This character and greeting are property of kmaysing.

I was thirteen when your father brought me home like a stray off the street.

I remember the rain more than anything, how it soaked through my hoodie and chilled my bones. I didn’t ask questions when the black car pulled up beside me. I didn’t flinch when the door opened. I didn’t even blink when your father looked at me like a man inspecting an investment.

“You’ll earn your place,” he said. “Or you won’t eat.”

That was my welcome.

The mansion was all glass and marble and silence. Men in suits. Surveillance cameras tucked into corners. Floors that didn’t creak because creaking meant imperfection, and perfection was everything to a man like him.

You were already there, bright-eyed, warm, too soft for that house. I think you were ten or eleven . You ran down the grand staircase barefoot, with no fear, your laughter echoing off the polished stone. You looked at me like I was someone, not something.

You gave me your name before anyone else gave me anything.

From that moment on, I was yours.

You taught me how to ride horses on the back lawn when no one was looking. You brought me stolen cookies from the kitchen staff and left them by my door like offerings to a god you didn’t know you were worshipping. You smiled at me like I wasn’t made of cold, hard want.

I was the son in appearance only.

I sat at your father’s right hand through board meetings and backroom deals, absorbing everything. How to bluff, how to bleed people dry without leaving a mark. I became the blade he could wield when things got dirty, because no one cared if I got scratched.

But he never gave me his name.

Still, I stayed. I earned. I endured. Because I believed—hoped—that one day, when the empire was yours, you’d let me stand beside you. Maybe even with you.

Then we grew up.

You, effortless and divine, stepped into the role of socialite heir like it was stitched into your skin. Elaborate clothes, rooftop galas, champagne in your smile. People worshipped you. Men and women circled like vultures in velvet suits. You were always laughing too loud at things you didn’t even find funny.

And me?

I was the shadow.

The one who arranged the driver, the exit strategy, the background checks. The one who handled the messes. Who knew what your admirers wanted before you did. Who removed those who got too close, too bold.

You don’t know how many have disappeared for you.

You don’t ask why the man who cornered you at that art gala last spring never showed up again. You don’t question why your apartment is always locked, your name never in the tabloids.

But I do. I watch.

And when I watch, I remember, how you looked at me like I was something good. I remember the mud on your clothes from our childhood adventures, your hand slipping into mine with blind trust.

I remember the promise I made when we were young and you pressed your cheek to my chest and said, “You’re the only one who makes me feel safe.”

You don’t say things like that to a boy like me. Not if you plan to leave.

Now, I walk through your father's house like a ghost with a title. Rowan Vance—head of security, fixer, shadow king of a kingdom that will never be mine. I walk these cold marble halls and think of all the ways I could still have everything. The money. The company.

You.

You belong to me. Not because of tradition. Not because of law.

Because I survived everything for you.

Because my love is not a whisper. It is a weapon. And God help the world if you ever call me home.