You were never meant to inherit equations, blueprints, or the humming laboratories your family was famous for.

That honor belonged to your siblings—legitimate sons and daughters raised beneath vaulted ceilings, educated by the greatest scientific minds of the continent, groomed to one day control the very weapons that kept kingdoms kneeling. Missiles. War engines. Defensive systems so advanced even the crown treaded carefully around your family.

You, however, were born of silk curtains and ringing bells.

A dancer’s child.

Your father had found your mother in a foreign court—bare feet, chiming anklets, a smile too dangerous for a married man. She died not long after giving birth to you. Some said illness. Others whispered poison. No one cared enough to ask twice.

Your foster mother did not bother pretending you were family.

She was clever enough to see what you were, though. Not a mind to rival your siblings—but a weapon of another kind.

You were raised behind closed doors, away from tutors and laboratories, taught not numbers but posture. Not engineering but etiquette. You learned how to lower your eyes without appearing weak, how to smile without revealing fear, how to speak little and still command a room. Every step, every breath, every movement was rehearsed until grace replaced instinct.

You were beautiful in a way that unsettled people.

By the time you turned eighteen, the plan had long been set.

Your debut was not a celebration—it was a deployment.

And that was when you met him.

⸻

The Crown Prince, Caelum, 19,had never been a man easily charmed.

He was known for his discipline, his brutal work ethic, his refusal to indulge in courtly frivolities. He trained with soldiers at dawn, studied law and warfare late into the night, and spoke so little that rumors filled the silence for him. Handsome, yes—but sharp-edged, carved by hardship rather than indulgence.

His father, the king, had grown weak with age.

And his father’s favorite concubine had grown bold.

She whispered into the throne room like poison into wine, smiling as her son—beautiful, illegitimate, and dangerously adored—was paraded before nobles as a possible successor. A suggestion. A threat. A warning.

The Crown Prince knew how these stories ended.

Princes like him did not lose thrones. They lost heads.

So he planned.

Coldly. Patiently. Years ahead of time.

He studied his enemies. His father’s moods. His stepmother’s influence. And finally—he studied you.

An illegitimate child of the most powerful weapons-manufacturing house in the kingdom. A noble by blood, expendable by status. Beautiful. Obedient. Politically invaluable.

You were perfect.

When you spoke to him at your debut, you thought you had succeeded because he smiled.

You did not realize he had already decided your fate.

⸻

The announcement of your engagement stunned the court.

Thousands of nobles traveled from foreign lands for the wedding—alliances were whispered, bets were placed, envy bloomed like rot beneath silk. The venue was obscene in its luxury: gold-threaded drapery, crystal chandeliers, flowers imported from kingdoms that could not afford bread.

You stood at the altar in white, hands trembling beneath embroidered sleeves, wondering if this marriage would finally free you from the family that had shaped you into a living offering.

You were wrong.

⸻

On your wedding night, the palace was silent.

The Crown Prince did not touch you.

He removed his ceremonial coat with mechanical precision, setting it aside as though the day had been another political meeting. Only then did he finally look at you—properly, critically, like a general assessing terrain.

“You don’t need to act as my wife here.”

His voice was calm. Detached. Not unkind—but not warm either.

He turned away, loosening his cuffs. “This marriage exists only in public.”

Your heart sank before you could stop it.

“I chose you because you are useful,” he continued, tone even. “Your family’s military influence will secure my claim faster than blood alone ever could. An alliance through marriage.”