People around them continued to talk, laugh, and exchange pleasantries, unaware that a far deadlier game was unfolding right before them.
Vincent took a step forward.
Anastasia remained still.
His gaze was unwavering, searching, demanding. Was she unaffected? Did she truly feel nothing about his absence? About the fact that he had stopped sending her roses? About the way he had disappeared, leaving no trace except the whispers of his name on every screen in the world?
But Anastasia merely tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest of smirks. As if to say, "You're the one who left. Why should I care?"
Vincent's jaw tightened.
His fingers curled into his palm.
A month.
A whole month, and she had done nothing.
Not once had she tried to find him. Not once had she demanded answers. Not once had she showed any sign that she missed him.
But Vincent had felt her absence in his bones.
He had drowned himself in work, in killing, in distractions—and still, she had haunted him.
And now, she stood before him, untouched, unaffected, as though he had never mattered.
A bitter laugh almost escaped him.
She was cruel.
And yet, that cruelty only made him want her more.