The world outside was oblivious to what was unfolding between them, to the silent battle of wills and the war of emotions neither could fully understand. In the eyes of the world, they were untouchable—two untouchable sovereigns who stood above all. But here, in the space between them, there was no wealth, no power, no logic. Only something far more dangerous.
Anastasia stood before the grand floor-to-ceiling window of her private estate, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight. She had dismissed the staff hours ago, knowing she wanted to be alone. Or at least, she had thought she wanted to be.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss she had given Vincent.
A moment of impulse. A decision that should have meant nothing. And yet, it haunted her.
She should not have cared. She did not care.
Then why did the memory of his warmth still linger?
Anastasia's fingers grazed her lips, almost absentmindedly. The thought that she had given him something he had desperately craved should have satisfied her. He belonged to her—always had. There was no need for her to claim him because he had already given himself up willingly.
Yet, something about that moment unsettled her.
She had always been in control. But that kiss… it had been something else entirely.
It had been a taste of destruction.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile silence.
She did not need to ask who it was.
"Come in."
The door opened, and there he was—Vincent Blackwood, the man who had shattered empires with his mere existence, the man feared and revered in equal measure. But right now, he was just a man who had lost himself to obsession.
He did not speak at first. He simply stood there, his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that could devour.
Anastasia turned fully, arching a brow. "You didn't send roses this time?"
Vincent took slow, deliberate steps toward her. He was dressed in black, his presence like a shadow stretching toward her. There was something different in his demeanor tonight.
No grand gestures. No desperate attempts to impress her.
Just him.
"I came myself," he said finally, his voice a quiet storm. "Would you rather have the roses?"
Anastasia tilted her head. "I already told you. If you ever let another woman close to you, I'll kill you."
Vincent's lips curled at the edges, a ghost of a smirk. "I know."
"Good," she murmured.
For a moment, silence stretched between them again.
Then Vincent moved.
He was close before she could react, his fingers grazing her wrist—not forcefully, but enough for her to feel the restrained desperation beneath his touch.
"Anastasia," he murmured, her name a reverent whisper.
She did not pull away.
She could feel the hunger in his eyes, the madness that simmered beneath his carefully controlled exterior.
"I lost," he admitted, his voice lower, raw. "I lost to you. And I don't regret it."
Anastasia stared at him, silent.
"But…" Vincent's grip tightened ever so slightly. "One day, I will win."
Her lips curled into the faintest of smirks. "You say that as if I would ever allow it."
Vincent exhaled, something dark flashing through his gaze.
"You will," he said, with an eerie certainty. "Because, Anastasia, there is no one else in this world for you. Just like there is no one else in this world for me."
Anastasia studied him, her own reflection glimmering in the depths of his green and hazel eyes.
And then she leaned in—not to kiss him, but close enough that their breaths mingled.
"If you think I will ever fall for you," she whispered, "then you don't know me at all, Vincent."
Vincent's hand slid to the small of her back, his touch still light, still waiting for her to allow more.
"Maybe you're right," he murmured. "But it doesn't matter."
"And why is that?"
"Because I don't need you to fall," Vincent said, his voice a whisper of sin and devotion. "I just need you to stay."
For the first time in a long time, Anastasia felt something foreign and unfamiliar bloom in her chest.
Something she did not recognize.
Something dangerous.
Vincent leaned closer, and for a fleeting second, she thought he would kiss her.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stepped back, his smirk returning, though there was something darker behind it.
"Goodnight, Anastasia."
And then, just like that, he turned and walked away.
Anastasia did not stop him.
But as the door closed behind him, she realized something.
Vincent had changed.
And for the first time, she did not know if that was a good thing… or a dangerous thing.
Because men like Vincent Blackwood did not simply let go.
No—he was merely waiting.
And one day…
He would come back for her.