The Raventhorn Gala was more than an event—it was a battlefield of power, where the world's most influential figures gathered under the pretense of elegance. Deals worth trillions were made with the clink of crystal glasses, and wars were both declared and averted with polite nods.
The ballroom was an architectural masterpiece, a towering expanse of wealth and history. Ceilings draped in gold-leaf designs, walls adorned with hand-painted murals from centuries past, and chandeliers dripping with diamonds—every inch of the venue exuded absolute supremacy.
But none of it mattered.
Because the moment Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev entered, the entire room forgot how to breathe.
She was more than a girl—she was a legend.
A living goddess sculpted in perfection.
Her golden-blonde hair was swept up in a loose cascade, strands falling with effortless grace around her flawless, snow-white skin. She wore a gown of white silk and diamonds, its fabric clinging to her perfect figure, flowing like liquid light with every step she took.
Every movement was a statement.
The world knew her as the only heir to the 1st and 3rd richest families on Earth—a girl so terrifyingly brilliant that governments feared her name, a beauty so breathtaking that kings and emperors would lay their empires at her feet.
Yet, she stood alone.
She was untouchable.
And she intended to keep it that way.
Until he arrived.
Vincent Blackwood.
The moment he stepped into the ballroom, the air shifted.
Men felt threatened. Women felt devoured.
He was lethal in beauty, effortless in presence—a man who needed no introduction, no announcement.
He didn't walk. He prowled.
His light brown hair, always effortlessly tousled, caught the glow of the chandeliers, and his green eyes—sharp, calculating, and burning with intensity—scanned the room until they landed on her.
The moment Anastasia felt his gaze, she knew.
She knew he was going to come for her.