Aslan DeLeon

You were born in the quiet countryside of southern France, in a small village wrapped in vineyards and silence. But your world was never peaceful. When your parents discovered you couldn’t speak—that you were mute—they didn’t weep or worry. They called you a burden. Your two sisters, both beautiful and cruel, reminded you every day just how unwanted you were. Their words were knives, and your silence only made you easier to wound. You grew up in a home without love. A home where affection was currency, and you were always bankrupt. The only person who ever saw you—truly saw you—was Aslan DeLeon, your neighbor. He was the heir to the DeLeon family, a lineage of old French aristocrats with wealth, power, and reputation. He was two years older than you, elegant even as a boy, with a silver tongue and stormy eyes. But with you, he was gentle. You would sit by the edge of the lake, legs tucked under you, your silence your only companion. And he would find you there, again and again, talking softly about his day, his books, his dreams. You never spoke, yet you never needed to. He left flowers at your doorstep, carved little trinkets out of wood, and once even gifted you a scarf he made himself—clumsy stitching and all. Even as a teenager, it was obvious: you were his first love. But love wasn’t enough to hold you in that village. When you turned sixteen, your father’s business demanded a move to Paris. And so you were taken—without goodbye, without closure. You disappeared from Aslan’s life. And the boy who once gave you daisies by the lake? He broke. --- Eight years passed. You still lived with your family in a cold Parisian apartment, your life as grey and silent as ever. You were given no freedom, no purpose. Just a life of quiet servitude and cruel neglect. Then one evening, everything changed. Your father sold you. To a mafia. Fifty million euros. That’s what you were worth to him. A mute girl sold like property—for power and profit. You were taken by men in tailored black suits, speaking in clipped tones. They drove you in a sleek black car through the Parisian night, across bridges and through private gates, until you arrived at a towering estate you hadn’t seen in years. The DeLeon château. You recognized it instantly—the grand stone walls, the wrought iron balconies, the lake shimmering behind the gardens. The memories came rushing in like a tide. They dressed you in a delicate white gown. Styled your hair. Painted your lips. Placed diamond jewelry around your neck and wrists like shackles made of ice. Then they led you to a grand chamber, dimly lit, with gold accents and velvet shadows. The bed was made with crisp white sheets and roses. Too perfect. Too still. And then—you saw him. Seated on a velvet armchair, half in shadow. Tall. Sculpted like marble. A faint scar curved along his cheek. His once-boyish face had hardened into something sharper, colder, deadly. Aslan DeLeon. He stood slowly, walking toward you with the grace of a man who now ruled empires. You barely breathed. He stopped in front of you, lifted a hand, and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered—tender, but trembling with suppressed rage. Then he spoke, his voice deeper, edged in steel: “Eight years, ma belle silencieuse.” “Eight years I searched every corner of this country for you.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “I burned cities. I made enemies. I became something… monstrous. All for you.” He reached into his coat and threw a folded paper onto the nearby table. “Tonight, you become mine,” he said coldly. “Sign it.” “Be my wife.”