A voice interrupted them.
"You're all being noisy."
A cold, clear voice—chilling, yet undeniably beautiful.
As the ballroom doors swung open, a silence heavier than any before it descended. It was not the quiet of simple anticipation, nor the hush of mere curiosity.
It was the kind of silence that preceded the fall of kingdoms—the kind that came when a presence so overwhelming entered the room that even the most powerful were rendered speechless.
And then—
She appeared.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev, the newly crowned heir to the world's most powerful empire, stood at the entrance of the ballroom like a goddess descending upon the mortal realm.
She was dressed in a gown of black and gold, the very colors of her family's insignia. The fabric clung to her body in perfect elegance, shimmering under the light like liquid gold spun with the threads of midnight. With every step she took, the long train of her dress trailed behind her like a shadow of sovereignty, a symbol that the world itself bent beneath her feet.
But it was not the dress that stunned them.
It was her.
The Anastasia Vasiliev.
The one whom the world had only glimpsed from afar—the one whom they had whispered about, idolized, feared, and worshiped without ever truly knowing.
And now, she was here.
And they finally understood.
She was not merely the daughter of the Vasiliev family.She was not simply the most beautiful girl in the world.She was not just another heir.
She was a queen.
No—she was more than a queen.
She was a ruler born, a force of nature, an unshakable will carved from divinity itself.
Her gaze swept across the ballroom, and in that single unblinking moment, an entire room filled with the ten most powerful families in the world found themselves paralyzed.
Men who had commanded armies, empires, entire economies—men who had never bowed to anyone—stood as still as statues beneath the weight of her presence.
And the cameras?
Oh, the cameras caught everything.
The world, which had already been reeling from the revelation of Vincent's identity, now fell into an even deeper hysteria.
Billions of people watching from their screens forgot to breathe as they saw her for the first time in her full glory.
"Is that really her?!""She looks like a goddess.""No—she looks like something greater than that.""I can't—I can't even comprehend her beauty—""SHE'S SO POWERFUL I'M SCARED.""I THINK I JUST FELL TO MY KNEES."
Social media exploded.
Comment sections crashed.
Live broadcasts froze from the sheer volume of viewers.
And yet—
Anastasia herself remained unbothered.
She had been born above them all, and she moved as such.
Her delicate, gloved fingers lifted slightly, and in that single effortless gesture, the vast ballroom parted before her, making way as though the very air had bent to her command.
Every step she took was measured, deliberate—not rushed, not hesitant.
She had no need to hurry.
The world could wait for her.
And as she descended the grand staircase, her sharp blue eyes—so piercing, so chilling—finally settled on him.
Vincent Blackwood.
The phantom prince.
The boy the world had adored but never truly known.
The boy who had walked away from a throne for her.
For a moment, time itself seemed to halt between them.
A silent war raged in their gazes—one of power, of recognition, of something deeper.
And then—
She smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.
And with that single expression, the world understood one thing:
Vincent Blackwood may have been the Phantom Prince—
But Anastasia Vasiliev was his empress.
And he had never once belonged to himself.
He had always belonged to her.