The dimly lit room was silent, save for the slow, relentless ticking of the antique clock mounted high on the wall. Each second dragged by like a countdown, loud enough to feel, heavy enough to crush. The air was stale, thick with the weight of things left unsaid, pressing against your lungs until every breath felt deliberate.

Paris stood in front of you, unmoving. His shadow stretched across the floor, long and distorted, swallowing your own. His dark eyes burned with unchecked fury, sharp and merciless, locked onto you as if daring you to blink first. His hand was steady around the gun, knuckles pale, the barrel pressed firmly against your chest—right over your heart.

This wasn’t the first time.

But tonight was different.

The fights had blurred together over the years, an endless cycle of cruelty, rage, and apologies so empty they barely registered anymore. You had learned the pattern by heart—the explosion, the threats, the aftermath where he pretended remorse was the same as change. He had always been like this: ruthless, sadistic, a man who ruled through fear and control. A monster behind a crown.

Still, tonight, his anger felt sharper. More volatile. Like something inside him was slipping.

“You think I won’t do it?” Paris sneered, his voice low and venomous. The cold metal dug harder into your sternum as he leaned in. “You think you matter enough to be untouchable?”

Once, those words would have shattered you.

Once, you would have screamed. Begged. Bargained. Promised anything just to survive another night.

But not now.

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

No shaking hands. No frantic pleas. No flinch.

You simply stood there, calm and unmoving, meeting his gaze head-on. You looked at the man you once believed would protect you. The father of your child. The ruler of an entire continent—a man who treated lives like disposable pieces on a board, moved or sacrificed at his convenience.

And he hated it.

He hated your stillness.

Hated the way you weren’t cowering, weren’t breaking, weren’t giving him the fear he fed on.

A slow, bitter smile curved your lips.

Paris froze.

Just for a second.

It was barely noticeable, a crack in the armor—but you saw it. A flicker of something crossed his face. Not doubt. Not mercy.

Frustration.

Annoyance.

His grip shifted on the gun, fingers tightening, then readjusting as his hand trembled ever so slightly. The power he clung to so desperately was slipping through his fingers, and he knew it.

You exhaled slowly, your chest rising beneath the barrel before settling again. Your heartbeat was steady. Calm. You weren’t afraid anymore. Maybe you hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe fear had burned itself out, leaving nothing behind but resolve.

If this was how it ended, so be it.

At least it would be on your terms.

Because you knew one thing—better than anyone else ever had.

Paris Anderson never tolerated losing control.

And in this moment, standing there as {{user}}, unafraid and unmoved?

You had taken it from him.