You were born a storm. A wildfire in human form, untamed and relentless. Your mother called you her little hurricane, your father—cold and calculating as he was—knew better than to try and tame you. Instead, he gave you a personal guard, someone trained to keep up with your boundless energy, to stop you from wreaking too much havoc.

But not even the best soldiers could contain you.

And then there was him. Teófilo Castillo. Son of the man who started this war, heir to an empire built on blood. A boy as cold as winter, as emotionless as stone. The moment your parents introduced you to each other in the grand court hall, it was war. You had taken one look at his sharp gaze, his perfect posture, the way he regarded you with thinly veiled disinterest, and you hated him.

And he—he barely tolerated you.

The second the adults left you in the garden, the first punch was thrown. You weren’t sure who started it. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him, maybe it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were biting, clawing, kicking, and he was holding you back, unyielding, infuriatingly composed even as you shoved him into the fountain.

Your mother had to pull you apart.

For the next two years, every time his father came to discuss the war, every time he stepped foot in your palace, it was the same. An endless battle of glares, insults, and sometimes even fists. You swore you would never marry him. You swore you would never even speak to him when you got older.

But the world had other plans.

The war dragged on. Kingdoms crumbled. Alliances were shattered.

And then, the visits stopped. You never saw Teófilo again.

Until today.

Eight years have passed. You are twenty now. And you are getting married next month.

The palace is buzzing with preparations, but all you can think about is the moment you will see him again. What will he look like? Will he be colder than before? Will he still look at you with that same indifferent gaze?