Vincent had always known that his obsession with Anastasia was beyond reason. It had been there since childhood, an all-consuming, suffocating force that controlled every decision he made. She had been the untouchable angel in his world, the only person who mattered, the only person who could matter.
He had spent years chasing after the mere shadow of her attention, suffering in silence while she remained indifferent to his existence. He had followed her without question, accepted her coldness, endured her cruelty because it was better than nothing at all.
But now, everything had changed.
She had kissed him.
The moment her lips had touched his, Vincent had felt something inside him break. A fragile, trembling piece of himself that had spent years pretending to be human, pretending to be in control, pretending that he could live without her.
That illusion was gone now.
Anastasia had given him a taste of something he could never let go of.
And now, he was drowning in the madness of wanting more.
His mind was no longer his own.
Every second of the day, every breath he took, was consumed by her. He could still feel her lips against his, the ghost of her touch burning into his skin. He could still hear the silent command in the way she had kissed him—possessive, claiming, a reminder that he belonged to her.
But if he belonged to her, why wasn't she here?
Why wasn't she coming to him?
Why wasn't she looking at him?
The realization made his blood boil. It didn't matter that Anastasia had kissed him. It didn't matter that, for one fleeting moment, she had allowed him to have her. What mattered was that after that moment, she had simply walked away.
As if it was nothing.
As if he was nothing.
Vincent had spent years suffering in silence, but this?
This was unbearable.
He had expected her to acknowledge him after that night. To show even the slightest sign that she felt what he felt. But instead, she had disappeared again. She had not reached out, had not let their paths cross, had not done anything at all.
It was as if the kiss had never happened.
But Vincent knew better.
It had happened.
And if Anastasia thought she could simply pretend otherwise, she was wrong.
He could not let it go.
He would not let it go.
But what could he do?
He could not force her to look at him. He could not drag her to his side and demand her attention. She was Anastasia. She would kill him before she ever bowed to anyone.
And so, Vincent suffered.
His mind spiraled further and further into chaos, his once-calm composure shattering into nothingness. He barely slept. He barely ate. He ignored the world, moving through life as if in a trance.
The cameras, the flashing lights, the screaming fans—it was all meaningless noise.
Why should he care about any of it?
They were nothing compared to her.
Nothing compared to his Anastasia.
But she was not here.
And the agony of her absence was unbearable.
So he did the only thing he could do.
He turned to violence.
Vincent had always been capable of cruelty, but he had never been like his father. His father killed because he enjoyed it, because it was second nature to him, because power and blood were all that he understood.
Vincent was different.
He did not enjoy violence.
But right now, it was the only thing keeping him sane.
It was the only thing that made the agony stop.
He had not gone looking for a fight, but the world had never lacked fools. Someone had made the mistake of challenging him. Someone had spoken his name with disrespect. Someone had looked at him the wrong way, and before Vincent had even realized what he was doing, there was blood on his hands.
And for the first time in weeks, he could breathe again.
But it wasn't enough.
Because the moment passed, and the pain returned. The unbearable ache of missing her, of needing her, of knowing she was somewhere out there and choosing to ignore him.
Vincent had always believed he was in control.
But not anymore.
Not when he was spending his nights with blood on his hands, his mind lost in the chaos of what she had done to him.
Not when he found himself standing outside buildings he had no reason to be near—places where he knew she was, places where he almost let himself walk in, just to see her.
Not when he was barely human anymore.
One night, Vincent found himself staring at his reflection.
The man looking back at him was not the Vincent Blackwood the world adored.
He was not the perfect actor, the idol, the businessman's son.
He was something else entirely.
His green eyes were darker now, empty yet burning with something dangerous. His once-perfect composure was gone, replaced by a madness he could not contain.
This was not the Vincent the world knew.
This was not even the Vincent he knew.
This was something worse.
A man who had lost everything and would do anything to get it back.
But had he lost her?
No.
She was still his.
She had proven it the night she kissed him.
She was testing him. That was all.
She wanted to see if he could endure it. If he could survive without her. If he was worthy of her.
Fine.
He would endure it.
For now.
But soon, she would have to acknowledge him.
She would have to see him.
She had to.
Because he would never stop chasing her.
And in the end, she would always be his.