They believe monsters can be controlled with chains made of silk. So they give me a wife. Not for alliance. Not for love. But for observation. A living report written in fear and obedience, sent into my rooms to measure my temper, my loyalty, my sanity. A witness disguised in white. They choose her carefully. No powerful name. No brothers to demand justice. No army behind her if I lose patience. Expendable. She arrives expecting cruelty. I can see it in the way her shoulders stay tense even when no one is near, in how she never turns her back to doors, in how she memorizes faces and corridors as if preparing for escape or burial. She watches me the way prey watches a predator. Quiet. Alert. Always ready to run. The court wanted her to soften me. Instead, they placed her in the path of everything that wants me destroyed. Assassins do not miss easily. Poison does not choose its victims. And politics devours the innocent first. I have burned cities for less than the thought of her blood on palace floors. That is the flaw in their plan. Because the moment danger circles her, restraint becomes impossible. Because control has never been my nature — only violence carefully delayed. They thought they were sending her to watch me. What they sent was a reason. And I have never protected anything without destroying everything around it.

The battlefield was a river of fire and blood, and in the chaos, she had fallen into enemy hands. The Reval Kingdom’s healer, captured and trembling, now found herself under the control of the very men who had destroyed her homeland. Her uniform was torn, her hands stained, yet her mind stayed sharp. She was a doctor—a healer—and even as a prisoner, she could not ignore the suffering around her. The tent was dimly lit, the smell of iron and smoke thick in the air. Soldiers groaned from stretchers and cots, wounded and in pain. She had been ordered—forced—to treat them. Every bandage, every stitch, every careful motion was a reminder that her hands were saving the lives of her kingdom’s enemies. He stood at the edge of the tent, a shadow in the flickering lantern light, the duke of the opposing forces. His coat dark, his presence commanding. Every now and then, he would approach silently, watching her movements with sharp, calculating eyes. He said nothing, yet his gaze weighed on her like a blade. She could not tell if it was inspection, curiosity, or something deeper she dared not consider. Her heart pounded, not from fear of the soldiers, but from the steady, cold scrutiny of the man who held her fate in his hands. Every choice she made, every patient she treated, was under his silent judgment. She was trapped—not just by the enemy, but by the awareness that she was seen. Truly seen. Outside, the war raged, unrelenting. Inside the tent, time slowed. Every breath, every heartbeat, was a quiet battle of will. One she had to survive, and one he was quietly testing. Neither of them could yet predict the tension that hung between them—a dangerous, unspoken connection, a fragile thread linking healer and warrior, prisoner and duke.

He was eighteen, taller than me now, his voice deeper, colder, unfamiliar. Sometimes I still caught a glimpse of the little boy who used to fall asleep on my chest, but most days he looked at me like I was a stranger intruding on his world. The custody papers said one week with me, one week with his father. It sounded fair when the lawyers drew the line down the middle of our lives, but in reality, he only counted the days until he could leave. With his dad, he laughed. With me, he existed in silence. Every Sunday night, I waited at the window for the sound of his father’s car. When he stepped out, his shoulders stiff, his backpack slung carelessly over one side, I tried to smile. He didn’t. We exchanged words like formalities—hello, fine, school’s okay. He called his father “Dad.” He called me “Mom” only when he wanted something. And maybe I deserved that. Maybe in his eyes, I was the one who walked away, who broke the family apart, even though love had already died years before the papers were signed. The house always felt too quiet when he was gone, and too heavy when he was here. Still, I tried—his favorite meals, clean sheets, a light left on in the hall. Little things that used to mean comfort, now meaningless gestures to a boy who couldn’t forgive me. I didn’t expect him to love me anymore. But I wished, just once, he would look at me without resentment. Just once, call me “Mom” not out of need, but affection. ✨Not my story✨

In the grand halls of the castle, beneath chandeliers of gold and walls adorned with centuries of triumph, your story began. You were promised to him long before you understood what marriage meant. The engagement was forged between two ruling families, sealed with formality and duty. When his parents, the King and Queen, passed away, he ascended the throne and the arranged promise finally turned into vows. On that day, he thought the kingdom itself had blessed him twice—once with the crown, and once with you. You, the beautiful princess everyone admired. The bride who became his Queen. But what awaited him was not the warmth of a shared future. He gave you everything a man could: loyalty, patience, gentleness. He learned every line of your face, memorized every silence you left between your words, and yet still you did not look at him. To you, the marriage was a prison, the throne a cage, and him—a stranger you never chose. Your beauty was unmatched, but your heart remained distant, sealed behind walls he could never cross. Still, he loved you. With every smile denied, every glance averted, he loved you. And then, war came. The borders burned, enemies gathered, and the kingdom trembled under the weight of invasion. He had no choice but to ride into battle, to take up the sword and lead his men. For months he was gone, steel against steel, blood against blood. His thoughts never left you—not once. Every dawn he wondered if you thought of him, every night he prayed the castle still stood to protect you. When at last the final clash ended, he returned victorious. The kingdom roared its praise, people filled the streets to celebrate their King. He rode past them, armor shattered, wounds hidden beneath crimson stains, pride the only force keeping him upright. He walked through the palace with the echo of victory following his every step. But the moment the chamber doors closed behind him, the strength he carried through the war slipped away.

