It was at a private art gallery that she first acknowledged him.
Anastasia had been studying a painting—an intricate masterpiece that depicted a battlefield bathed in the light of a dying sun—when she felt it.
The weight of his gaze.
She didn't turn immediately. She didn't need to.
She already knew who it was.
Vincent stood just a few feet away, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hands in his pockets as if he had every right to be there.
She should have walked away.
She should have left without a word, without a glance, without giving him even a sliver of acknowledgment.
But instead, she spoke.
"I don't remember inviting you here."
Vincent's lips curved slightly, but his emerald eyes held no humor. "You didn't."
She turned then, facing him fully. "And yet, here you are."
He took a step closer. "And yet, you're speaking to me."
For a single moment, the world around them ceased to exist.
It was just the two of them, standing in the middle of a silent war neither of them was willing to admit they were fighting.
Then, as if the moment had never happened, Anastasia turned away and walked past him without another word.
She had given him an inch.
She would not give him more.