Vincent wasn't attached to his house, his cars, his robots, anything. At any given moment, he could pack up and leave everything behind without a second thought as long as he had his money and his brain. Being possessive had never done any good for anybody. It was yet another form of sentimentality.
But Maya had changed him. He couldn't up and leave her.
She was his wife. His partner in crime. His friend. One common thread ran through all of those roles: the fact that she was HIS.
He had never had anyone like that before. Not really. At least not that was still alive. The last person he could claim any real possessive connection to died when he was three years old. The last person who had cared about him before Maya.
