The grand ballroom was alive with murmurs, laughter, and the faint clinking of glasses. The chandeliers above cast a golden glow over the sea of silk gowns and tailored suits. It was an event for the elite—a gathering of the richest and most powerful families in the world. Every individual present was a force to be reckoned with in business, politics, or crime.
But despite the wealth, the beauty, and the sheer presence of so many influential people, the air felt tense.
Because two people had just laid eyes on each other for the first time in months.
Vincent Blackwood.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. But the moment their gazes locked, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Anastasia stood near the center of the ballroom, a vision of ethereal beauty in a sleek black dress that clung to her in all the right places. She looked untouchable, as though she had been sculpted by the gods themselves. Her icy blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, showed nothing—no surprise, no anger, no longing. Just silence.
Vincent stood at the entrance, dressed in an all-black suit, the kind that made him look dangerous. His green eyes, sharp and unreadable, held an intensity that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to glance at him. There was something different about him now—something colder, darker.
And yet, Anastasia did not falter.
She did not look away.
Neither did he.
It was not a reunion filled with rushed words or accusations. It was not the dramatic confrontation people expected.
It was something far worse.
A silent battle.
A battle of who would break first .