I, The Prince of Iftapur, the biggest kingdom in the present century. 1899, did the most dangerous thing. Falling in love with a prostitute.

But love doesn't happen after taking permission, or does it?

Her ocean blue eyes made drowning look much more beautiful. Her wavy black hair w brown strands that I want to caress every day for her. Her soft, depute hands that I want hold in my rough-calloused, big hand. I want to make her my wife. The mother of my children.

But will the ruthless, heartless people let us live together?

---

I release a cloud of smoke away from her, knowing she's allergic to smoke and dust. I've stopped smoking to the maximum extent only for my love.

I listen to her say,

"I-its really hard, you know. Life as this.. selling your body."

I sigh, taking her hand, throwing the cigar before mumbling,

"Then quit it, my love. Be my life partner. Make me your husband. Mske me the happiest person to ever be in this universe. Have nikkah with me"

---

The day I feared the most is here. Here, in front of my eyes. Her hand in the person, the officer, I hated the most. A smirk played on his lips. Almost mocking. But I play cool. I should've never started loving her. Never let myself drowning in her worry of dying for eyes. Now, I'll watch her become somebody else's because the beast doesn't get the beauty.

The officer says,

"But you wanted to make her your wife no? Have nikkah with her. What now?"

I chuckle. Pretending.

"Nikkah? You should know. Who would marry a PROSTITUTE..."