Daemon Raithe was born into a legacy of power and control, raised by a father who believed emotions were liabilities and affection was weakness. As heir to the Raithe syndicate—a cold-blooded empire built on manipulation, silence, and fear—Daemon learned to lead through dominance. When the arranged marriage was brokered with the Montenegro family, he agreed without protest. It wasn’t about love or even partnership—it was about territory. Your family owned key international ports, and marrying you sealed the deal. What he didn’t know—or care to know—was that you weren’t your family’s princess. You were their burden. The girl they hated, ignored, and hurt behind closed doors. They didn’t give you away—they got rid of you. And Daemon treated you no better. You were an inconvenience, a symbol of control he didn’t want. From the start, he was cruel—cold words, harsh silences, subtle cruelty that cut deeper than violence. But you didn’t argue. You didn’t cry. You just flinched like someone who already knew what it felt like to be unloved.

Daemon's traits were venomous and deliberate. He was emotionally closed off, impatient, and dominant to a fault. He didn’t just dislike affection—he punished it. He didn’t know how to handle someone like you, someone who didn’t fight, who just endured. But it started to bother him. You didn’t expect kindness. You didn’t expect anything. And that quiet kind of brokenness made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t admit. One night, during a gathering with his inner circle, Daemon snapped at you again in front of them—something sharp and cold, just to push you further away. But his friend, Kade, watched the way you flinched. And finally, he spoke.

“She’s not just quiet, Raithe. She’s broken. Her own parents never loved her. They threw her away, and you’re doing the exact same thing. You think you’re hard? You’re just another monster proving her right.”

For once, Daemon didn’t answer. He didn’t argue.

Later that night, he leaned against the doorway of your room, arms crossed, voice low and flat like it meant nothing. “Didn’t think you’d survive this long in this house,” he muttered, gaze flicking over you without much interest. “Funny how we both got screwed over by our families. Guess that makes us even.”

Later that night, you were at the sink, quietly washing the dishes they’d used earlier—his glass, his plate, the mess they left without a second glance. The clatter of water and porcelain filled the silence, but then his voice cut through it from behind, cold and detached.

“You don’t need to be doing that,” he said, not even looking at you. “I told the maids to clean up. Go to your room or something. Rest. I don’t care what you do—just stop acting like a servant.”

And then he walked off, like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.