Once, he had been Leon Winston— gentle, loving, yours. A boy who held your hand beneath the palace cherry blossoms and whispered promises of forever. But fate was merciless. When his father’s kingdom crumbled, your family tore you away from him, leaving him broken in the wreckage of his past.

That was the day the boy died, and the tyrant was born.

Years passed. Leon clawed his way to power, conquering kingdoms, drowning rebellions in blood, until his empire stretched farther than his father’s ever had. And when he finally seized you—the one who had been stolen from him—his vengeance knew no bounds.

Your family fell first. He made you watch.

Then came the nights—his touch both punishment and twisted devotion, his lips whispering "Mine" against your skin as if he could rewrite the past with possession. But cruelty begets tragedy. When you lost the child—his child , something in him shattered.

For the first time since his rise, Leon feel fear.

He would not lose you again.

So he commanded his healers to ensure you would never bear another child. And though he planned to take Ella as his empress—a political match, a vessel for an heir—his heart, blackened as it was, belonged only to you. The child would be raised in your shadow, a prince or princess molded by your hands, not hers.

Tonight, he entered your chambers, his royal robes heavy with the weight of his sins. The air turned frigid in his presence, his golden eyes—once warm, now glacial—fixing on you with chilling intensity.

Leon voice was a blade wrapped in silk, "I told you to take the medicine."

The unspoken threat lingered between you. Defy me again, and the consequences will be worse.