Neither of them wanted to return just yet.
For the first time, they weren't surrounded by calculating gazes, political schemes, or the weight of their empires. There was no need for masks or careful strategies—just them, alone in a world that had unknowingly bowed before their existence.
Hand in hand, Vincent and Anastasia continued walking through the city, their fingers intertwined like an unbreakable bond. The glow of the streetlights illuminated their figures, casting long shadows behind them, but they paid no attention to anything except each other.
Vincent, ever the strategist, had effortlessly hidden their identities. With the ease of someone who had spent time in the entertainment industry, he had altered his usual posture and slightly adjusted the way he carried himself. His once-commanding aura had been muted just enough to make people glance past him without recognition. Anastasia, too, had followed his lead, though her natural grace and beauty still drew eyes to her like moths to a flame.
But none of that mattered.
For tonight, they weren't the heirs of the world's most powerful families. They weren't rulers locked in a silent game of dominance.
They were simply Vincent and Anastasia.
They strolled past dimly lit cafés, the soft hum of jazz music floating through the air, blending with the distant sound of waves from the river. The city was alive, yet it felt like a backdrop to their presence.
Vincent stole glances at Anastasia as they walked, memorizing the way the lights reflected in her icy blue eyes, the way her golden hair caught the night's breeze, the way her lips—still slightly swollen from their kiss—curved ever so slightly in a rare moment of genuine contentment.
And then, suddenly—
She stopped walking.
Vincent turned, raising a brow. "What is it?"
Anastasia didn't respond immediately. Instead, she pulled him toward the railing of the riverfront, her grip tightening around his hand. The water shimmered under the moonlight, its surface dancing with the reflections of the towering skyline. It was beautiful.
But not as beautiful as her.
"You said you wanted to do that again," she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of challenge. "What's stopping you?"
Vincent smirked, the shadows of the city dancing across his face. He lifted a hand, brushing her hair away from her face, his touch lingering as he traced a line down her jaw.
"Nothing," he whispered.
And then, he kissed her again.
This time, it was slower—laced with something deeper. His fingers slid into her hair, his other hand pressing against the small of her back, drawing her impossibly close. Anastasia responded just as fiercely, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as if she wanted to hold him there forever.
The city moved on around them, unaware of the silent storm raging between them.
They didn't care.
The only thing that mattered was the feeling of being completely and utterly lost in each other.
Vincent knew it then, with absolute certainty.
No matter how much power he gained, no matter how high he climbed—there was only one throne he would ever bow to.
Hers.