The world had watched him rise.
The world had watched him fall.
And now, the world would witness his rebirth.
Vincent Blackwood, the second son of the world's second-richest man, the "God of Beauty," the most mysterious and unattainable man in existence, had once lost himself in his descent into madness. He had abandoned everything, surrendered his very soul to his obsession, and yet, despite all of it, he still followed her.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
The only one who had ever mattered.
She stood before him, surrounded by the soft glow of the ballroom's golden chandeliers, her beauty so devastating that it was almost inhuman. Her snow-white skin, golden hair, and sapphire-blue eyes made her seem like something from a dream, something that could never belong to this world. She was beyond reach, beyond comprehension—yet she had always been his sole reason for existence.
And now, here they were again.
Everything was the same as that fated night, yet everything had changed.
The roses were no longer white.
The soft purity of those days had been stripped away, replaced by something much darker, much richer. The ballroom was adorned with deep red roses, their scent thick in the air, intoxicating, suffocating. They were the color of love, of desire, of passion so fierce it could consume everything in its path. But more than anything, they were the color of blood.
A silent declaration. A warning. A promise.
Vincent had changed.
The man who stood before her was no longer the quiet, patient boy who had once followed her every step, waiting for her to acknowledge him. That Vincent had been devoured by the very obsession that had kept him alive. And yet, despite all of it, he was still here.
Still hers.
Anastasia moved through the crowd, her expression unreadable, her every step calculated, measured. The elite whispered as she passed, their eyes flickering between her and Vincent. Everyone had noticed the shift—the silent war that had raged between them for months, the absence of roses, the distance that had stretched between them like a thin, fragile thread.
And now, they were about to witness its conclusion.
Vincent was waiting for her.
He had not approached her.
For the first time in his life, he had not chased after her.
He had merely watched, his eyes never straying, his body tensed with something unreadable. It was not fear. Not hesitation. It was something far more dangerous—something unshakable.
He was waiting.
Waiting to see what she would do.
And she knew it.
Anastasia reached him, stopping just a breath away. The scent of roses clung to the air between them, thick and oppressive, yet neither of them moved. The world had faded, reduced to nothing but the weight of their silent confrontation.
It was a battle, though no words were spoken.
Vincent's emerald-green eyes searched hers, desperate, aching, but still unwavering. She could see it in him—the torment, the madness, the months of longing that had nearly driven him to ruin. He had burned for her, suffered for her, bled for her.
But he had never turned away.
And that was why, this time, she was the one who moved first.
With slow, deliberate precision, she reached forward, her fingers curling around the silk of his tie. A slight pull. A subtle demand. And then, without warning, she pulled him down—closer, closer, until their faces were mere inches apart.
Vincent did not resist.
He never would.
The tension was unbearable, the air between them thick with something indescribable. And then, in a single, earth-shattering moment—
She kissed him.
It was not soft. It was not hesitant.
It was a claim.
A provocation.
A challenge.
Vincent froze.
For the first time, he, who had always been in control, always composed, felt something inside him snap. His hands shot up, gripping her waist, pulling her against him as if he feared she would disappear the moment he let go.
And then, he kissed her back.
The moment their lips met, the world collapsed.
The murmurs of the elite, the gasps of shock, the prying eyes—all of it vanished into oblivion. There was only this moment, only this kiss, only this unbearable, uncontrollable fire that had been ignited between them.
Vincent was not gentle.
How could he be?
Not after everything. Not after the months of agony, the silence, the uncertainty, the madness that had consumed him whole. Not after losing himself entirely, only to find himself here again, standing before the only person who had ever mattered.
His grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of her gown, as if desperate to remind himself that this was real. That she was real. That after everything, she was still here, standing before him, choosing him.
Anastasia did not pull away.
She did not falter.
She had made her decision.
And Vincent was going to make sure she never regretted it.
The kiss deepened, raw and unrestrained, a culmination of everything they had left unsaid. It was a war, a battle of wills, neither willing to surrender, neither willing to break. But in the end, there had never been a question of who held the power between them.
Anastasia had always known.
And Vincent had always been willing to surrender to her.
As the kiss broke, as their lips parted, as the world slowly came back into existence, Vincent's breath was heavy, his eyes dark with something primal. He looked at her as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, as if she were the very air he breathed.
And then, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, he spoke.
"You finally caught me."
Anastasia tilted her head, her gaze steady, unwavering.
"You were never running."
Vincent let out a breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only relief. Only the quiet, devastating truth that he had never truly belonged to himself.
He had always belonged to her.
And now, she had finally acknowledged it.
As they stood there, surrounded by red roses, beneath the golden glow of the ballroom's lights, there was only one undeniable truth.
The world had watched Vincent rise.
The world had watched him fall.
And now, the world would watch him burn.
Because Anastasia had kissed him.
And nothing would ever be the same again.