Vincent Blackwood had never known what it felt like to lose control.
From the moment he was born, he had been superior—untouchable.
He had always been the best. The smartest. The most powerful.
His mind operated on a level so far above others that emotions were never a problem.
Everything was logical. Everything had a solution.
Until her.
Until Anastasia.
She was the only thing he could not predict. The only equation he could not solve.
And now, she was the only thing driving him to the brink of madness.
The Breaking Point
For a full month, she had ignored him.
No matter what he did, no matter how many people spoke his name, no matter how the world worshiped him—she did not react.
His absence should have meant something.
She should have noticed the missing roses.
She should have done something.
But she didn't.
She carried on as if nothing had changed.
As if he didn't exist.
As if he were nothing.
And Vincent—who had always been the center of attention, the obsession of millions, the one thing people could never ignore—could not stand it.
At first, he had told himself to be patient.
Surely, Anastasia was simply waiting for the right moment.
Surely, she had noticed.
Surely, she was testing him.
But as the days dragged on and her indifference remained absolute, something inside him snapped.
And Vincent—who had spent his entire life suppressing his darker urges—finally let go.
The First Kill
The first kill after his breaking point was messy.
Vincent had always been precise. He had never made mistakes.
His father had trained him from a young age, instilling in him the art of killing with grace, with purpose.
His movements had always been calculated.
Quick. Efficient.
But this time—this time was different.
This time, Vincent did not kill to fulfill a duty.
He did not kill because it was necessary.
He killed because he needed to feel something.
Because the silence was too much.
Because the weight of Anastasia's absence was suffocating him.
The victim—a man who had dared to insult his father—should have died in seconds.
Vincent should have slit his throat and been done with it.
Instead, he tore him apart.
His punches were relentless, each one fueled by the unbearable rage inside him.
The sound of cracking bones did not satisfy him.
The screams did not soothe him.
Even when the man had long stopped breathing, Vincent kept going.
By the time he finally stepped back, his hands were coated in warm blood.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.
His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from something far worse.
Something he could not name.
Something he could not control.
And for the first time in his life, Vincent Blackwood was afraid of himself.