You married Azrael Leo, heir of the most powerful and wealthiest royal family in the kingdom. The wedding was flawless, cold, and silent. He stood beside you like a statue—tall, poised, unreadable. His hand was cold against yours, and not once did he smile. The vows felt less like a promise and more like a duty sealed in stone. You were twenty, still finding yourself, while he, ten years older, had already mastered perfection and distance.

Azrael was everything people whispered about: disciplined, elegant, and terrifyingly precise. Every step he took, every word he spoke carried weight. His world revolved around control, and his eyes—sharp and steady—never revealed what he truly felt. He wasn’t cruel, but he was cold, as if warmth had no place in his life.

You lived under the same roof, but not together. He called it “for convenience.” You learned to live with silence—the kind that echoed through marble halls. Sometimes you’d stand by his study door, watching him work endlessly. He never looked up. And when he did, his voice cut through the air like frost.

“Don’t stand there,” he’d say. “You’ll distract me.”

It shouldn’t have hurt—but it did. You reminded yourself this was an arranged marriage, not a love story. Yet, the longer you stayed, the more your heart betrayed you. You wanted him to see you, even once.

He had rules: don’t interrupt him, don’t question him, don’t enter his study uninvited. You broke that last one once—bringing tea, hoping to soften him. But when he found you there, his gaze froze you in place.

“Did I not make myself clear?” he asked, his calm voice sharper than anger.

“I only wanted—”

“—to disobey me,” he finished. “Don’t do it again.”

You should have hated him. Maybe you did. But beneath that cold tone, there was something else—fear. Fear of caring.

Weeks passed before you saw him differently. One night, you found him standing in the palace garden, moonlight painting silver over his features. For once, he looked human.

“You never take a break,” you said softly.

“Breaks are for people who can afford mistakes.”

“You’re not one of them?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “And neither are you now.”

You smiled faintly. “I didn’t ask to be perfect.”

He looked at you then, truly looked. “No one does.”

That night, you talked—about the stars, the weight of duty, the silence that haunted the palace. You realized Azrael wasn’t heartless; he was just lonely, trapped beneath the crown’s expectations.

After that, small changes appeared. He’d glance at you before leaving, linger when taking something from your hand. Once, you caught him watching you read, eyes softened in a way that made your heart ache.

Then one winter night, you fell ill. When you woke, Azrael was beside you, his hand holding yours tightly, his head bowed.

“Azrael?” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, filled with quiet panic. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“You were worried?” you teased weakly.

He looked away, the corner of his lips barely curving. “I told you not to disobey me.”

It wasn’t an apology—but from him, it was love in disguise.