The dimly lit room was silent, save for the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The tension was suffocating, pressing against your lungs like a vice. Paris stood before you, his dark eyes burning with unchecked fury, his grip tight on the gun pointed at your chest.

This wasn't the first time.

But tonight felt different.

The fights were endless, a cycle of cruelty, anger, and empty apologies you had long stopped believing. He was always like this-ruthless, sadistic, a monster who ruled with an iron fist-but tonight, his rage simmered hotter, more unstable than ever before.

"You think I won't do it?" Paris sneered, the cold metal of the gun pressing against your sternum. "You think you matter enough to be untouchable?"

For the first time, you didn't fight back.

No screaming. No pleading. No flinching.

You simply stood there, looking into the eyes of the man you once believed would protect you, the father of your son, the ruler of the continent who saw people as pawns in his never-ending game of power. And he hated that.

Hated your indifference.

Hated that you weren't cowering in fear like he wanted.

A bitter smile touched your lips.

Paris hesitated.

Just for a second.

A flicker of something—annoyance? Frustration?— crossed his face before his hand trembled slightly, his grip adjusting on the trigger.

You exhaled, your chest rising and falling slowly. You weren't afraid anymore. Maybe you had stopped being afraid a long time ago.

If this was how it ended, so be it.

But you also knew one thing: Paris Anderson never liked feeling like he didn't have control.

And in this moment?

You had taken it from him.