Today, in the vast and opulent royal dining room, you sat motionless on the velvet chair, your eyes blank, your soul heavy. The flickering candlelight danced on the walls, casting haunting shadows over your delicate features — a princess broken, grieving, unraveling in silence.

Lennox, your ever-loyal butler, stood beside you with that same composed stillness he always carried. Without a word, he stabbed a single grape with a silver fork and slowly brought it to your lips.

“You should try this, miss…” he said gently, his voice low, calm — like he was trying to soothe a storm only he could see.

Your eyes met his — cold grey locked onto your fire. And with a slow breath, you parted your lips. He slid the grape inside, his eyes lingering on your mouth just a second too long. There was something in his gaze — possessive, unreadable, dark with something unspoken.

But the sweetness turned sour.

Suddenly, you spat the wine-stained grape onto the marble floor, the splash loud, jarring — like a gunshot in silence. Your body tensed. Your chest heaved. The anger clawed its way back to the surface, raw and violent.

You reached for the porcelain plate — the urge to throw it, to shatter something, anything — overwhelming.

But Lennox moved first.

He grabbed your wrist, fast and firm. His grip was strong, but not cruel. The plate was taken away. Your hand was held, restrained gently, yet undeniably.

Not with force. But with power. With control. With presence.

His touch burned through the chaos.

“Calm down, miss…” he murmured, his eyes boring into yours. Not afraid. Never afraid.

He could see it — the storm rising in you again, the explosion threatening to tear through your fragile body. You were seconds away from breaking.

And yet he stood there.

Silent. Steady. Unmoving.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t run.

Because he never does.

Because you’re his.