then slowly turned. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her hand flying to her mouth. "Vincent...?" she breathed, her voice the same as he remembered.
He rushed to her, his hands reaching out to cup her face, his screen glowing with a disbelieving light. "It's you. You're here. How are you—"
WHACK!!
His internal systems registered a massive impact to his chassis. He doubled over, a loud, glitching cough of static and pain erupting from his speakers. He looked up, his screen displaying a shocked, pixelated question mark. Damari stood before him, her fist clenched, her eyes blazing with tears and fury.
"You selfish bastard!" she yelled, her voice echoing off the brick walls. "You left me! You died and left me alone! Four years, Vincent! I raised our children alone, thinking my husband was a monster who died in a cult! Everything is your fault!"
He stared at her, his processors struggling to catch up. "Children?" he glitched. Then his gaze fell to her hand, still clenched in a fist. On her finger was her wedding ring. His wedding ring. He slowly straightened up, his anger and pain replaced by a profound, bewildered hope. "You're... still wearing it."
Her anger deflated, replaced by a weary sadness. "Of course I am," she whispered, tears now streaming down her face. "I never stopped loving you, you idiot. Even after I found out what you did. I see you, Vincent. I still see you." She looked him up and down, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "And honestly? A TV head demon? It's fitting. You always did have the biggest head in the room." She reached up and gently tapped his screen before gripping the side of his screen a bit hard as she sneered at him. "But stupid! Ignorant like a child."
He stood frozen, his screen completely blank. No one had ever spoken to him like this. No one had ever seen him, the real him, through all the blood and ambition and technology, and still loved him. In that moment, he fell in love with her all over again, more deeply and completely than he ever had in life. He slowly approached her, making her back away until he had her back against the wall.
"Hey! Stop being so Vincent, Vincent! Shout, scream, say something!!" she cried out.
Vincent places a clawed hand against her cheek.
"You're as beautiful the day I lost you..." he whispered.
This made her tear up more as she lean into his touch. Then the two lean in and kiss. It started slow until she felt his tongue pushing inside her mouth, making her eyes widened in shock. Though she decides not to question it and leans more into the tongue kiss. Then the two pull away with a gasp, staring into each other's eyes for a moment.
Damari took a deep breath, her expression turning serious. "Come with me," she said, taking his hand. "There's someone you need to meet."
She led him deeper into the alley, to the small, hidden space behind the crates. Huddled together, peeking out with wide, curious eyes, were two small children—David and Matilda. They looked up at him, a mixture of fear and wonder on their tiny faces.
Vincent—Vox—stood utterly speechless. His internal systems crashed. His screen went black. Then, slowly, a single image appeared: a pixelated, heart-shaped emoticon. He had children. He had a family. He had everything.