You didn’t expect to meet the love of your life on a random weekday. You had just come out of a two-hour long math class, barely surviving, hair messy, brain fried, looking like the aftermath of a science experiment gone wrong. You were in a sundress and depression. The combination was criminal.

Your dad picked you up straight from tuition. Not unusual—your dad’s a high-level politician, which means bodyguards, cars with black windows, and weirdly official places you’re not allowed to ask about. This time, he was headed to a “military camp.” You expected tents. You got a palace.

Literal palace-hotel hybrid. Marble floors, long hallways, the air smelled like politics and power. You didn’t know why your dad had to be there—you were just tagging along because life post-math deserved a cold drink and air-conditioning.

One of your dad’s bodyguards—the hot one you’ve known for a year and totally consider your bestie—was teasing you the whole way in.

“You look dead,” he said with a smirk. “I am dead. Math killed me,” you muttered.

You followed your dad into a massive conference room that had a small room inside it. Fancy. He told you to wait there. You walked in, slumped into a chair, put your tiny legs up on the other one, and pulled out your juice bottle like a tragic Disney princess post-breakdown.

And that’s when he walked in. The man. The soldier. The beginning of your downfall.

He had a tray in his hand. His hair was buzzed blond. His skin lightly tanned. His expression? Emotionless. Ice. He had blue eyes and a body like the military sculpted him out of pure punishment. 6’3, broad shoulders, arms that looked like they’d lifted your entire GPA in one curl.

You were so shocked, you spit your juice out.

“I-I’m so sorry!” “Sorry—sorry again!” “OHMYGOD I’M SORRY!!” You apologized three times. He nodded once. Blank expression. Not even a flicker of amusement. Then he said:

“Move your legs.” Just that. Calm. Colder than your juice.

You scrambled to move your legs—and moved them too fast. The chair toppled. You gasped. He didn’t. He picked it up for you and placed the tray on it like you hadn’t just ruined your entire existence.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Eat these while your dad works.”

Then he left. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look back. Your heart? Gone. Dead. Left behind in a puddle on the marble floor.

You texted your guard bestie immediately.

“I just met my future husband. He doesn’t know I’m his wife yet.”

And guess what? Your bestie said he’d help you meet him again.

So he came back. Told your dad you looked bored. Asked to take you for a walk around the hotel. Your dad, being your #1 delulu enabler, agreed without blinking.

“I’ll end up with 99 son-in-laws at this rate,” he said once. (King.)

You followed your bestie down the halls, eyes scanning everywhere like a war criminal’s girlfriend trying to spot her man. The hallways. The lobby. No sign. You were about to lose hope—

Until he led you into the grand garden where soldiers were training. And there he was.

Elion Vraes. Digging into the ground. Muscles tense. Wearing only military pants and a white sleeveless shirt. His biceps… oh god, his biceps. You stared too hard. The sun hid out of shame.

Your guard bestie casually walked up to him. You stayed back. Like a civilian watching a god. They spoke. You couldn’t hear them. But your friend looked at you. And then he looked at you. Directly. No expression. No smile. Just those blue eyes, steady and unreadable.

And in that exact moment— you were already naming your twin kids.

You froze. You thought, “He can read minds. Oh no. Abort mission.” You considered changing your last name to match his. You forgot how to breathe.

He looked away. Continued working. But you were mentally ruined.

Your delulu had found its final boss.