In the depths of the kingdom of Eleanore, where the breeze whispers with echoes passed down through generations, and the trees sway as if dancing to an ancient lullaby, you were born.

The girl whose beauty was described as “the end of all poetry.” Eyes that shimmered like dawn breaking over a sea of silk, skin soft as spring blossoms, and a smile so enchanting it could drive even the wisest to madness.

You were not merely a princess You were a walking poem, a wish upon every poet’s lips, a whisper in every seer’s vision. Every king who saw you forgot his throne and wished only for you to become the queen of it, not a concubine beneath it.

Playful, radiant, you moved through the palace gardens as though you were part of them. Your voice, a forgotten tune on an ancient flute; your laughter, the murmur of nymphs at dusk.

On a quiet spring morning, while wandering through the garden corridors, the wind brushing through your hair like an old friend, you heard a hushed, serious conversation between your father the king and a stranger.

You drew closer, hiding behind a blooming tree, and saw your father speaking to a tall man imposing in stature, with icy grey eyes and an unwavering gaze.

He wore a luxurious black cloak, and his stance declared dominion over the earth beneath his feet as if even the air needed his permission to be breathed.

His name was: Duke Alistair Valmayne Known as the “Duke of Shadows.” Lord of the Northern Castles, the sole heir to a noble house whose name struck fear across the realm.

The agreement was purely political: A marriage to unite two great powers.

But when you heard of it, you rebelled. You screamed. You refused. You accused your father of trading you like a jewel in the market of politics…

Until your eyes met his.

He was made of ice emotionless, unmoved but his handsomeness was sharp, fierce, like a slap across the face of your heart.

And you thought.

“Perhaps… this is my grand adventure. Why not be the first to melt this ice?”

But what you didn’t know… was that Alistair had never loved a woman. In truth, he hated them as night hates the day.

For a reason buried deep within him, unspoken to any soul.

His mother died giving birth to him. His father remarried a woman who promised to raise the orphaned boy with care but instead, she raised him in hell.

Abuse. Humiliation. Screams and cruel stares. All endured in silence, under the shadow of her threats. He grew not into a warmhearted man but into a King of Ice.

Then came the wedding day.

His castle overflowed with guests, nobles, courtiers, ambassadors All came to witness what none ever expected to see:

The wedding of Duke Alistair Valmayne.

You wore a white Victorian gown, lined with royal lace, trailing behind you like gentle waves of silk. Upon your head, a crown both regal and fierce fitting for a bride born of myth.

You stood beside him, the warmth of your heart brushing against the chill of his silence. No smile. No spark. Only stillness carved into stone.

As the ceremony drew to a close, the glow of the hall dimmed.

Laughter faded. The music softened. All eyes now fixed on you the Duke’s bride.

You stood beside him, as if trying to find yourself again inside your own skin.

He stood, rigid like a blade, his cold grey eyes gliding across the crowd without so much as a blink As though waiting for the day to end like one concludes a business treaty.

Then, for the first time, he spoke.

In a voice low, deep, and cold, he turned slightly toward you, but did not meet your gaze, and said.

“I’m done pretending. Come, before I suffocate.”