The day Vincent arrived at the Vasiliev estate was like no other. The grand halls were prepared with an air of formality, servants bustling around to ensure everything was perfect. Anastasia's heart beat faster with each passing minute. She had lived in a world of expectations and duty her whole life, but this moment, this meeting, felt like it would be the tipping point—the moment everything would change.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, waiting for Vincent's arrival. The sound of the large front doors opening echoed in the mansion, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps. And there he was, dressed impeccably as always, his tall figure cutting through the air like a presence no one could ignore.
Vincent's eyes found hers immediately, and for a brief moment, the world outside the mansion seemed to fall away. The understanding, the bond, the secret they shared—it was all there in the way he looked at her. And yet, despite the intimacy that had bloomed between them in private, they both knew that today was not about them. It was about their families—about the future that was slowly but surely being forged.
Her parents, seated at the long dining table in the next room, had already been informed of his arrival. As Vincent stepped forward into the room, the tension was palpable. It wasn't just a formal dinner; this was the moment where everything would be laid bare, in one way or another. They all knew it, and Vincent, ever the master of control, did not break the tense silence that followed his entrance.
Lucian Vasiliev stood, his gaze unwavering as Vincent approached. The two men exchanged a look that held a thousand unsaid words—a recognition, perhaps, of the power each held, and the weight that burdened both of them. Despite the underlying tension, Lucian gave a small nod of respect.
"Vincent Blackwood," Lucian spoke, his voice a perfect blend of authority and politeness. "It's been too long."
Vincent bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, his usual smile absent. There was no need for pleasantries at this point. His eyes briefly flicked to Anastasia, a moment of connection that only they understood. But then he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
"Mr. Vasiliev," he replied smoothly, his tone neutral but steady. "It's an honor to finally be invited into your home."
Her father motioned for him to sit, and the dinner proceeded with careful formality. It wasn't until the main course was served that the real conversation began.