They say that the one who falls in love first loses. That the one who gives their heart away before the other is left at the mercy of their beloved. That love, in its rawest form, is a battlefield where the first to fall is the first to be conquered.
Vincent had fallen first.
He had lost.
And yet, he had never been happier.
Because he belonged to Anastasia.
Because he was hers.
Only hers.
For the rest of the world, love was a game of power. A dance of dominance and submission. A war of who would control the other. But Vincent never cared about winning when it came to Anastasia. He had already given her everything—his heart, his loyalty, his devotion.
If losing meant she would have him, then he would gladly lose over and over again.
Vincent had conquered the world, and yet, the only person who could bring him to his knees was her.
The world saw him as an untouchable king, a ruler who could not be swayed, a god among men. But they did not know that he was already a slave to a goddess, bound not by chains but by love. A love so deep, so absolute, that he could no longer separate himself from it.
He had always known Anastasia was a genius. The only one who could match him. The only one who could surpass him. And that was why, even as he built an empire strong enough to rival hers, he had never dared to cross the line.
Not because of fear.
Not because of obligation.
But because he wanted to.
He wanted her to remain above him, untouchable by anyone but him. He wanted to stand beside her, not as an equal, but as someone who had already surrendered everything to her.
Because Vincent Blackwood did not want to be free.
He wanted to belong to Anastasia Vasiliev.
Entirely.
And if that meant losing, then he would lose. If that meant falling first, then he would fall.
Because he had already fallen.
And he would never rise again unless she willed it.
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