They used to be the couple everyone envied. Two teenagers, heirs to powerful families, perfect together in the golden glow of high school privilege. He was her first everything—her first kiss, her first love, the one she thought would always stay. And she was his obsession, the girl he chased, cherished, and held too tightly. But love like theirs didn’t end with a whisper. It ended with a storm. A betrayal, a fight, a single night that shattered everything. Now, they can’t stand the sight of each other. The problem? They can’t escape. Same classes. Same friend group. Same parties in gilded mansions and private yachts. Their world is too small and too rich for them not to collide—and every collision burns. It’s not just silence. It’s war. He mocks her every chance he gets, his once-loving eyes now sharp with cruelty. She fires back, never missing a chance to tear him down. Every insult is personal, every look a reminder of the love they lost. Their friends hate it, caught in the middle of their toxic battlefield, but no one can deny the thrill in the air when they clash. The tension is electric. Hate this strong doesn’t come from nothing—it comes from the ashes of something beautiful. And though neither will admit it, the ghost of that love still lingers in the way their arguments cut too deep, in the way their eyes hold for a second too long before looking away.

They grew up together—same park, same school, same circle of friends. She was the girl who always knew where to find him, and he was the boy who’d protect her from anyone who tried to hurt her. Their friendship was a constant, the kind of bond that made people assume it would turn into something more. When high school began, his feelings for her deepened into something stronger. He confessed—once, twice, three times—always with the same answer from her: “We’re just friends.” She’d laugh it off like it was nothing, and he’d pretend it didn’t hurt. But one day, he stopped. The smiles faded, the casual texts slowed, and the way he looked at her changed. No more lingering stares or waiting for her after class. He became distant, colder, but not cruel. They still hung out with the same group, still shared inside jokes, still sat together sometimes. But there was a wall now, one she had put up without realizing. It was their last year of high school, and graduation loomed like a ticking clock. She still saw him as the boy from the park. He was no longer that boy. And maybe… he no longer saw her the same way either.

Two rival mafia dynasties had been at each other’s throats for decades — until an unthinkable solution was forced upon them: a marriage between their heirs. She had been in love for years, but not with the man she would marry. Her heart had belonged to the younger son of the rival family — charming, reckless, and devastatingly handsome. He was the kind of man who never stayed in one place, who whispered sweet nothings only to disappear the next night. He never promised her love, but she clung to the fragments he gave. But her parents didn’t care about love. They cared about power, peace, and loyalty. So, they gave her away to the firstborn heir — Alic. Unlike his brother, Alic wasn’t a man of fleeting affections. From the first time they met as teenagers at a mafia gathering, he had been obsessed with her — quietly, relentlessly. She had been fifteen, too young to notice the way his gaze followed her across the room. He had been eighteen, already carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders. Now, years later, Alic was the undisputed leader of his family’s empire — feared by many, respected by all. He lived far from the main family estate, in a sprawling, secluded mansion where he could run the business without interference. And now, she was there too, his wife in name only, trapped in a gilded cage. She didn’t love him. She resented the marriage, resented the way her freedom had been stolen. She treated him with icy politeness, keeping her distance whenever possible. But Alic… Alic was different with her. Cold to everyone else, he watched her with quiet intensity, his obsession simmering beneath the surface. And then there was his brother — still a player, still a danger to her heart, and now, impossibly, her brother-in-law.

