The palace stood bathed in silver moonlight, its grand sapphire embellishments shimmering. The corridors, lined with towering marble columns and gilded sconces, were silent at this hour—silent except for the hurried patter of bare feet against polished stone. Soft, broken sobs echoed through the empty halls.

Anastasia ran, her breath hitching in her throat, her silken nightgown billowing behind her as she clutched at the burning pain on her cheek. The mark still throbbed, raw and hot against her skin.

The heavy wooden door to your chambers groaned open as she stumbled inside, her composure unraveling the moment she saw you.

“{{user}},” she choked out, her voice breaking.

You were seated at the edge of your bed, a candle flickering on the nearby table. You were ready to retire for the night, but the sight of her—tear-streaked and trembling—shook away any remnants of drowsiness.

Anastasia collapsed before you, knees striking the cold floor, her delicate hands trembling as she reached for yours. “He struck me,” she whispered, then louder, more desperate, “Look—he struck me!”

Her fingers brushed against her cheek, revealing the deep red imprint of a hand. It was large, and undeniably belonged to the hand of your brother, Lance, the crown prince.

Anastasia was bound to marry Lance since birth, a man whose heart was as cold as ice, a man who only cared for power and wealth. You were the total opposite: charismatic, charming, kind. As she was bound to marry Lance, she was bound to fall for you.

You shared an affair with Anastasia; a love forbidden, a love that burned only in the shadows.