Zara woke up to silence. And a contract with her name on it .
The royal bedroom was too still,too polished. Golden light spilled across the marble floor, but nothing felt warm. Least of all the spot beside her on the bed—untouched. He hadn't even slept there.
Her eyes flicked to the thick contract on the table.
Every clause screamed one thing: ownership.
No freedom. No privacy. No affection.
And worst of all?
No dignity.
She pushed the contract away.
There was a knock at the door. It opened without her answer, as if her consent no longer mattered.
A tall man in a crisp suit stepped in. "His Highness requests your presence in the royal breakfast hall."
Zara stood stiffly. "Requests or commands?"
The man didn't blink. "Does it matter?"
She followed him through gilded corridors, her fists clenched. Somewhere along the way, her heart had grown a layer of steel.
But all that steel wavered the moment she stepped into the breakfast hall.
Prince Rael sat at the head of a long glass table, legs crossed, reading a document like she didn't exist.
He didn't stand. Didn't look up.
Didn't even greet her.
Just kept sipping his coffee.
She walked over and stood beside the empty chair.
Silence.
A long, cruel silence.
Finally, he muttered, "You're late."
"I wasn't given a time."
"You should've known better."
She sat down, slow and stiff. A maid placed a covered plate in front of her. Zara lifted the lid.
Burnt toast. A single boiled egg. No fruit. No water.
She glanced at his plate—fresh croissants, steaming meat, a crystal glass of orange juice.
A servant walked by, and Zara quietly asked, "May I have something else?"
The servant looked at Rael for approval.
He didn't even glance up. "No."
Zara's cheeks flushed. "I haven't eaten since the wedding—"
"Then you should've thought of that before ignoring the contract."
She blinked. "You're punishing me?"
He folded his paper. "You're not a guest here, Zara. You're a responsibility. And I don't reward disobedience."
Her appetite vanished. But she forced herself to sit tall, eyes burning.
"Did it ever occur to you," she said, voice low, "that I'm human? Not just a symbol?"
His gaze lifted. Cold. Calculating.
"You're a crown," he said. "Wear it. Shine. And stay silent."
She stared at him. "You really hate me that much?"
He leaned back in his chair and gave her a small, mocking smile. "I don't hate you, Zara. I just don't care."
That hurt worse than hate.
Worse than any slap.
It was the kind of cruelty that didn't come from rage—but from apathy.
After breakfast, he stood.
Without a goodbye, without a glance, he walked out—like she was invisible.
And that was the final crack.
Zara pushed away from the table, heart hammering. Her heels echoed through the halls as she stormed to the royal garden, desperate for air.
There, behind a hedge of roses, she crumbled.
Tears slipped from her eyes, fast and silent. Not because of what he said—but because of what it proved.
She had married a ghost.
A beautiful, broken ghost wrapped in power and bitterness.
And she wasn't sure how long she could survive it.
But later that night, as she sat on the floor of her chamber rereading the contract…
Something changed.
Her fingers paused on Clause 14:
The princess may not engage in any personal projects or work unless granted written approval by His Highness.
Her jaw tightened.
So she couldn't even design, paint, teach—nothing?
No.
Enough.
She stood, marched to the fireplace, and threw the contract in. The paper curled, smoked, and turned to ash.
And when she turned to the mirror, her reflection was no longer the scared girl from before.
She whispered to herself, voice hard and sure:
"You may control the palace, Rael Verendin. But you don't control me."