The moon hung heavy in the sky, silver and solemn, as if mourning the union that had just taken place. The grand halls of the royal palace still echoed faintly with the last notes of celebratory music and petals littered the stone pathway. Guests had long retired, full on wine, unaware of the tension that rose between the couple.

Princess Isabelle stood at the edge of her new chambers, her jaw set, her posture rigid. Her hair was brushed until it gleamed like spun gold, falling in waves down her back. The silk nightdress clung to her body, designed to tempt, to invite. It was a soft, sheer and humiliating dress chosen by the king's servants. Isabelle’s skin crawled beneath it. Every lace trim and embroidered flower felt like a chain.

She clenched her fists.

This wasn’t a wedding. It was a prison sentence.

Earlier that day, the chapel had been a spectacle of luxury and false happiness. The air was thick with incense and rosewater. The officiating minister, a portly man with kind eyes, had blessed them with a booming voice, declaring, “May your union be fruitful, and may your halls be filled with laughter of babies.”

Isabelle had wanted to laugh, a bitter sound caught in her throat. Children? With this man? Never.

King Xander had stood tall beside her, proud and unreadable. Dressed in his royal black and gold, he looked every inch the conqueror who had stolen her kingdom’s crown jewel....her.

The people had cheered. The servants had wept tears of joy. The palace had whispered with hope. “Perhaps she will soften him,” some said. “Perhaps she will make him happy.”

She would do no such thing.

Now, as the heavy doors closed behind her and the last of the servants bowed out, she saw him.

Xander.

He was already in the room, seated in a high-backed velvet chair near the hearth. The fire cast a warm glow over his face, his golden crown set aside, his dark hair loose around his shoulders. He was no longer the king in armor but a man in silk, though no less dangerous. A half-drunk goblet of wine sat on the table beside him, and he took the last sip.

Isabelle's stomach twisted.

“You're late,” he said without looking at her.

“I wasn’t hurrying,” she answered, lifting her chin.

There was a pause.

Then he stood. Tall, broad-shouldered, a quiet storm behind every movement. “I see they dressed you to impress.”

She gave him a scathing look. “I didn't choose this.”

“I know.” He walked toward her slowly, measured steps echoing off the stone floor. “They think they’re helping.”

“Well, they’re not,” she snapped. “And neither are you.”

He stopped a few feet away, watching her with that maddening calm. “it suits you.”

She bristled. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t speak to me like you care. We both know what this is. You invaded my land. You forced this marriage. I am not your queen. I am your prisoner with a crown on her head.”

He sighed, and for a moment, the mask slipped. “You think I wanted this war?”

“I think you wanted to win it.”

They stared at each other, the silence thick with unspoken words.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything to happen between us tonight,” Isabelle said sharply, arms crossed over her chest.

Xander arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy. You know exactly what I mean.”

He exhaled, tired. “Isabelle, I would never force myself on a woman. Least of all the one I just married. I might be many things, but I am not a monster.”

“You kidnapped me from my homeland.”

“I spared your homeland from being burned to the ground. If I hadn’t taken you, my generals would’ve taken something else.”

“How noble,” she spat.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he walked to the large bed, canopied, and covered in red silk sheets.

“I’ll take the left side. You can have the right. I won’t touch you. Unless,” he turned to her with a glint of something in his eye, “you ask me to.”

She scoffed. “Keep dreaming. Even if a dagger were put to my throat, I would never have anything to do with you.”

His expression didn’t change. “You say that now. But I will wait for the day you crave me, Isabelle. And that day will surely come.”

She turned her back to him, heart pounding with rage.

“You’re delusional.”

“And yet, here we are. Husband and wife.”

Isabelle climbed into bed without another word, turning to face the wall. Xander lay down beside her silent and distant.

The room went still. The fire crackled softly, and outside, the wind whispered through the balcony curtains. Somewhere deep in the palace, laughter still echoed faintly from drunk noblemen, but in this chamber, there was only cold silence.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Sleep did not come easily to Isabelle. She lay rigid, every breath a battle, her thoughts a storm. She hated this place, this room, this man. But more than anything, she hated how calm and unaffected he seemed.

Did he truly believe she would ever yield? That she would actually succumb with time?

He may not have forced her body but he had taken her life. Her home. Her freedom.

And no soft bed or silk nightdress could make her forget that.

“I don’t understand you,” she whispered into the dark.

Xander stirred beside her. “What don’t you understand?”

“You won. You have my kingdom. My crown. Why pretend to be gentle now?”

“Because,” he said after a long pause, “I don’t want a queen who obeys out of fear. I want one who stands beside me. Who chooses me.”

She turned her head to glare at him in the dark. “Then you chose the wrong woman.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I chose the only one strong enough to hate me this much.”

She blinked, unsure if it was a compliment or an insult.

The silence returned.

Tired and drained of every strength left, she laid her head to sleep.