Chapter 32 : The Vasiliev Estate: A Fortress of Power
The car glided through the streets in silence, eventually arriving at the towering gates of the Vasiliev mansion.
Even without stepping inside, Vincent could feel the overwhelming presence of power that surrounded this place. The world knew the Vasilievs were among the wealthiest, but few understood just how deep their influence ran.
They did not just own businesses.
They owned governments.
They controlled economies.
They shaped history.
Yet, despite all their power, it was the girl within these walls who held more control over Vincent than anyone else in the world.
The black iron gates loomed ahead, cold and unyielding. A man in a sharp black suit approached the car as it rolled to a stop. One of the Vasiliev guards—loyal, well-trained, and completely unshaken by power.
But when his eyes landed on Vincent, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face.
"Master Vincent."
Vincent did not respond. He didn't need to.
The gates opened without another word, granting him passage.
As he stepped out of the car, the night air was crisp, cool against his skin. The scent of roses lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest hint of storm clouds on the horizon.
With measured steps, he walked toward the entrance, the bouquet steady in his grasp.
Tonight, he would face her once more.
Before he could knock, the door opened.
And there she was.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
She stood in the dim light of the grand foyer, a vision of effortless perfection.
Her golden-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in flawless waves, framing a face that could bring empires to their knees. Her blue eyes—cold, calculating—met his without hesitation.
She was dressed in a dark silk gown, elegant yet simple, exuding an aura of untouchable regality.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Vincent had prepared countless words, rehearsed a thousand different lines for this moment. He had imagined what he would say, how he would ease the tension, how he would lure her into conversation.
But standing here, in front of her, all of those thoughts vanished.
There was no need for words.
Instead, he lifted the bouquet between them, extending it toward her without explanation.
A silent offering.
A message only she would understand.
Her gaze flickered downward, scanning the flowers with an unreadable expression.
She did not take them immediately.
Instead, she observed them, the contrast between the white and red, the deliberate meaning behind them.
Then, finally, she reached out.
Her fingers brushed against his as she took the bouquet, a fleeting contact, but one that sent an electric jolt through his veins.
She held the roses between them, her expression remaining unreadable.
"You brought red roses this time," she murmured.
Her voice was smooth, controlled—devoid of emotion.
Vincent's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"They suit you more."
A flicker of something passed through her eyes, gone before he could decipher it.
Silence stretched between them once more.
But this silence was different.
It was not tense.
It was not awkward.
It was charged.
A battlefield of unsaid words, of buried emotions, of unspoken desires.
Then, without another word, Anastasia turned on her heel and disappeared into the house, leaving the door open behind her.
An invitation.
Vincent stepped inside.
The game had begun once more.