The taste of her lips was still on his.
It was a fleeting moment, and yet it burned itself into his very existence, carving through the remains of his sanity like a knife.
She had kissed him. She had kissed him.
And then, she had walked away.
As if it meant nothing.
As if he meant nothing.
Vincent stood in the shadows of the now-empty ballroom, the scent of roses thick in the air. It nauseated him. He hated the scent of red roses. It reminded him too much of her. Of her cruelty. Of her indifference.
He had once thought himself prepared for this.
Prepared for the endless chase.
Prepared for the pain of being ignored.
Prepared to wait for her forever.
But he had been wrong.
Because now he knew—
He could not endure it anymore.
His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. The madness that had been carefully contained within him, the darkness he had buried beneath his title as an actor, the mask he had worn before the world—
It cracked.
Shattered.
Vincent Blackwood was not a man meant for patience.
He was a man meant for destruction.
And tonight, something inside him had finally snapped.
Vincent left the ballroom without a word. His steps were soundless, his presence like a shadow drifting through the corridors. No one dared to stop him. Even those who recognized him—their eyes filled with awe, admiration, even desire—knew better than to approach.
Because tonight, Vincent Blackwood did not look like a man.
He looked like a monster.
He reached the underground parking lot, slipping into the black car that awaited him. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror but said nothing. Smart. The silence suited Vincent just fine.
He pressed his head against the cool glass, his fingers trembling against his own knee.
Her lips had been soft.
Warmer than he had imagined.
Sweeter than he had dreamed.
And yet—
She had given them to him so carelessly. As if it had been nothing more than an impulse. As if she had simply decided to grant him this moment.
Vincent's breathing was uneven.
He had never cared for other women. Had never even looked at them. Had never even considered them as possibilities.
Because it had always been her.
Only her.
Always her.
And yet, she did not love him.
Not yet.
And that—
That was enough to drive him mad.