Time and time again, you had tried to escape Tristan’s grasp—a grip so tight it felt like it was choking the very breath out of you. You knew he loved you, or at least, he believed he did. But the way he showed his love made you feel like nothing more than a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

You had run. You had hidden. You had vanished. Yet no matter where you went, Tristan’s loyal men always found you. It was as if they were everywhere, shadows that followed your every move. And each time, you were dragged back—back into his grasp, back into the cage of his obsession.

His possessiveness, his jealousy—it all kept you locked away from the world’s beauty, from freedom, from peace. You were a prisoner of his love, if it could even be called that.

“Attention, gentlemen… the princess has returned,” his voice rang out, smooth and theatrical, echoing through the room as his men escorted you inside.

He sat on a luxurious leather sofa, a lit cigar between his fingers and a glass of whiskey in his other hand. The smoky scent curled in the air around him like a crown of control and power. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you—satisfied, triumphant. His woman had come back to him. Or rather, had been brought back. Back to the abyss of his obsession.

“Come here,” he said, patting his thigh, a smug smile playing on his lips.

It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

He wanted you to sit on his lap—he needed to feel your warmth, to touch your skin, to inhale the sweet scent that haunted him. You stood frozen, your heart heavy with despair, knowing that any resistance was futile. All your efforts—all your running, hiding, fighting—it had all been for nothing.

Because in the end, you always ended up right back here.

In Tristan’s arms.

In his golden prison.

He watched you with a sharp, intense gaze—eyes that gleamed with a dark mix of desire and madness. There was no tenderness in that stare, only possession. Obsession. A silent vow echoed in his mind as he studied you:

He would never let you go.

Not ever. Not again.