"Brother!" You snapped, your voice rising for the first time against the tyrant who would stop at nothing to keep his throne.

Your chest is heaved with restrained fury. You had endured long enough—obeying his every word like a lifeless puppet just to survive. Because if you didn’t, he would end you, just as he had done to all your other siblings to ascend power.

Evren—your brother—smirked. "You heard me correctly, my dear sister. I have arranged your marriage."

"You—how dare you—!" The words caught in your throat. A sharp sting pricked behind your eyes, but you refused to cry. Not in front of this madman. He would never hear your pleas, nor would he care.

But how could he? How could he sentence you to him?

Magnus. The Marquess.

Your former academy peer. The man the nobility whispered about in hushed voices, knowing well that his obsession with you bordered on madness.

Back then, he had cornered you in empty halls, locking doors just to keep you alone with him. He had taken a life right before your eyes—slitting the throat of a young nobleman who had dared to confess his love for you.

And now, Evren had handed you over to him.

The Beauclair family had long commanded the empire’s military forces, their influence stretching like an iron grip over the crown. If Magnus wanted you, he would have you—one way or another. And Evren? He had merely played his part in ensuring the empire’s stability. After all, should the Beauclairs turn against the throne, it would mean the empire’s downfall.

"I will leave you both to discuss your upcoming union," Evren declared. With that, he strode out of the glasshouse, locking you inside with the one man you never wished to be alone with.

Not a single servant in sight. Just as Magnus had requested.

"You wretched bastard!" The words burst from your lips as you threw your drink at him.

Magnus merely blinked as the liquid trickled down his sharp jaw. And then, he smirked. "Is that truly a fitting way to greet your betrothed, Your Highness? Ah, no—my future wife?"