The palace was asleep, or at least pretending to be.
Zara stood by the window of her chamber, staring out into the darkened courtyard. Two guards patrolled near the gate, their movements sluggish, predictable. Moonlight cast shadows across the garden paths, highlighting the silence that blanketed the royal estate.
She had no plan. No destination.
Only a desperate need to breathe.
Ever since she entered this golden prison, her lungs felt compressed. Her soul—caged. Last night's humiliation still clawed at her chest. The way he looked at her. The way he didn't.
Her fingers curled around the velvet curtain.
If she stayed here, she'd rot.
So, barefoot and silent, she crept toward the servant's passage behind the armoire—something she'd noticed while exploring her chamber alone. A forgotten door. A hidden stairwell.
Her heart pounded louder with each step.
She didn't know what waited outside.
But anything was better than being invisible inside.
---
The streets were colder than she remembered.
She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, walking fast, head down. The royal carriage had dropped her here once for a public appearance, so the area was familiar. But in the night, it felt different. Darker. Quieter. Dangerous.
She passed shuttered shops, flickering lanterns, and a drunk man slumped against a wall. No one recognized her—yet.
Then she saw it: a small bakery, closed for the night, but with a bench beneath its awning. She sat there, finally letting the numbness catch up.
She could almost pretend she was normal. Just a girl escaping a toxic home. Just a woman needing silence.
But peace was short-lived.
Two figures emerged from the alley.
One man, bald with a jagged scar across his cheek. The other, taller, with a cigarette hanging from his lip.
"Well, well," Scarface drawled. "What's a pretty thing like you doing out here alone?"
Zara stood immediately. "I'm leaving."
The tall one chuckled. "No, sweetheart. You're not."
She turned to run—but a third figure blocked the path behind her. Cold steel pressed to her side.
"You're coming with us. Quietly."
The van smelled of rust and smoke. Zara's wrists were tied, her mouth covered. Her heart thrashed against her ribs like it wanted to escape her body.
No one knew she was gone.
No one cared.
And worst of all… she'd done this to herself.
The vehicle jerked to a stop.
They dragged her into an old warehouse, the air thick with oil and dust. Scarface grabbed her chin and forced her to look up.
"She's worth a fortune now," he muttered. "The royal bastard married her in public."
The taller man smirked. "Then let's send a message. Bet His Highness will pay anything to get his shiny new wife back in one piece."
Just as he raised his hand to slap her, a gunshot rang out.
The warehouse door exploded open.
Soldiers poured in—uniformed, armed, fierce. Zara fell to the floor as chaos erupted around her.
And then…
A tall figure stepped through the smoke, dressed in black, his eyes burning with wrath.
Prince Rael.
His blade flashed. One by one, her captors fell—disarmed, subdued, broken.
Scarface raised his hand toward Zara.
Rael's voice cut through the room like ice over fire.
"Who told you to raise your hand at my wife?"
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. His tone was low, lethal.
Zara's breath hitched.
Her heart—betrayer that it was—fluttered for a second. That single sentence wrapped around her like armor.
Wife.
He called her that.
And for a moment, she felt safe.
Later, in the royal carriage, silence sat between them like a wall.
Rael didn't look at her. Just stared out the window, jaw clenched, one hand tapping his knee restlessly.
She was wrapped in a thick coat now, one of his guards having offered it. But it was his words back there that lingered.
Who told you to raise your hand at my wife?
Maybe he cared. Just a little.
Maybe—
"You're reckless," he snapped suddenly. "Stupid. Privileged girls always think they're invincible until the real world teaches them a lesson. Who told you to leave the palace"
The coat felt heavier.
Whatever warmth she felt shattered instantly.
She faced him and shouted. "I didn't ask you to save me also I haven't signed that damned contract so you don't have the right to shout at me"
"No," he said coldly. "But you belong to me now. And I don't let anyone touch what's mine."
His words weren't a comfort. They were a sentence.
When they returned to the palace, Rael didn't let her retreat to her chambers.
Instead, he ordered the guards to lock the door from the outside.
"You'll remain here until you learn the meaning of obedience," he said, standing in the doorway like a king pronouncing judgment. "Leaving the palace without my consent is treasonous."
"Treasonous?" she snapped. "I'm not your prisoner!"
"No," he said smoothly. "You're my wife. And you'll start acting like one."
He stepped closer, something sharp in his eyes. "Where's the contract?"
Zara froze.
"What?"
"The contract. The one you were supposed to sign. Where is it?"
She clenched her jaw. Said nothing.
He moved fast—too fast.
His hand closed around her throat, just enough pressure to shock, not choke. His grip was cold. His stare—colder.
"Don't test me, Zara."
She gasped but held his gaze.
His other hand clenched at his side.
But then—his eyes shifted.
To the fireplace.
To the faint pile of ashes sitting in the grate.
He released her.
Walked forward.
Kneeling, he dipped two fingers into the ash and lifted them to his face.
His eyes narrowed.
"You burned it," he said quietly.
There was no rage in his voice. No violence.
Just a chilling, unfamiliar stillness.
She stood, rubbing her neck. "Yes. I did. Because I'm not a thing to be owned."
He stared at the ashes again, then rose to his full height.
"You'll regret that."
She flinched—but didn't back down.
"I already regret marrying you."
His mouth twitched, but he didn't respond.
Instead, he turned his back, walked to the door, and said to the guard, "Triple the security. No one enters her room without my permission."
The door slammed shut behind him.
And she was alone again.
Locked away.
But somehow, even in the quiet—
She smiled.
Because she had defied a king.
And left ashes as proof.