Anastasia had always known that Vincent was relentless.
She had seen it in the way he rose to the top of every field he touched, from business to entertainment to power itself. She had felt it in the way his gaze followed her—never wavering, never faltering. She had known it when he refused to bow, refused to break, refused to let go.
But this—this was something different.
This was no longer the quiet patience of a man waiting for his victory.
This was war.
And she was standing at the center of it.
It had started slowly, subtly.
Vincent had stopped sending flowers. He had stopped making direct moves, stopped chasing after her like a man trying to win a battle already lost.
Instead, he had changed his approach entirely.
He had begun appearing in places he had no business being—exclusive business gatherings, high-profile galas, events meant only for the most elite of elites. And yet, there he was, always within reach, always near enough for her to feel his presence but never close enough for her to push him away.
He never spoke to her directly.
He never approached first.
He simply existed in her space, a constant reminder that he was not going anywhere.
At first, Anastasia ignored it. She told herself it didn't matter. She continued on as if his presence was nothing more than background noise.
But Vincent was patient.
And patience was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a man who had already lost once and refused to lose again.