Anastasia knew Vincent better than anyone.
She saw the tightness in his jaw, the barely contained storm in his eyes. She knew he was angry—not just at her lack of reaction, but at himself for needing one so desperately.
That was why she refused to give it to him.
She refused to lose.
But Vincent was not one to walk away from a battle.
He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "You don't win just because you refuse to play, Anastasia."
Her fingers twitched slightly against her wine glass.
It was subtle—so subtle that anyone else wouldn't have noticed.
But Vincent noticed.
His lips barely brushed her ear as he spoke again, his voice low, dangerous.
"Tell me…"
She remained silent.
"When I stopped sending you roses, did you even miss them?"
Her heart betrayed her then.
It skipped.
She hated herself for it.
Vincent pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes again, searching, waiting.
And then—
Anastasia took another slow sip of her wine.
She swallowed.
And then, in the softest, most indifferent voice, she finally spoke.
"Did you expect me to notice?"
Vincent's expression didn't change.
But something in his eyes did.
He gave a slow, almost mocking nod. Then he let out a breathy chuckle, one that held neither amusement nor warmth.
"Of course not."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Leaving Anastasia standing there, wine glass in hand, heartbeat unsteady, mind in chaos.
The battle was over.
And this time—
Vincent had lost.