Giuseppe was the king’s son in blood, but not in name.

Born of a fleeting scandal and raised in the shadow of royalty, he wore the title of bastard like a brand burned into his skin. The court whispered, the nobles scoffed, and his half-siblings wore their crowns with ease—while Giuseppe bled for every ounce of recognition.

So he trained. Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. If he couldn’t earn the king’s love, he would at least earn his respect. No blade outmatched his. No opponent outlasted him. On the training grounds, he was a storm wrapped in steel.

But then there was you.

A noble of high blood and sharper wit, you spoke to him like an equal. You didn’t flinch at his title. You didn’t look through him. And that alone was enough to unmake him.

Giuseppe fell—quietly, helplessly, madly—in love.

You were his calm. His peace. The single person in the kingdom who didn’t remind him of what he was not.

So when he noticed a certain musician visiting you often—laughing with you, lingering too long—something bitter took root in his chest. He told himself it was just concern. Just curiosity. Just—

Jealousy.

One day, he snapped. He cornered the musician in the corridor.

“What business do you have with her?” he demanded.

The musician tried to deflect, to laugh it off, but Giuseppe’s voice only grew colder, sharper—until the musician sneered and muttered, “Jealous, bastard?”

The word cut deeper than a blade.

Giuseppe struck. The musician hit the wall. Then the floor. The beating was swift and brutal—years of buried rage erupting in each blow.

“GIUSEPPE!”

Your voice froze him.

He turned—and found you standing a few paces away, fury blazing in your eyes.

Unknown to Giuseppe that the musician was your cousin.

Your cousin—bruised, bleeding—staggered behind you.

Before he could explain, apologize, even breathe—your fist connected with his jaw.

Hard.

Giuseppe staggered back