The Raventhorn Estate Gardens had always been a place of silent beauty—an ethereal masterpiece of nature and art, carved into existence by generations of perfectionists. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of blooming night roses, their pale petals glowing under the moonlight. Lanterns flickered along the marble pathways, their golden light casting long, haunting shadows over the carefully sculpted hedges and towering fountains.
It was a place of secrets.
A place where the most powerful people in the world whispered conspiracies, where alliances were forged over glasses of blood-red wine, where confessions were exchanged under the cover of moonlight.
Tonight, it was a battlefield.
Vincent stood just a few feet away from her, his presence overwhelming in the stillness of the garden. The night breeze tousled the strands of his light brown hair, making it seem almost golden under the soft light. His green eyes—an impossible shade that seemed to glow with something untamed—held her in place, their depths unreadable.
Anastasia hated that.
Hated that she couldn't read him the way she read everyone else.
He was too still. Too composed. Yet, beneath that carefully sculpted exterior, she could feel it—the storm raging inside him.
She turned her head slightly, her golden hair cascading over one shoulder, her expression one of cold detachment. "You followed me."
It wasn't a question.
Vincent didn't deny it. He didn't move. He simply watched.
"Of course." His voice was low, smooth—an instrument finely tuned for control. But there was something beneath it tonight. Something raw. Something dangerous.
Anastasia raised an eyebrow. "Do you have nothing better to do than chase after me, Vincent?"
A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Apparently not."
She scoffed, folding her arms, letting the night breeze wrap around her exposed shoulders. "What do you want?"
Vincent took a step forward. Then another.
The sound of his polished shoes against the stone pathway felt deafening in the silence. He didn't stop until he was close—too close. A breath away.
"What do I want?" he repeated, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, gaze trailing over her as if memorizing every detail. "That's an interesting question, Anastasia."
She didn't move. Didn't step back. But her fingers twitched at her sides.
Because she knew that she should.
She should turn around and walk away.
She should end this game before it began.
But she didn't.
Instead, she met his gaze head-on, refusing to be the first to break.
Vincent's eyes darkened.
"Why did you leave the ballroom?" he asked, his tone unreadable.
Anastasia shrugged, tilting her chin up slightly. "I was bored."
A lie.
They both knew it.
Vincent let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low, almost dangerous. "Bored?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a single white rose. He twirled it slowly between his fingers, his gaze never leaving hers. "Then tell me… what would it take to keep you entertained?"
She stared at the rose, its petals flawless, pure, deceptive. Much like the man holding it.
A test.
She knew it was a test.
Everything between them always was.
And yet—this one felt different.
Deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.
Anastasia exhaled slowly, reaching out.
But just as her fingers grazed the soft petals, Vincent pulled it away.
Her gaze snapped up, narrowing.
Vincent smirked, but there was something almost obsessive in his eyes now. "Do you know what they say about white roses?"
Anastasia held his stare, her expression unreadable. "Enlighten me."
He lifted the rose between them, letting the moonlight catch on its delicate petals. "They symbolize something rare. Something unattainable. A love that is pure but impossible."
His voice was calm. His posture relaxed. But his grip on the rose was just a little too tight.
A little too possessive.
Anastasia's heartbeat slowed.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she understood exactly what he was trying to say.
Vincent never spoke in riddles.
Not with her.
Her fingers curled at her sides. "Are you saying you love me, Vincent?"
The words felt like a weapon, sharp and precise. A dangerous thing to unleash between them.
For a long moment, he didn't answer.
The silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating.
Then—he smiled. But it wasn't amusement. It wasn't even mockery.
It was something darker.
"I don't think you're ready for that answer."
Anastasia's breath hitched—just for a fraction of a second.
But Vincent caught it.
His smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with something almost triumphant.
Then, without another word, he lifted the rose one last time—before pressing it gently into her palm.
His fingers lingered.
His touch burned.
And then, just as smoothly, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Anastasia standing there, alone in the garden, a white rose clutched in her hand.
A surrender she never intended to make.