.Anastasia never ran from anything.
But she had mastered the art of walking away.
Without hesitation, she turned, her movement so smooth it was almost ethereal, the soft rustling of her silk gown barely audible over the murmuring crowd. Her heels clicked softly against the polished marble floor as she headed toward the open balcony doors, her posture relaxed, effortless—yet every step was a calculated retreat.
The moment the cool night air kissed her skin, she breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp, untainted breeze, a sharp contrast to the suffocating opulence of the ballroom.
Beyond the doors, the Raventhorn Estate Gardens stretched endlessly under the moon's silver glow—a masterpiece of manicured hedges, ancient marble statues, and pathways lined with white roses that bloomed only at night.
She moved without hurry, her steps unbroken, but she was not alone.
She could feel it.
The presence that followed.
It was subtle at first—a shift in the atmosphere, a heat at her back.
Vincent.
He had noticed.
Of course, he had.
Anastasia almost smirked.
He always noticed.
But he wouldn't call after her.
He wouldn't demand her attention, wouldn't ask where she was going, wouldn't plead.
Because Vincent Blackwood never begged.
Instead, he did exactly what she expected—he followed.
Anastasia didn't turn to look. She didn't need to.
She could hear him.
His footsteps—measured, unhurried, patient.
There was no urgency in his chase, but that only made it more intense—the kind of pursuit that didn't need speed to be suffocating.
He let her have her head start.
Because he knew she wasn't truly running.
Because he knew she wanted this game as much as he did.
The distance between them was deliberate—a whisper of space, a taunt.
Vincent's presence was not loud, but it was impossible to ignore.
It was a constant, a force that refused to be erased, a shadow that refused to be outrun.
And Anastasia hated it.
Hated how effortlessly he could match her pace.
Hated that even as she walked forward, he was always just behind her.
Unshaken. Unmoved. Unstoppable.
She passed the white rose bushes, the scent of their delicate petals thick in the cool night air. A gentle breeze ghosted against her exposed shoulders, carrying the faintest rustling of leaves. The marble pathways gleamed under the soft glow of golden lanterns, their light flickering, casting long shadows.
The silence between them stretched—not empty, but heavy.
A tension. A conversation without words.
He was waiting.
Waiting for her to turn.
Waiting for her to acknowledge him.
Waiting for her to break first.
Anastasia's lips curled slightly—not in a smile, but in something close to amusement, close to irritation.
He was testing her.
She wouldn't give in.
Not tonight.
Not now.
So she kept walking.
And he kept following.
Like the inevitable. Like the night chasing the day.
Like something she could never escape.
Until finally—she reached the marble fountain at the heart of the garden.
Only then did she allow herself to turn.
And when she did—Vincent was already there.
Standing just behind her.
Waiting.
Watching.
The air between them crackled.
The world felt smaller.
More suffocating.
And Anastasia—for the first time in her life—was not sure who had won this round.
4o