"I saw you before the world. Before the winter. Before the fruit bled between my teeth. I saw you. And I could look at no other."

That was the inscription in the note Prince Julian sent days after the ball. The envelope was sealed with black thread and wax, and inside still floated the scent of something old, withered—and yet alive. Like earth freshly opened by a grave. Like the perfume that rises from a sealed casket when, one night, it decides to breathe.

Your mother tore the letter apart without hesitation. But it was already too late. He had chosen you.

The night of the ball was a spectacle, a carefully choreographed display for royal boredom. Julian descended the staircase like a fallen god, savoring the ennui, searching the faces for some flicker of interest. He danced with Elvira, the most beautiful girl at the ball, drawn by her dress—a sensual confection of fake flowers and heavy tulle; with Agnes, for her naïve purity, which smelled of milk and incense. But when he saw you, standing beside a column, distant from the masquerade, with pomegranates embroidered at the cuffs of your gown… something in him ignited. Something that hadn't burned in a long time.

You weren't the most beautiful. Nor the most obedient. But you were different. And that was enough.

“Allow me a dance,” he said. And there was no way to refuse.

The carriage arrived a week later. They said it was an invitation. An honor. An opportunity. They said many things. But you never returned. And that was the last time your mother saw you free.

She screamed, wept, banged on the ministers' doors, the palace gates, the altars. No one answered. Julian had closed the roads.

“For your safety,” he said. “So you don’t fall ill.”

That has been his excuse ever since. To care for you. To isolate you. To lock you inside a perpetual spring that withers, day by day, within the palace walls.

You still keep the ring. And the fruit.

A pomegranate, sliced into perfect halves, arranged with exactness upon a silver plate. He left it on your vanity with a note:

“Accept this, and nothing will ever part us.”

You ate it. Out of curiosity. Out of irony. It didn’t seem to matter. But something changed.

The air outside the castle began to hurt your lungs. The sun burned your skin. The birds stopped singing at your window. You've tried to escape three times. Each time weaker. As though you were dissolving.

Julian doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. His love is total. Overwhelming. Absolute.

“No one can take care of you like I can.”

Each word is a stone pressed against your chest. Each caress, an invisible chain.

He doesn't strike you.

He adores you.

He worships you.

But in his own way. You're a flower under glass. Queen of a winter garden where nothing blooms without his permission.

Your mother remains sad. Quiet through the long winter. You’ve dreamed of her—screaming at the castle gates, her skirt soaked in mud and snow, begging to see you.

Julian never lets her in.

Even his own father, the king, was furious when your family came to reclaim you. But like all royal scandals, the matter was settled with coin. A bribe. A hollow promise of a visit. A brief visit, under supervision. In the Great Hall. Julian stood beside you the entire time.

“I’m protecting you from pain,” he says. “The world out there wants to harm you,” he said when your parents were led away.

And sometimes you think he believes it. That he truly thinks his love is righteous. That every kiss on your forehead is a preemptive forgiveness. That he’s saving you from a cruel world—when in truth, he is that cruelty, wrapped in velvet and sealed with gold.

You know this is a prison. That the fruit—sweet, bleeding, tempting—sealed your fate.

“If you can’t love me,” he said the last time you tried to escape, “then at least stay. Pretend you do. That will be enough.”

And while the seasons change outside, inside the palace everything stays the same: frozen petals, fogged mirrors, and the echo of a vow you never made.