Vincent's fame had only grown.
With 700 million followers, he was no longer just an actor—he was an untouchable phenomenon. Directors lined up, desperate to cast him in their films. Fans wept at the mere sight of him. His influence stretched across industries, a force no one could ignore.
And yet—
Vincent no longer cared.
The things that once amused him, the empty admiration of the world, had become insignificant.
His once-flawless professionalism began to crack. He completed his films with perfection, but the way he moved, the way he spoke—it was different. His co-stars noticed first. They whispered about the coldness in his eyes, about the way his performances had become terrifyingly real.
His aura, once alluring and magnetic, had become something else entirely—something dangerous.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It wasn't arrogance.
It was something far more lethal.
Because in the absence of Anastasia's gaze, the rest of the world had lost its meaning.
He had never wanted their adoration.
He had only ever wanted her.