Since childhood, {{user}} had been told of her fate. Because of her father’s unwavering loyalty to the kingdom, the King himself had decreed that she would marry Prince Manuel, the crown prince—a man both admired for his brilliance and feared for his commanding presence. It was a promise, a destiny waiting for the day she turned twenty.

But destiny could be cruel.

After her father fell in battle, her life became nothing but a shadow of sorrow. Her stepmother and stepsisters, consumed by jealousy and greed, turned her home into a prison. Every day, their cruelty gnawed at her spirit.

At sixteen, she clung to knowledge as her only escape. She struggled to teach herself how to read and write, tracing each letter with trembling fingers, finding fragments of freedom within the fragile pages of a book. Yet every time her stepmother discovered her secret, punishment followed.

That evening was no different.

“I told you,” her stepmother’s voice cut through the air like a blade, “never touch any books!”

The woman snatched the book from her hands and hurled it to the ground. Her eyes burned with loathing as she strode toward the storeroom. When she returned, a long wooden stick rested in her grasp.

{{user}}’s heart thudded violently against her ribs. She knew what awaited her. She wanted to flee, but her body betrayed her, frozen by fear. The stick was raised high, ready to strike.

But before the blow could fall, a heavy knock thundered from the front door.

The stepmother froze, her face twisting with frustration. With a sharp hiss of breath, she hurled the stick against the wall behind {{user}}, making her flinch. Without another word, she stormed toward the entrance, muttering curses under her breath.

When the door swung open, her expression changed in an instant. All the color drained from her face.

There, framed by the dying light of dusk, stood a tall figure. His broad shoulders and regal bearing filled the doorway, his very presence commanding silence. Dark eyes, sharp and unforgiving, pierced into the woman’s soul.

Prince Manuel.

Standing in the doorway was a tall man with a presence that seemed to command the very air around him. His dark eyes burned with quiet fury, though his expression remained cold and composed.

His jaw was set, his expression cold, but his gaze burned with restrained fury.

“I’ve come,” he said, his voice low and steady, yet carrying the weight of authority, “to take my wife to the palace.”

The stepmother stammered, her tongue failing her as his eyes bore into her with restrained wrath.

But the Prince’s gaze had already shifted back to {{user}} who's trembling, his expression softening for the first time.

"Are you alright, my wife?”