Two months had passed.
Two months since that night. Since Vincent had walked away without a fight. Since Anastasia had stood in the silence of her room, feeling an unfamiliar weight settle in her chest.
She had dismissed it. Of course, she had.
Vincent was hers. There had never been a question about that.
But the way he had looked at her that night—the quiet, unwavering confidence in his words, in the way he claimed he didn't need her to fall, only to stay—had unsettled something in her.
Not because she doubted his devotion.
But because, for the first time, she felt as if she had lost something she couldn't name.
Now, standing in the grand ballroom of her estate, surrounded by luxury and power, Anastasia turned eighteen.
The chandeliers bathed the room in golden light, reflecting off the shimmering crimson and gold decor. The air was thick with the scent of roses—not white this time, but deep red.
She knew who had sent them.
Vincent had not appeared yet.
But he was here.
She felt it.
She could always feel him.
She stood at the center of attention, a vision in a black gown embroidered with silver threads, diamonds glistening at her throat. She accepted the greetings, the reverence, the admiration with the effortless grace she had been born with.
But beneath the surface, she was waiting.
And then—
He came.
The shift in the air was immediate.
Conversations faltered, eyes subtly flickering toward the entrance, where he stood.
Vincent Blackwood, the man the world both worshiped and feared.
Dressed in an all-black suit, his sharp features even more defined under the golden glow of the chandeliers, he walked forward with an unhurried, effortless grace. His presence was commanding—more than ever before.
Anastasia had not seen him in two months.
And yet, nothing about him felt unfamiliar.
Except for one thing.
The madness in his eyes was no longer uncontrolled.
It was contained. Chained. Tamed, in a way that made him far more dangerous.
He had lost before.
But he was no longer a man who would lose.
Their eyes met across the ballroom.
And in that moment, everything else ceased to exist.
For everyone else, it was a mere second. A simple glance between two people who had known each other their entire lives.
But for them—
It was a battle.
A silent war of emotions, desires, and something neither of them had dared to name.
Then Vincent moved.
The crowd parted for him without hesitation, as if they knew better than to stand in his way.
Anastasia did not move. She did not break eye contact.
She waited.
And when he reached her, standing close enough that she could feel his warmth, his scent—wood, smoke, and something distinctly him—he finally spoke.
"Happy birthday, Anastasia."
His voice was smooth, controlled.
But she saw it—the obsession lurking beneath.
The dark fire that had never died.
Anastasia tilted her head slightly, her lips curving. "You didn't send a gift."
Vincent's lips quirked at the edges. "I did."
She arched a brow.
"The roses?"
"No," Vincent murmured. He leaned in just enough that only she could hear him.
"My patience."
Her breath stilled for a fraction of a second.
He pulled back slightly, watching her reaction.
Anastasia narrowed her eyes. "You think I wanted your patience?"
Vincent smirked. "No. But you noticed it."
Damn him.
Before she could respond, he extended his hand. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a request.
It was a claim.
The ballroom watched, silent anticipation crackling in the air.
She should have refused.
She should have reminded him that she did not obey commands.
But instead—
Anastasia placed her hand in his.
And the world seemed to hold its breath.
The music began, soft at first, then swelling into something deeper, more intoxicating.
He led her onto the dance floor, his movements as effortless as ever. But there was something different in the way he held her.
It wasn't desperation.
It was certainty.
His hand pressed against the small of her back, his grip just firm enough to remind her that she was his.
But Anastasia had never been someone to be possessed.
So she leaned in slightly, just enough to whisper against his ear.
"You think you've won something?"
Vincent chuckled, low and dark.
"I think," he murmured, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, "that I don't have to chase anymore."
A dangerous statement.
A declaration of war.
Anastasia smirked. "Then you're a fool."
His grip tightened, pulling her impossibly closer. "And you're still pretending."
Their gazes clashed.
And then—
She kissed him.
Right there, on the dance floor, in front of everyone.
The moment her lips pressed against his, she felt it—the sharp, uncontrolled intake of breath from Vincent.
He hadn't expected it.
Good.
Anastasia never gave what was expected.
The kiss was not soft. It was not delicate.
It was a claim.
When she pulled away, a murmur rippled through the room. Gasps. Shock. Uncertainty.
Vincent stood frozen for half a second, his eyes dark, unreadable.
Then—
He laughed.
A low, breathless sound, filled with something dangerous. Something victorious.
Anastasia tilted her head. "Now you think you've won?"
Vincent exhaled slowly, his hands still on her.
"No," he murmured, his voice thick with something almost feral.
"I think you just sealed your fate, Anastasia."
She smirked. "We'll see about that."
But for the first time…
She wasn't entirely certain who had won.