Zara adjusted her dress for the third time, her fingers trembling against the satin fabric.
It was too tight. Too royal. Too unlike her.
She caught her reflection in the floor-length mirror of the palace chamber—wide brown eyes that looked too afraid to belong to a future princess. Lips pressed into a nervous line. The dress shimmered like a dream, but all she could feel was dread pressing down on her chest like iron.
She was about to marry the most dangerous man in Arvenia.
Not for love.
Not for choice.
But because a royal decree had left her with no other option.
A soft knock echoed against the heavy door.
Before she could answer, a maid stepped in and bowed. "His Highness is waiting for you in the throne hall."
Zara swallowed. "Is he... angry?"
The maid hesitated before smiling politely. "His Highness is always... composed."
Which meant yes. He was angry.
She followed the guard through winding palace corridors, the marble floors reflecting the glitter of chandeliers overhead. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than her footsteps.
The door to the throne hall opened with a loud groan.
Zara stepped inside—and the world shifted.
He stood at the center like he owned it.
And maybe he did.
Prince Rael Verendin.
Tall. Unnervingly still. Power cloaked around him like a second skin.
His jet-black hair was tousled, like he'd run a hand through it in irritation. His skin was pale olive, his jawline sharp enough to slice, and those eyes—icy silver-gray—watched her like a predator studying prey. He wore a fitted black military jacket with royal insignia, every inch of him controlled, elegant, lethal.
Zara's throat went dry.
He didn't smile.
He didn't even nod.
He just stared.
"You're late," he said, voice low and clear. Not loud. But it didn't need to be. The weight in his tone did the damage.
"I'm sorry," she managed. "I didn't mean—"
"I don't care what you meant." He stepped forward. Slowly. Like a lion in no rush to devour what was already his.
Zara didn't move. Couldn't.
He stopped in front of her, eyes locked to hers. They were even more intense up close. She felt like they saw everything—every flaw, every fear.
"You'll walk down that aisle in fifteen minutes," he said. "You'll smile. You'll keep your head high. And you'll play the perfect princess."
Zara swallowed. "I didn't ask for this marriage—"
His jaw clenched.
"I didn't either," he said sharply. "But it's happening. And you will obey every rule I give you, or you'll find that the crown is not the only thing heavy in this palace."
She blinked, stunned. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm educating you."
She felt the burn of shame and anger creep into her chest. "You think I wanted this? You think I'm some... gold-digger?"
His eyes flared. For the first time, emotion cracked through—something dark and bitter.
"I think you're a girl who made a choice. Like I did. Let's not pretend either of us is innocent."
Zara stared at him, words tangled on her tongue.
There was something broken behind his cruelty. Something hidden. But she didn't have time to unpack it.
He turned away from her, motioning to a guard.
"Take her to the chamber after the ceremony," he said. "She'll need to sign it tonight."
Zara frowned. "Sign what?"
He glanced over his shoulder, cold as ever. "The marriage contract. The real one."
Before she could ask what that meant, the chamber doors opened again—and the wedding ceremony began.
---
The wedding was a blur.
Flashbulbs. Applause. Royal ministers mumbling prayers. Gold and velvet and cold stares.
She stood beside him like a doll.
He didn't look at her. Not once.
And when the priest asked him if he took Zara to be his lawfully wedded wife, he simply said, "Yes," like it was a business transaction.
Because to him, it was.
---
That night, the palace was quiet.
Zara sat on the edge of the massive bed in the bridal chamber, fingers digging into her palms.
She wasn't naïve. She knew what usually happened on wedding nights. But when the door creaked open, and Prince Rael stepped in, he didn't look like a man hungry for passion.
He looked like a man preparing for war.
He tossed a thick folder onto the table beside her. "Read it."
Zara stared. "What is this?"
"The contract. Clause one—you don't leave the palace unless I approve it. Clause two—no press statements without my clearance. Clause three—no touching me in public."
She stood up. "You're joking."
"I never joke."
Her voice trembled. "So I'm just a prisoner now?"
Rael tilted his head. "You're a wife. That's worse."
That cut deeper than she expected. "Why did you even agree to this marriage if you hate it so much?"
He walked toward her slowly, those gray eyes unreadable. "Because sometimes, princes don't get to say no."
He stopped inches from her. The heat of him. The smell—like leather, spice, and something colder beneath it.
"You're beautiful," he said suddenly. The words shocked her. "But beauty means nothing here."
Zara looked up, defiant. "Then what does?"
He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes. "Control."
And just like that, the warmth vanished.
He turned to leave, his voice like a knife behind him.
"Sign it by morning. Or you'll find out exactly what disobedience costs in this palace."
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Zara stood there, heart pounding.
Not from fear.
But from something more dangerous.
Something she couldn't name.