Vincent Blackwood was not a man who lost.
He had been born into power, molded by influence, and refined by an intelligence that placed him leagues above the rest of the world. His presence alone was enough to make the strongest men cower, to make nations reconsider their decisions, and to make women fall to their knees in worship.
But none of that mattered in front of her.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
The girl who had never bowed, never wavered, and never let herself be claimed.
Vincent knew he had lost. He had accepted it—not as a finality, but as a temporary setback. The war was not over; he had only lost one battle. For now, he would retreat, allow her to reign victorious in this moment.
But one day, he would win.
He would make her love him.
And when that day came, she would belong to him, completely and utterly.
Tonight, however, was not about victory.
Tonight, he simply wanted to see her.
And so, Vincent Blackwood—an enigma to the world, a god among mortals—found himself sitting in the back of a sleek black car, cradling a bouquet of roses in his hands.
The bouquet was carefully chosen.
White roses. A reminder of their first encounter at the ball, a symbol of the purity and elegance that had once surrounded them. The beginning of everything.
But now, interwoven among them, were red roses.
A stark contrast. A declaration of something deeper, something burning.
Red was the color of passion. Of obsession. Of love so intense it bordered on destruction.
The color of fire.
The color of blood.
The color of her.
Vincent's grip tightened around the stems as he gazed at the flowers, his mind clouded with thoughts of the girl who had unknowingly become the center of his world.
Would she accept them?
Would she ignore him?
Would she reject him entirely?
His chest ached at the uncertainty, but he pushed the feeling aside. No matter her reaction, he had to do this.
He needed to see her.