Her silence was his undoing.
While Anastasia remained composed, carrying on with her life as if their kiss had been nothing more than a forgettable moment, Vincent was spiraling.
The world only saw his brilliance. The roles he played, the cold yet mesmerizing charm he exuded on screen, the awards he won one after another—he was becoming untouchable, unstoppable.
But behind closed doors, Vincent Blackwood was unraveling.
Anastasia had always understood that Vincent was different from others. He was a man who could wield both charm and destruction, a being with an IQ beyond human comprehension, and yet, when it came to her, all of his logic crumbled.
He had once believed himself capable of waiting.
But now, waiting had become agony.
She had kissed him.
She had kissed him.
It was not a misunderstanding. Not a dream. Not something he had imagined.
It had happened.
And yet, she had disappeared, leaving him to suffocate in his own obsession.
The Madness of Silence
Vincent had killed before—out of necessity, out of anger, out of obligation to the father he despised.
But now, he killed for control.
Because if he did not, he would lose himself completely.
Blood became his solace, a temporary release from the torment she had left him in. He was not like her—he did not kill out of boredom. He killed because it was the only way to silence the thoughts that consumed him.
The thoughts of her.
The scent of her lingering in his memory.
The taste of her lips haunting him.
She had given him a taste of heaven, and then she had left him in hell.
He wanted to be furious.
He wanted to demand an answer.
But he knew Anastasia better than that.
If he tried to confront her, she would look at him with those cold, unreadable eyes and say nothing.
And that silence would kill him more than any blade ever could.