Vincent Blackwood had always been an enigma to the world. A celestial figure, revered, idolized, desired. To them, he was the God of Beauty, the untouchable genius, the perfect heir who had turned his back on his empire to chase the entertainment industry. Women worshiped him, men envied him, and millions were willing to die for just a second of his attention. He was on every billboard, every magazine, and every screen. His Instagram had surged to 700 million followers, his name was whispered in awe, and his mere presence was enough to bring nations to a standstill.
And yet—none of it mattered.
Because she did not care.
It had been a full month. A month since the roses stopped. A month since he had last reached out. A month since he had last tested her limits. And the silence had been deafening. At first, he thought she was ignoring him on purpose, playing some silent game of power. Maybe she was waiting for him to crack first, to return to her, to crawl back to her feet. But as the days stretched on, as the weeks bled into each other, a horrifying realization settled deep into his bones—she had not even noticed.
Anastasia was indifferent.
It was something Vincent could not—would not—accept.
At first, he had tried to convince himself that this was a battle of wills. That she was merely waiting, testing him, calculating when to strike. But then a darker thought crept into his mind. What if she truly didn't care? What if he had never mattered to her at all? What if, from the very beginning, he had been the only one consumed by this madness, while she remained untouched, untethered?
That thought alone was enough to drive him insane.
Vincent had always been methodical in his killings. He was not like his father, who delighted in destruction, nor like Anastasia, who killed out of sheer boredom. Vincent killed only when it was necessary. When logic dictated it. When it served a purpose. But the moment he realized Anastasia had not reacted to his absence, something inside him shattered.
The first kill was reckless, messy—so unlike him. A man had dared to insult the Blackwood name, had spoken of his father with disrespect. Normally, Vincent would have handled it cleanly, swiftly, without unnecessary theatrics. But this time, he did not reach for a gun, did not plan the perfect assassination. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to feel the man break beneath his hands. He wanted to hear the wet crunch of bone as his fists connected with flesh, again and again, until there was nothing left but a ruined, unrecognizable heap.
It wasn't enough.
So he did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each kill became more violent, more satisfying, yet it never truly satiated him. The more blood he spilled, the deeper the hunger grew. And still, she said nothing. She did not come looking for him. She did not call. She did not send someone to drag him back. She was supposed to own him, and yet she acted as if he did not exist.
That, more than anything, was what truly broke him.
The world saw Vincent's continued success as a golden age. His career skyrocketed. More and more people clamored for his attention, women threw themselves at his feet, and directors fought over the chance to cast him. His name dominated every corner of the internet. They called him a legend, a phenomenon, the most beloved figure of the modern era.
But when he looked in the mirror, he no longer saw Vincent Blackwood, the idol.
He saw the truth.
He saw what she had made him.
His fans called him beautiful, but he felt ugly. His face, his smile, his charm—it was all a carefully crafted illusion. Beneath it, he was rotting. His hands were stained with blood, his mind a hurricane of chaos, and his heart—his heart had been abandoned by the only person who had ever truly held it.
He had always been in control. Until her.
Anastasia had never loved anyone. She had never needed anyone. But he needed her. And it was the single most terrifying truth of his existence.
If he could not make her react, then he would force her to acknowledge him. If she refused to see him, he would make it impossible for her to ignore him. If she truly felt nothing, then he would shatter that indifference with his own hands.
And if, in the end, she still did not care—
Then he would give her no choice but to kill him herself.
Because if he could not have her, then she would have to destroy him.
And if she refused?
Then he would burn the entire world to the ground.