The world had not changed, yet everything had shifted. Months had passed, and the inevitable had finally arrived. The grand ballroom stood, untouched by time, yet holding within its walls a story that had long remained unfinished. It was a place of power, of influence—where the richest and most influential families gathered, veiled under the pretense of civility, but all too aware of the silent wars waged through whispers and gazes.
This was where it all began. And now, it was where it would begin again.
Anastasia stepped into the ballroom, her heels clicking softly against the polished white marble floor. The grand chandelier cast a warm golden glow over the hall, reflecting off the crystal glasses and the expensive jewelry adorning the elites who moved with elegance, masked in false smiles. She had been here before, under the same dazzling lights, surrounded by the same people who hid their greed behind polite conversation.
But tonight, something was different.
The roses.
No longer pure white, no longer symbols of something fragile and untouchable. This time, the roses were red.
Crimson petals lined the walls, weaved into the garlands that framed the pillars, arranged in elaborate bouquets on each table. The air carried their scent—rich, intoxicating, and heavy with meaning. Red roses. The color of love. The color of blood.
She knew who had changed them.
And as if summoned by her very thoughts, he was there.
Vincent Blackwood stood across the ballroom, watching her as if she were the only thing that existed in the room. Time had changed him. The boy who once followed her in silent devotion was no more. In his place stood a man whose obsession had only grown deeper, whose gaze no longer held the desperate need to be seen but the quiet certainty that she was his.
He had lost himself, yet his devotion remained.
He had abandoned everything, yet he still followed her.
Vincent moved through the crowd with a grace that made it seem as if the world parted for him. Dressed in a black suit tailored to perfection, his presence alone was enough to command attention. The elites whispered among themselves, murmuring about his unparalleled rise in fame, his absolute dominance over the industry, his ever-growing influence. But he heard none of it.
His world had narrowed down to one person.
Anastasia.
She turned away, pretending not to notice the way his steps matched hers, just like that time. But her heart betrayed her, hammering against her ribs as he came closer. Every fiber of her being was aware of his presence, of the way his emerald-green eyes bore into her, never straying, never wavering.
It was inevitable.
They stood face to face, just as they had before. The memory of their first encounter in this ballroom played in the back of her mind—the way he had followed her, the way she had tested him, the way he had proven himself by never looking away.
But tonight, the game was different.
Tonight, she was the one who made the first move.
Without a word, she reached for him, her fingers curling around his tie, pulling him down to her level. The air between them was electric, charged with something dangerous, something inescapable. She could see it in his eyes—the madness, the longing, the devotion that had consumed him entirely.
And then, she kissed him.
A claiming. A provocation. A challenge.
Vincent did not hesitate. The moment her lips brushed against his, he reacted with the fervor of a man starved for too long. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him as if he feared she would disappear if he let go. The kiss was not gentle—it was raw, intense, filled with all the emotions that had been buried beneath months of silence.
The ballroom fell away. The whispers, the stares, the judging gazes of the elite no longer mattered.
At that moment, there was only them.
And for the first time, Vincent did not have to chase her.
She had come to him.