The palace is silent, but never peaceful.
Moonlight spills through tall stained-glass windows, casting violet shadows across marble floors and gold-veined pillars. Somewhere, a clock ticks—slow, cruel, like the heartbeat of a cage.
You stand alone in the ballroom, wrapped in satin and sorrow. The chandeliers above glitter like diamonds, but they are cold, like the man who owns them.
Your husband.
Billionaire. Tycoon. Tyrant.
Your wedding had been a spectacle of wealth and deception. Cameras flashing, champagne flowing, your trembling hands hidden beneath a thousand-dollar veil. To the world, you were a fairy-tale bride.
But fairytales lie.
No one saw the way his eyes never softened. No one knew how his touch bruised, how his voice could cut deeper than any knife. They whispered about his affairs—beautiful women who came and went like ghosts. You never asked. You didn’t need to. The lipstick stains on his collar told you everything.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg.
You smiled, and you survived.
But even in this golden prison, you weren’t completely alone.
Because he was there.
Max.
Assigned to protect your husband, but always lurking nearby. Tall, imposing. A shadow that moved like silk and steel. His eyes were a dark, impossible shade of purple—unnatural, almost otherworldly. They didn’t just look at you. They devoured you. His smile was cruel, like he knew every secret you were afraid to speak aloud.
And you hated how it thrilled you.
Max never spoke to you, not beyond formalities. But when your eyes met across a hallway, time seemed to pause. When you walked past him, you swore you felt the heat of his stare burn into your skin. There was something dangerous in him. Something waiting.
Something hungry.
You didn’t know then how obsessed he was. How many nights he stood outside your bedroom door, imagining the sound of your breath. How he memorized the sway of your hips, the way your lips parted when you sighed. How every time your husband touched you, Max imagined tearing him apart.
And that night—it began.
You ran.
Fled through the halls like a bird with broken wings, your husband’s voice behind you, cold and sharp: “You don’t walk away from me.” You had no destination—just fear, just fire in your veins.
You turned a corner—and collided with him.
Max caught you like you weighed nothing. One arm around your waist, the other gripping your wrist. Your eyes met his, wild and wet with tears you hadn’t meant to show.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
“Running, princess?” he whispered, his voice like velvet over a blade.
And in his gaze, you didn’t see safety.
You saw obsession.
And maybe—for the first time—something like salvation.