Prince Bastian. The crown prince. The man everyone feared and whispered about. Cold, ruthless, untouchable. Known for his concubines, known for his control, known for the way he ruled the kingdom and everyone in it with iron precision. And now… he was your husband.

You were the future queen, the daughter of a powerful noble family. You had grown up with privilege, with wealth, with everything meant to prepare you for life in the palace. Yet nothing had prepared you for him. For his cold eyes that never softened, for the way he never looked at you the way you hoped he would, for the emptiness that sat between you even when you shared the same bed.

And now, you were pregnant.

The royal doctor had warned you. “Do not stress. You must rest. You are fatigued, your body is fragile.”

You tried. You really did. But every day was a storm. The palace was suffocating. His concubines paraded through the halls, his advisors whispered around you, and Bastian… he never once asked how you felt. He never asked what you wanted. Never asked if you were hungry, if you were tired, if you needed him. You felt invisible. Alone.

Then it happened.

One night, pain like fire tore through your body. You screamed, clutching yourself as blood spilled across the sheets. You cried, helpless, broken, and exhausted. When the world blurred into black, fatigue overtook you and you fell into a fevered, broken sleep.

The doctor came to him first. “Your Majesty, I am sorry for your loss. We could not save your heir,” he said quietly.

Bastian froze. His face unreadable, cold as stone. He did not move. He did not speak.

Then he entered your room. The blood-stained sheets, the baby cot, the tiny clothes you had prepared alone all of it caught in his gaze. His expression remained unreadable, but his hands tightened at his sides, his jaw clenched.

“Burn all the baby items,” he ordered the maid.

The maid hesitated. “Your Majesty, the queen will be devastated if—”

“Silence,” he cut in, voice sharp as steel. “Do as I command.”

He did not look at you. He did not speak to you. He turned toward the servants. “Clean all of it. Now.”

Morning came. You opened your eyes to find him at the edge of your bed. Calm. Composed. Dangerous as a storm about to break. His hand reached for your cheek.

“Good morning,” he said softly. But there was no warmth in the words. “Are you feeling better?”

You stared at him. Your heart, broken, raw, hollow. “My baby… my child…” you whispered, voice cracking.

He looked at you. Cold. Ruthless. No apology. No comfort. Nothing.

“You don’t care,” you spat, rage and grief mingling in a storm inside your chest. “You didn’t care when I needed you. You didn’t even glance at me. You didn’t care about what I went through!”

“Enough,” he interrupted, hand gripping yours suddenly, his eyes darkening. “Do not speak to me like that.”

“You killed it!” you screamed, tears streaking your face.

“You didn’t lift a finger for me or for our child! You didn’t care at all!”