At first, Vincent waits.
He waits for something.
He does not know what—maybe a reaction, maybe an acknowledgment.
Maybe just a sign that Anastasia has noticed his absence.
Because for the past month, she has received no roses.
For the first time in two years, there has been no single bloom left in her presence.
Not on her desk.
Not in her garden.
Not in her room.
Nothing.
He expected something from her.
Maybe irritation. Maybe curiosity. Maybe a single word—a passing comment.
But nothing comes.
Anastasia does not react.
She does not seek him out.
She does not ask questions.
She does not even glance his way.
And that—that is what finally makes Vincent snap.
Because this is not how it was supposed to go.
He thought—no, he knew—she liked his roses.
Maybe not in a romantic way. Maybe not in the way he wanted.
But she liked them.
She kept them.
She never threw them away.
And yet, now that they were gone, she acted as if nothing had changed.
As if he had not changed.
And that realization—**that unbearable, suffocating silence—**breaks something inside him.