For the first time in months, Vincent Blackwood was missing.
Not physically—he still appeared in magazines, on billboards, in the top trending topics across the world—but his actions had changed.
The roses stopped.
No more pristine white flowers, carefully hand-picked and delivered to Anastasia. No more subtle messages hidden between petals. No more silent declarations of obsession, devotion, ownership.
And somehow, Anastasia noticed.
She wasn't supposed to care. She didn't care.
That's what she told herself, at least.
After all, she had never responded to his gifts. She had never once acknowledged his pursuit, his desperate, relentless chase. The roses had meant nothing.
So why did their absence feel wrong?
Why did it feel as though something crucial had been ripped from her daily life?
Why did the sight of her empty bedside table feel so unbearably dull?
Vincent's Absence, Vincent's Presence
While Anastasia remained silent, the world did not.
In the past month, Vincent's fame had exploded to a level no one had thought possible.
His Instagram followers had surged past 700 million, solidifying him as one of the most influential people on Earth. Every brand wanted him. Every luxury company sought his endorsement. Every director wanted him in their films.
He was at the pinnacle of stardom.
But despite all this, something was off.
Because Vincent—the Vincent who had burned through the industry like an unstoppable wildfire, who had filmed six movies in three months just to impress one girl, who had refused every single actress who tried to get close to him—
Was suddenly absent.
Not physically. He was still filming, still attending events, still existing in front of cameras.
But something was missing.
His eyes.
They weren't the same.
Once, they burned with an almost inhuman intensity—an obsessive, all-consuming madness that had terrified and fascinated everyone who saw him. But now, there was an unsettling emptiness.
As if the flame had been snuffed out.
As if something had been taken from him.
And nobody knew why.