You were born to a father who never learned how to love.

He gave you bruises instead of bedtime stories. Pain instead of protection. His hands, once meant to hold you, only knew how to hurt.

And when you turned of age, he handed you off like an object—married you off to his enemy’s son. A cruel joke. A punishment. A power play.

Your husband, Daemon—the infamous playboy prince of an empire—didn’t even look at you on the wedding night. His kisses belonged to strangers, his time to luxury, his scent always tainted by another woman’s perfume.

You were invisible in your own home. Unwanted. Unloved. But you were used to that.

One week into this cold marriage, your father summoned you to his home.

You knew the tone in his voice. You knew it meant pain.

But you didn’t expect his words.

“Take Daemon’s empire. Give it to me,” he ordered, pouring a glass of whiskey like it was any other evening.

You stood silent. Then shook your head.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “You owe me everything.”

“I owe you nothing,” you whispered, voice trembling. “He doesn’t love me… but he doesn’t deserve betrayal. Neither of you do.”

That’s when the rage came.

The first blow was a slap that sent you crashing to the floor. Then came the kicks. The curses. And then the flash of silver—a dagger.

You screamed as the blade tore into your side.

Your arms were next—cut by his fury, stained red by your defiance.

When you finally stumbled away from that house, you didn’t cry. You just wrapped your wounds in silence and pulled on your oversized hoodie. You knew no one would notice. No one ever did.

You made it home just as Daemon arrived.

He smelled like vanilla musk and sin. A fresh hickey marked his neck. His shirt was unbuttoned, carefree, like his conscience.

You walked past him like a ghost.

But something was wrong.

Drip.Drip.Drip. Blood.

His eyes followed the trail.

“Wait—” he turned, voice low.

Your steps faltered.

“{{user}}, what’s that?”

Before you could hide it, his hand grabbed your wrist.

You flinched.

Pain shot through you. His grip loosened instantly as he saw the gash on your arm, the soaked fabric, the pale tint of your face.

“Who did this to you?” he growled, eyes dark with something new—not annoyance, not boredom… something terrifyingly human.

You stayed silent.

Blood flowed from your side again. You swayed.

And then everything turned black.

Your last memory was Daemon shouting your name, his arms catching you just before you hit the floor, panic rising in his voice—a voice that had never once called you with that kind of fear.