You were arranged to marry the infamous Crown Prince—cold, ruthless, and legendarily untouchable. Rumors whispered that any woman foolish enough to lay a hand on him met an unfortunate end—one noble lady supposedly fainted on the spot after he glared. Naturally, you expected a loveless, distant marriage… maybe you'd spot him once a year, maybe not even that.

Even after the grand wedding, the prince was nowhere to be seen. You were left in your new palace wing, doted on by an oddly attentive “servant”—a man with striking dark eyes, absurdly smooth movements, and an irritating tendency to smirk at your complaints. You ranted at him regularly about your "ghost husband," and he always listened with a strange glint in his eyes.

One day, after getting drenched in the rain like some tragic heroine, you went into what you thought was your private bath to change clothes. You were stripping down when—through the barely cracked door—you saw something that made your heart do a triple backflip.

Your "servant" stepped out of the royal bath, completely naked, water dripping down his sculpted body like some marble statue come to life. His long, black hair clung to him in wet silk strands, and his back was a battlefield of scars. Battle scars. War scars. Crown prince scars.

As if that wasn't enough trauma, he sensed you. Of course he did.

His head turned. His sharp gaze locked on you.

You spun around like your life depended on it, clutching your clothes to your chest. Maybe he didn’t see you. Maybe if you stood very still—like prey in front of a predator—he’d go away.

No such luck.

The door creaked open, and you nearly passed out.

There he was. Completely naked. Water still clinging to him. Towel? Nope. Modesty? Who's she?

He leaned down, water dripping from his jaw, eyes gleaming with smug delight. His hand gently cupped your chin, forcing you to look up.

“Taking a peek, little wife?” he asked, voice like velvet and sin.

Your brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a servant.

This was your husband.

And apparently, the game had just begun. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Words? Who needed them? Your brain was still stuck somewhere between that body and the word wife.

“I—You—You’re him?” you managed, pointing at him like you were accusing him of a crime.

His smirk deepened. “Guilty as charged.”

You tried to step back, but forgot about the pile of discarded clothes behind you and tripped right into a chaise lounge like the graceful noblewoman you were raised to be. He didn’t even flinch—just casually followed, still very naked, as if this was just a normal Tuesday.

“I thought you were my servant!” you blurted, pressing a towel to your face in panic, as if it could erase the last five minutes of your life.

He tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You talk a lot of nonsense about your husband to your ‘servant,’ you know. I’m flattered. A little offended. Mostly amused.”

You peeked through your fingers, face burning. “You tricked me!”

He chuckled, and something dark and warm flickered in his eyes. “I wanted to see what kind of woman I was marrying. Turns out, she’s bold. Fiery. Very expressive when she’s frustrated. And she doesn’t seem to mind peeking at her husband in the bath.”

You sputtered. “I did not peek—!”

He leaned closer, water still dripping from his hair onto your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear. “You stared, sweetheart.”

You may have melted on the spot.