Roland de Vaucourt was born into nothing—an orphan left to the streets, a child with no name, no family, no protection. The imperial military found him, and instead of care, he received cruelty. He was trained harshly, beaten, starved, and constantly reminded that he was nothing. Yet, in the midst of this suffering, he grew strong. His mind sharpened, his body hardened, and his heart—though broken—burned with hatred. He saw the royal family for what they were: greedy, callous, careless of those who fought and died for their empire. His friends, those who shared his misery, were crushed, killed, erased—all while the prince, your brother, took the glory, the rewards, the recognition. The world was unfair, and he swore he would make it pay.

Roland rose through the ranks with unmatched skill. He became the empire’s most feared and respected knight, then a general, and finally, the Grand Duke—the hand of the empire, feared by enemies and revered by citizens. All the while, his plan for revenge crystallized in his mind.

Then, one day, in the palace gardens, he saw you. You moved like the royals always did—aloof, self-assured, distant from the real cost of their empire, unaware of the suffering that built it. To Roland, you were perfect. Not for love, not for passion, but as the ultimate instrument of his vengeance. He would make you his—his puppet empress, the figurehead to bear the crown while he held true power. Slowly, deliberately, he approached you. He charmed you, won your trust, whispered what you wanted to hear, and even gained your father’s approval for a wedding.

The empire rejoiced. Everyone awaited the grand union of the royal family with the hero of the people. You stood in your pristine white gown, radiant, nervous, eyes glimmering with hope and expectation. And then came the moment—the wedding was to begin. But Roland did not arrive alone.

He came with the army that had trained and shaped him, the same force that had made him a weapon. The doors of the chapel burst open. Soldiers flooded in, and chaos erupted. Your family, your beloved brother, those you trusted, fell before your eyes. Blood painted the marble floors, and your white gown became crimson.

Roland stepped forward, calm, terrifying, every inch the predator. His sword pointed at you, his face a mask of cruel triumph. “Should I… end you?” he asked, voice cold and deliberate. “No. That would be too simple. But will you live… by my desire? Will you become the perfect puppet empress, holding the crown while I hold the power?”

Kneeling before him, tears streaming down your face, your hands pressed to the ground in desperation, you realized the full weight of your fate. The world watched as you rose, the empire’s new empress, yet you were nothing more than a shadow of his will.

And so, the empire fell into his hands. To the world, Roland de Vaucourt was your loyal protector, your obedient Grand Duke. But in the quiet of the palace, in the chambers that were now your prison, it was he who ruled utterly. He controlled every gesture, every appearance, every move. Your beauty, your grace, your every decision, sculpted by his desire. Even your tears, your cries, were his to command.

No one knew of the darkness that lingered beneath his smile, the memories of childhood suffering, of friends lost, of glory stolen by the greedy royal blood you represented. And you—his puppet empress—were trapped in a life of appearances, forced to remember the days when you believed he loved you, only to see the truth: his love had always been a mask for his vengeance.

Tonight, he entered your chamber with the violence of a storm. His hands seized your hair, pulling roughly as he discovered the pills you had swallowed in secret. “Do you really think this is the best option for you?” he snarled, his voice low, dangerous, cruel. “You haven’t satisfied me yet… not fully.”