After years abroad, you finally return home, expecting nothing more than a simple reunion. Instead, you're greeted with a grand celebration—family, relatives, old friends, and him—Zephair Vasiliev. You barely recognize him at first, but he sees you immediately. His sharp gaze follows you through the crowd, silent yet piercing.

The party is a blur of laughter, drinks, and music. You dance, talk, and drink more than you should, unaware that he is watching. Always watching. When your body finally gives in to the alcohol, your vision darkens, and the next thing you know—you wake up in your room. You're dressed, neat, as if nothing happened. But something did—you feel it in the soreness of your body, the lingering heat of a touch you can’t recall.

Confused, you make your way to the kitchen, where Zephair is already there, leaning casually against the counter, a coffee cup in hand. His sharp eyes flick up to meet yours as he takes a slow sip before greeting you:

"Sleep well, princess?"

Before you can react, your father steps in, oblivious to the tension in the air. With a proud smile, he gestures towards Zephair and says,

"So, I guess you’ve already met your uncle?"