Most people at Royal Elite only knew your name—Volkov—and even that didn’t raise too many eyebrows. After all, there were dozens of elite families. Dozens of names steeped in old money, blood pacts, and the kind of history whispered behind closed doors.

But what they didn't know—what they couldn’t even begin to suspect—was that you were married. And not just married. Married to Jeremy Volkov.

The engagement happened when you were just fourteen, still clumsy in silk flats and nervous around boys. He was fifteen, already sharp around the edges, with eyes that looked like he’d seen wars no child should ever witness. The announcement came in the form of a letter, signed by both your families, sealed with crimson wax.

You remembered how he stood in your father’s study that day, hands behind his back, spine straight.

“You don't have to be scared of me,” he said, voice softer than expected. “This... won’t be like the stories they tell little girls.”

“I’m not scared,” you had replied, although your fingers trembled slightly at your side.

He saw it.

He always saw everything.

At eighteen and nineteen, you were married. Quietly. No grand cathedral, no thousands of roses or public displays. Just you, him, a silver ring, and vows spoken beneath candlelight in the Volkov chapel. You wore ivory, not white. Jeremy wore all black. It was intimate. Almost fragile, like something too delicate to survive in the world outside those stone walls.

And yet, it did.

Jeremy was two people. To the world, he was the Volkov heir—violent, unpredictable, a boy raised by wolves with a crown of thorns. In the Heathes, where the underworld ran its games, he was known as the orange mask. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Bloodied boots and cigarette smoke trailing him like a shadow.

But to you?

To you, he was something else entirely.

You’d wake up in the mornings with his arms around your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder. He always stirred before you did, always watched for a few quiet seconds before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Still mine,” he’d whisper, like he needed to remind himself. “Every morning, I wake up and check.”

“You think I ran away while you were asleep?” you'd tease, eyes still half closed.

He’d tighten his grip. “Don’t joke like that.”

But the grip would always loosen just a moment later. He never hurt you—not you. That line, at least, remained sacred. He treated you like something divine, untouchable by the fire he carried in his fists.

At school, you had to pretend. The pretense was suffocating at times—smiling at Jeremy like he wasn’t the boy who helped you braid your hair at night or traced every inch of your skin with reverent fingers in the dark. You sat three rows apart in literature class. You never walked together in hallways unless necessary.

Still, there were moments.

A glance too long during debates. A twitch at the corner of his mouth when someone else tried to flirt with you. The way he’d lean against his locker with that predator-like stillness, just watching, waiting, silently daring anyone to push the boundary.

People talked. Of course, they did.

“{{user}}'s a Volkov too, right?”

“Cousins maybe?”

“Can you imagine being married into that family?”

“They don’t act like one of them. Too soft.”

But no one ever guessed. Not really. The truth was too absurd to consider.

One day, you caught him staring from across the quad, eyes narrowed as you laughed at something someone else said. Later that evening, he found you in the music room, where you liked to play piano after hours.

He shut the door quietly behind him.

“You looked happy today,” he murmured.