The cold stone walls of the castle seemed to hum with the energy of betrayal.

You had been promised to Prince Tommy Riley — the King's younger brother — in a political match that, on paper, would strengthen two kingdoms. It was a practical move, one your lonely heart accepted without resistance. Love, after all, was a myth in your world of crowns and iron.

But fate, or perhaps cruelty, intervened.

Passing through the corridor late at night, you overheard Tommy speaking to his personal bodyguard — laughing, mocking you. "Once I'm married, her kingdom is ours. I don't even have to touch her. Just get the crown, and the cold little queen can rot in her lonely castle for all I care."

Something inside you snapped.

Your blood boiled. Your vision blurred with rage. The loneliness you had accepted all your life twisted into something feral, uncontrollable. You would not be used. You would not be cast aside like a pawn.

Without hesitation, still wearing the thin silk gown you slept in, you stormed through the castle — guards scrambling out of your path — until you reached the heavy doors of the throne room.

Inside, the infamous King Simon "Ghost" Riley sat alone in the dim light, one hand loosely holding a goblet of wine, the other resting lazily on the arm of his black throne. His skeletal mask was pushed to the side of his face, revealing sharp, unreadable blue eyes.

Those eyes narrowed the moment you entered, unannounced, furious.

"Your Majesty," you hissed, voice trembling not with fear, but rage. "I demand that the engagement between Prince Tommy and I be broken."

A long pause filled the air, thick with unspoken consequences. The king tilted his head slightly, studying you like a predator studies a challenger.

"Is that so?" Simon drawled, voice low and dangerous. "You've come storming into my throne room... to insult my blood?"

You stepped closer, uncaring of the risk. "He insults me," you snapped. "I heard him myself. He wants my crown. Not me. He mocks your house and mine." You lifted your chin proudly. "I will not be used."

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then — a slow, dark smile spread across Simon's face. Not one of warmth, but of ruthless amusement.

"You come to me, little queen," he murmured, voice almost tender — almost. "And what is it you propose instead? Return home shamed? Hide behind your pretty titles?"

You met his gaze head-on. "No," you said, voice like steel. "Marry me yourself, Your Majesty. Make me your queen."