.
The evening air was thick with the scent of rain, the storm from earlier leaving the world damp and glistening under the golden glow of the estate's lanterns. The grand Raventhorn estate loomed in the distance, a testament to untouchable power and unfathomable wealth, but Vincent wasn't thinking about that. His mind was fixed on one person—the girl who had unknowingly haunted his existence since childhood.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
She stood in the private garden at the heart of the estate, surrounded by dark roses that thrived in the moonlight. The air around her was unnaturally still, as if even the wind hesitated to touch her. She was beautiful, terrifyingly so, in a way that made the heart stutter and the mind falter. But Vincent wasn't like the fools who sang praises of her beauty. He knew better. He knew her.
Tonight, however, there was something different about her. Her presence was heavier. Her stillness more calculated. And Vincent, despite his unrivaled intelligence, felt a strange unease crawl under his skin.
"I thought I made it clear that I don't appreciate being followed," Anastasia's voice cut through the silence like a blade, cool and unbothered.
Vincent stepped forward, the soft crunch of damp gravel beneath his polished shoes echoing between them. He wasn't smiling. Not tonight.
"And I thought you knew me better than that." His voice was soft, dangerously so, but not in submission. In challenge.
Anastasia finally turned to face him, her oceanic blue eyes locking onto his with an intensity that had unraveled lesser men. There was no warmth in them, only the unreadable depths of something ancient, something dangerous. But Vincent didn't flinch. He had spent his whole life preparing for this moment. For her.
"Why are you here, Vincent?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. It wasn't curiosity. It was a test.
He exhaled slowly, allowing a smirk to ghost over his lips. "You already know why."
A flicker of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps something darker—flashed in her eyes. "Do I?"
His hands clenched at his sides. "I've been patient, Anastasia. I've played along with this little game of distance you insist on keeping between us. But it's tiring, don't you think?"
She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, her gaze unwavering. "And what exactly do you expect from me?"
Vincent's heart pounded, but his voice remained steady. "Acknowledgment."
That word lingered between them, heavy with unsaid things. He saw the subtle shift in her posture, the way her fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to move. But still, she did not speak.
A low chuckle escaped him, but it lacked humor. "Or is that too much to ask from the great Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev?"
She didn't react the way most would. She didn't lash out, didn't falter. Instead, a small, almost imperceptible smile curled at the edges of her lips. But her eyes remained as sharp as ever. "You truly are persistent."
"And you," he countered, stepping even closer, "are afraid."
For the first time, something flickered across her face. It was gone in an instant, but Vincent had seen it. And that alone was a victory.
"Tell me," he pressed, lowering his voice. "Why do you keep running from me?"
Anastasia inhaled slowly, her expression betraying nothing. Then, in a move so swift it was almost imperceptible, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his wrist before tightening. A warning. A threat. A promise.
"You should leave," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost... regretful.
Vincent, for all his intelligence, for all his unshakable resolve, felt something inside him tighten at that tone. But he didn't move. He couldn't.
"Not this time."
She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing something in her mind, before she finally released him. The warmth of her touch lingered on his skin, burning.
"You're making a mistake," she said quietly.
Vincent's smirk returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then let me make it."
"Are you avoiding me?" His voice was low, almost amused, but there was an edge to it.
Anastasia didn't startle. She had always known he was different from others—always a step ahead, always one move away from cornering his prey. She lifted her chin, allowing the moonlight to illuminate her face, making her appear almost ethereal. "Why would I need to avoid you?" she asked, her voice smooth.
Vincent took a step closer. "I don't know. You tell me."
He was standing too close now, close enough that she could see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled as if resisting the urge to touch her. She met his gaze without flinching, the blue of her eyes as cold as ice.
"I didn't know we were important enough to each other to be avoided," she said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather.
A flicker of something passed through his expression, too quick to read. "So that's how you want to play this?" he asked.
Anastasia arched an eyebrow. "I don't play."
Vincent laughed softly. It was not a pleasant sound. "That's a lie. You play better than anyone I've ever met."
Her lips curved slightly, a shadow of a smile. "Then shouldn't you know better than to expect anything different?"
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The night was quiet except for the distant hum of the gala inside, the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.
Then, Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled something out. A single crimson rose.
Anastasia's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
Vincent twirled the rose between his fingers. "Do you know what this means?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
She let her gaze drift over the flower. "A cliché?" she mused.
His lips quirked. "Perhaps. But it's also a promise."
"Of what?"
"That I don't intend to let you go."
Anastasia let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, but the sound didn't reach her eyes. "And what makes you think I belong to you in the first place?"
Vincent tilted his head slightly, studying her. Then, slowly, he stepped even closer, until the tips of their shoes nearly touched. "You don't," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that I've already decided."
Her pulse quickened, though her expression remained unreadable. "Decided what?"
"That I'd rather destroy everything before I let someone else have you."
The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken threat. There was no hesitation in his voice, no room for misinterpretation.
Anastasia didn't react the way any normal girl might have. There was no shock, no gasp of outrage. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, considering him. Then, after a pause, she reached forward and plucked the rose from his hand.
Vincent watched her closely as she lifted it to her lips, brushing the petals against them in a slow, deliberate motion.
"Are you threatening me, Vincent?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders visible. "No," he said. "I'm telling you the truth."
She studied him for a long moment before lowering the rose. "Then I suppose I should be flattered."
Vincent's jaw tightened. "You're not taking this seriously."
She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Oh, I am. I just don't see the point in entertaining something that doesn't concern me."
His eyes darkened. "Is that what you think?"
She took a step back, her movements as graceful as ever. "What I think doesn't matter, does it? You've already made up your mind."
Vincent didn't move as she turned, the hem of her gown brushing against the stone pathway as she started to walk away.
But just as she reached the garden gate, she paused.
Without looking back, she spoke.
"You're not the only one who knows how to destroy things, Vincent."
Then, without another word, she disappeared into the night.
Vincent remained standing there, the scent of roses and cold night air lingering in the space she left behind.
He closed his fingers around the air where the rose had been, his expression unreadable.
If Anastasia thought she could walk away from him that easily, she was mistaken.
This was just the beginning.