Days turned to weeks.
And Vincent had reached his breaking point.
Anastasia saw it in the headlines—the increasing brutality of his films, the unrelenting coldness in his interviews, the way his emerald-green eyes seemed darker, more dangerous.
The world saw a man at the peak of his career.
Anastasia saw a man at the edge of his sanity.
And she knew she had won.
Vincent would not look at another woman.
Vincent would not entertain the idea of anyone else.
Vincent had already belonged to her.
But now, he would understand that there was no escape.
She had broken him without lifting a single finger.
He had tried to test her patience once before, had tried to see if she would react if he entertained other women.
She had not.
She had simply decided that if he ever did fall for another woman, she would kill him.
And now, he understood that truth.
Because she had proven that she did not need him.
But he needed her.
The silence had lasted long enough.
Anastasia had let him suffer. She had let him destroy himself in his longing.
Now, it was time to remind him of his place.
She did not send him a message.
She did not arrange a meeting.
Instead, she let fate draw them back together.
Because no matter how much Vincent tried to fill the void she had left, no matter how many people he destroyed in his madness, he would always return to her.
And when he did, she would remind him of one simple truth—
He had never been free.
And he never would be.
Because Vincent Blackwood belonged to Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
Now, always, and forever.