A waiter passed by, and Anastasia, still holding Vincent's gaze, casually plucked a glass of wine from the tray. She took a slow sip, her movements elegant, deliberate.
Vincent's eyes darkened.
She was playing.
She was testing to see how much control he had left.
Fine.
Two could play this game.
He walked forward—smooth, graceful, the kind of movement that made people part for him without realizing they were doing it. Every step he took felt inevitable.
Anastasia didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Vincent finally stopped just a few inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that their game of silence became suffocating.
Neither spoke.
Neither touched.
But the tension between them was thick enough to strangle.