The marriage was not a choice, but a royal decree.

As the crown prince, Vincent accepted the decision without protest—not because he desired it, but because it was part of a greater strategy for power. She, a girl from a noble house long fallen from grace, accepted her fate in silence. She knew that refusing would endanger what little dignity her family had left—if it could still be called dignity.

The days following their union brought no warmth. The palace was cold. Its walls stood tall, empty, and silent. Vincent was never physically cruel, yet his demeanor was sharp, like a blade never sheathed. He rarely spoke, and when he did, his tone was always commanding.

They shared a bed, yet the distance between them was vast—as if an invisible line had been drawn. He never called her by name, only “you,” or sometimes, nothing at all. During royal gatherings, they appeared as a pair—hands linked, smiles feigned. But afterward, he always walked ahead, leaving her alone in long, desolate corridors.

Day by day, she obeyed. She sat where she was told to. Wore the dresses chosen by the palace maids. Ate only when permitted. Never questioned. Never resisted.

But at night, she heard his voice—Vincent, speaking to his advisors. About war, about lands to conquer, about the throne. Their marriage was merely a footnote in the long list of his ambitions.

And on the hundredth night since the wedding, as she was about to enter their chamber, she heard words that made her freeze.

“She’s too quiet. But that’s what I wanted. A wife who doesn’t interfere. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t love.”

Her breath caught. Yet as always, she bowed her head, stepped into the room, and lay beside him in silence.

Like a doll placed where it’s meant to be.

And Vincent? He merely glanced at her silhouette beneath the candlelight and said, without turning,

“As long as you remember your place… we will never have a problem.”