The ballroom was draped in crimson, a stark contrast to the last time she had stood here, when the world had been bathed in white roses. The air smelled of something heavier, something deeper—red roses, not white.
This time, the color of blood.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev walked with the same effortless grace that had always belonged to her, her presence commanding the attention of the room without a single word. She was a vision—perfection itself, as untouchable as ever, as unreachable as the moon in the night sky.
But she was not alone.
Vincent Blackwood was here.
She had known the moment she stepped into the room.
He did not need to speak. He did not need to move. His presence alone was enough, a force of gravity that could pull even the strongest into his orbit.
But Anastasia did not move toward him.
No, Vincent was the one who moved.
Just like before.
Just like always.
She felt him before she saw him.
A presence at her back. A shadow that followed her, just as he had followed her that night long ago when the roses had been white instead of red.
It was almost poetic.
History repeating itself.
But Vincent was different now.
The world had changed him. She had changed him.
She could feel it in the way he moved—like a man who had been burned alive and had crawled back from the ashes, his very existence a testament to his madness.
She turned, meeting his eyes.
Green, burning, relentless.
He looked at her like he wanted to consume her. Like he would rather destroy himself than ever let her go again.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him, but she did not step back.
He was waiting for something.
A reaction.
A rejection.
Perhaps even a cruel dismissal.
But Anastasia had never been predictable.
She took a step forward.
He did not move.
She took another.
And then, without a single word, without a moment of hesitation—
She kissed him.
She did not kiss Vincent because she was in love.
She did not kiss him because she longed for him.
She kissed him because she could.
Because he belonged to her.
Because no one else ever could.
Vincent had burned for her.
He had descended into madness for her.
And yet, even after everything, he was still here. Still hers.
That was enough.
Her lips pressed against his, claiming what had always been hers to begin with.
Vincent did not hesitate.
He responded with the desperation of a man who had been starved, his hands gripping her waist as if she might disappear the moment he let go.
She allowed it.
She let him hold her.
She let him drown in the moment.
But when she pulled away, her ice-blue eyes met his with an unmistakable message—
This changes nothing.
No one knew.
No one saw.
The world could not know. Not yet.
Vincent knew this.
He said nothing, only staring at her with that maddening intensity, waiting—hoping, perhaps, for something more.
But Anastasia gave him nothing.
She turned, walking away as if the moment had never happened, as if she had not just set the world on fire with a single kiss.
She did not look back.
Because she knew—
Vincent would come for her again.