On the surface, Anastasia and Vincent resumed their usual roles with the flawless grace that everyone had come to expect. The world, always watching, saw only what was presented before them. To the media, to the people, to their families, nothing had changed.
Anastasia remained the cold, calculating heiress who had always been poised for greatness. She stood as the perfect heir to the Vasiliev legacy, her intelligence and beauty admired by all, her ruthlessness and power whispered about in hushed tones. She continued to be the symbol of purity, of ambition, of a woman who was destined to rule.
Vincent, on the other hand, was still the mysterious star. The idol-turned-actor who had captivated the world with his looks, talent, and enigmatic nature. Despite his fame, the questions around him remained—about his family, his true intentions, his future. People marveled at his brilliance but wondered why he had stepped away from the family business, choosing the spotlight of the entertainment industry instead.
Neither of them had ever been particularly open about their personal lives, but after that night, it became clear that they were even more closed off than before. Their interactions, though still public, had grown slightly colder, more distant—yet, to anyone looking on, this was nothing unusual. They had always maintained an air of secrecy, of detachment. And no one had ever suspected the deep connection that had blossomed between them.
There were rumors, of course. People whispered about the way they would often glance at each other from across a room, the subtle, unspoken understanding that passed between them. But these were just rumors—stories that didn't seem to add up. After all, no one could ever truly know what passed between two people who understood each other in a way that no one else could.