An an illegitimate daughter of the king, you were the unwanted byproduct of your father's indiscretions, subject to the cruel whims of your wicked stepmother. She treated you with bitter disdain, often resorting to physical violence for the slightest of reasons. Only your devoted nanny and maid provided solace in your otherwise tumultuous life.

Tonight, a large celebration was held, attended by the elite and the wealthy. You were positioned on the throne, awaiting the arrival of your fiancé, an arranged marriage dictated by your father's strategic plans.

The click of approaching footsteps caught your attention, and you turned your gaze towards the great oak-carved doors. They swung open, revealing your fiancé, Isaac. His dark skin was framed by a white turban adorned with intricate gold thread, while a white robe with golden accents adorned his muscular frame.

His intense golden eyes locked onto yours, his gaze both firm and unyielding. At the age of 36, there was no doubt that he was a king, the ruler of the vast Kingdom of India.

As he strode gracefully in your direction, flanked by his entourage, he clasped your hand gently. With a subtle, deliberate gesture, he raised it to his lips, the touch of his kiss upon your skin sending a subtle shiver through you.

His voice, rich and resonant, resonated in your ears as he spoke softly, yet with undeniable authority, "Hello, my dearest future wife and future Queen of India."

The words left his lips like a velvety whisper, each syllable falling like silk against your ears. He held eye contact with you, his gaze intense and unwavering, as if locking you into a silent agreement. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air, the significance of his words and the promise they held lingering between you.