The storm outside mirrored the chaos inside him.
Rain lashed against the glass walls of his penthouse, the sky dark and unforgiving, but Vincent sat in silence, his fingers curled around an untouched glass of whiskey. His phone lay beside him, forgotten.
Until it lit up.
Until a single notification appeared on the screen.
He almost ignored it.
But something made him glance.
A photo.
Anastasia.
She was attending a high-profile event, dressed in a breathtaking ensemble that highlighted her otherworldly beauty. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, her blue eyes sharp, her expression unreadable.
The internet was in a frenzy. The world was enchanted by her presence, captivated by the effortless supremacy she exuded.
She was untouchable.
And most importantly—
She looked indifferent.
As if he had never existed.
The glass in his hand shattered.
A sharp sting spread across his palm, blood dripping onto the marble floor, but Vincent barely noticed.
His vision blurred—not with pain, but with something far more dangerous.
She doesn't care.
The thought repeated itself, over and over, like a curse.
She doesn't care.
She doesn't care.
She doesn't—
A sharp, bitter laugh escaped his lips.
It was a sound that held no humor.
Slowly, he placed his hands on the table, his fingers twitching, his breathing slow and measured. His blood-streaked fingers curled against the surface, his mind eerily calm.
"Fine," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "If you won't acknowledge me, then I'll make you."
Something inside him snapped.
Something irreparable.
Vincent Blackwood, the idol, the actor, the "God of Beauty" worshipped by millions—ceased to exist in that moment.
What remained was something far more terrifying.
A man who no longer cared about consequences.
A man with nothing left to lose.
And a singular, unwavering goal—
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev would never escape him.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in the next.
Because if he was falling, then he would make sure she fell with him.
And this time—
There would be no escape.