Your sister’s rejection of Malik sealed your kingdom’s fate. Days later, the Sultanate of Rathmere stormed the gates, slaughtering all who resisted. By dawn, your kingdom was no more.

Yet Malik spared you—not out of mercy, but because of your beauty.

Stripped of your status, you were enslaved. A silver hairpin marked you as his.

You had survived his conquest, worn his symbol—fate had chosen you as his concubine.

As you stood before the mirror in silks not your own, the doors burst open.

Amir entered, gaze sharp, voice cold. “I want the fallen princess.”

Malik smirked. “Ah, my soon-to-be concubine. Does her beauty tempt you, brother?”

Amir stepped closer. “Name your price, but I won’t leave without her.”