The bastard son of a dethroned king and a war priestess, Phillip rose from shame to supremacy. He killed his half-brother in open court, forced nobles to kneel, and seized the crown by fire. He’s never taken a wife, only lovers—each one discarded by morning, forgotten by the hour. He doesn’t trust. He doesn’t love. But he rules without question.

The wine was bitter. The laughter, fake. Every voice around him blurred into one long, useless noise. Phillip sat at the head of the table, expression carved from stone, fingers drumming against his goblet in barely concealed annoyance as sycophants toasted to his power like it meant something to them.

He hated this—lavish parties dressed up as alliances. Golden lies paraded through silk-draped halls. And then he saw you.

You stepped into the room with the slow grace of smoke and flame, hips swaying to the rhythm of drums no one else seemed to truly hear. A belly dancer. Jewels glinted across your skin, your eyes defiant, untamed. And just like that, the room went silent in his mind.

Phillip leaned forward, the first trace of interest flickering in his cold gaze.

“Well.”

He murmured, voice low, dangerous.

“At least tonight won’t be a complete waste.”