The last time Serena Vale saw sunlight, it bled through iron bars.
That had been three months ago—on the day she was dragged from a dirt-soaked prison cell and thrown into a black-windowed car with no explanation.
Now she stood in front of a mirror taller than her, her reflection framed in cold marble and golden filigree. She didn't recognize the woman looking back.
Silk clung to her body. A deep emerald gown with a slit high enough to scandalize. Her hair—clean for the first time in weeks—cascaded down her back in waves, styled like a prize meant to be shown off. Her lips were painted red. Her eyes outlined with kohl.
A crownless queen, dressed for display.
No one told her where she was. No one needed to.
There was only one place in Virelia with walls this white and guards this quiet.
The Royal Palace.
And there was only one man with the power to pluck a prisoner from the lowest cell and dress her like this.
Prince Damián Alaric Vireaux.
The Shadow Prince. The King's only son.
The man whose enemies vanished without bodies.
The man who never smiled in photographs.
The man she once tried to destroy.
"Are you ready?"
The voice came from behind her—female, clipped, professional.
Serena turned slowly.
A steward in muted blue waited in the doorway, avoiding eye contact. "The prince is expecting you in the East Wing. Don't make him wait."
Serena smirked.
That's all she ever seemed to do lately. Smirk. Smile. Bite her tongue hard enough not to bleed.
She walked out, heels echoing down a hallway lined with velvet drapes and silver sconces. There were no portraits. No windows. Just her reflection stretching across the polished floor.
She wasn't afraid.
Fear had been stripped away in the basement of the Ministry building, three interrogations ago.
What she felt now was curiosity.
Why her?
Why now?
Why dress a former rebel like a courtesan and summon her to the private wing of a man who ordered airstrikes with the same tone others used to request wine?
The East Wing doors were opened by silent guards, and the smell hit her first: sandalwood and leather. Power, distilled.
He stood near the fire, his back to her. Tall. Dressed in black from collar to cuff. A wine glass in hand, but untouched.
He turned slowly. And when he looked at her—truly looked at her—Serena felt her spine stiffen.
Not from fear.
From something worse.
Recognition.
The last time she saw that face, he'd been across a courtroom, watching her trial from a private balcony.
She remembered thinking he looked like a painting.
Now, he looked like the man who signed her fate with ink made of silence.
"Your Highness," she said, because it was expected.
He didn't respond.
He simply drank her in.
Eyes the color of a winter storm. A jaw cut from stone. And lips—those lips—too cruel to be beautiful, and too beautiful not to notice.
"I expected less," he said finally. "But you clean up well."
She smiled sweetly. "Funny. I was told the same about you. Right before they called you a butcher in a suit."
His eyes darkened—just slightly.
"So you've kept your teeth," he murmured. "That's good."
He moved toward her slowly, the way a predator circles prey it doesn't plan to kill—yet.
"I suppose you're wondering why you're here."
"I assumed it was to amuse you," she said coolly. "Am I tonight's entertainment? Or just the opening act?"
He stopped in front of her. Close. Too close. And tilted his head, studying her face like she was something between art and threat.
"You're here because I've grown tired of disobedient people who pretend they have nothing to lose."
Her heartbeat ticked up.
"And you think dressing me up and parading me around fixes that?" she asked.
He smiled. Not kindly.
"I think giving you purpose," he said, "prevents me from giving you pain."
He turned, walked to a desk, and slid open a drawer.
When he returned, he placed a document on the table between them. Heavy, bound, with her name typed across the top.
"Read it."
She picked it up, flipping the pages.
It wasn't a pardon.
It was worse.
An arrangement.
Effective immediately, Serena Vale shall be assigned to serve in the capacity of Companion to His Highness, Prince Damián Alaric Vireaux.
All duties, appearances, and obligations shall be at His Highness's discretion.
This arrangement shall be binding for a minimum of one year.
Any breach will result in immediate return to the Ministry detainment program.
She dropped the file like it burned her.
"You want me to play court pet?" Her voice was sharp now, her composure cracking. "Why not just chain me to your throne?"
His expression didn't change.
"I prefer velvet to steel. But you'll get the collar either way."
Her hands shook—but she didn't back away.
"I won't kiss your boots. Or your hand. Or anything else."
He stepped closer, voice low.
"You think this is about pleasure?"
He reached out, brushing a curl behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the side of her neck.
"This is about power, Serena," he whispered. "And learning how to live inside it."
She stared at him, breath caught.
He smiled.
Then turned, and walked toward the door.
"Rest. Tomorrow, you'll begin."
"Begin what?" she called after him.
He paused.
Without turning around, he answered.
"Learning who you belong to now."
End of Chapter One