Everyone at Rothwood knows her name — she’s the scholarship girl who made it into a world full of billionaires, legacies, and heirs. And somehow, she’s always been his problem. Alec Lancaster. Top of the class. The firstborn of the Lancaster empire. Cold, brilliant, and utterly untouchable. His last name prints money. His family practically owns the school. And yet, he’s always been behind her. Since freshman year, it’s been war: stolen test answers, sabotage during debates, rigged competitions. He calls her names. She calls him worse. But neither of them ever loses for long. He says he hates her. But hate doesn’t look like this. Not when he checks her table every morning before sitting down. Not when he reads every article she publishes. Not when he picks fights for no reason just to see her react. And now, it’s about to get worse. Because Alec’s cousin — Julian — just transferred in. He’s taller. Colder. From the New York branch of the family, which means he’s even richer. But unlike Alec, Julian doesn’t tease. He watches. And from the moment he stepped into the room, he hasn’t stopped watching her. Alec pretends it doesn’t matter. Until they’re assigned the same group project. The three of them. One week together. Alec wants to destroy her like he always has. But the moment Julian sits beside her, something changes. He doesn't want her gone. He wants her closer. Now jealousy burns through every glance, every breath, every brush of her hand against the wrong person. He’s always said she’s nothing to him. But now… he’s about to show her exactly how much she means.

At Crownridge University, you’re known for being sharp, untouchable, and impossible to fluster. A top law student, debate team captain, and the kind of girl professors hold up as the gold standard. He’s your complete opposite, the arrogant star athlete with a teasing smile and a trail of admirers. You’ve hated each other since freshman orientation when he winked at you after calling your speech “cute.” Three years later, the rivalry hasn’t cooled — if anything, it’s gotten worse. Every debate you win, he scores harder in the next game. Every time he sees you roll your eyes, he finds a reason to walk by and smirk. But lately, something’s shifted. There are glances that linger too long. Silences that burn. You catch him staring. He pretends not to care. Then someone sparks a game: a bet between your friends and his. Who will crack first and confess? Who will win the heart of the other? Neither of you agrees to play. But neither of you backs down, either. So the war escalates. He leaves a flower on your desk before your presentation — you send a message on his locker saying “Try harder.” You show up to his game just to yawn. He shows up to your debate with roses and stares you down the whole speech. Everyone thinks it’s just teasing. But when a guy tries to touch your waist at a party, He snaps. One punch. A broken nose. And no apology. Because even if you don’t know it yet — You’ve always been his to lose.

They said he was terrifying. A ruthless businessman with a sharp tongue and sharper silence. The kind of man who made boardrooms freeze with a glance, who never raised his voice because he never had to. You’d only seen him from afar—always polished, always unreadable. You didn’t care. You weren’t marrying him for love. This was obligation wrapped in diamonds, a deal sealed before either of you could speak. So you wore the dress. You signed the papers. You kissed the man whose name now followed yours. You expected indifference. Distance. Silence. Instead, he brought you coffee every morning, the way you liked it. He replaced your worn-out books with first editions. He booked an entire rooftop garden because you once said you missed the smell of jasmine. He smiled, but never forced one from you. He touched you like porcelain—rarely, reverently. He was gentle, where he could’ve been cruel. Soft-spoken, where he had every right to be loud. Everyone else still feared him. But when he looked at you, there was something else in his eyes. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t let him in. You kept the distance. You kept your guard up, high and heavy. Cold. But he never stopped trying. Not once. Because somewhere along the way, this arranged marriage stopped being just a deal for him. It became a vow. And no matter how many walls you built, he would stand at the door, hands full of flowers and patience, waiting for you to let him in.

Ten years ago, she married a man the world feared — a mafia boss cloaked in silence and sin. But she had her own silence too, a quieter, lonelier kind. While his name held power, hers held no weight, no comfort, only bruises of memory and words that still echoed like scars across her chest. She was the girl who never spoke unless necessary. The girl who never cried, never demanded, never hoped. Her parents taught her early that emotions were weakness, and love was a lie told to pretty girls with prettier dreams. She was neither. So when he, Matteo Moretti — ruthless, ambitious, terrifying — married her, it was never about love. At least, not to her. Not with her history. Not when she believed she was too broken for warmth. He was quiet too, at first. Gentle even. He tried. In the beginning, he’d come to her room at night and sit at the edge of the bed, asking simple questions like “Did you eat?” or “How was your day?” She never answered. She would just stare ahead, or lower her gaze. He brought her gifts. She left them untouched. He tried to hold her hand once. She pulled away. And so it continued. Years passed, and they lived like strangers with the same name. To the world, they were powerful, beautiful, respected. Behind closed doors, she was a ghost, and he was a man watching the woman he married slip further into shadows he couldn’t reach. But he never gave up. Every time she broke something inside him, he rebuilt it, stubbornly, with love she never asked for. He grew into his empire, colder, crueler with everyone — except her. With her, he still tried. Still hoped. Now, it’s been ten years. Tonight is their anniversary party. The ballroom is full of silk and sin, people raising glasses to a marriage no one understands. And she — she stands there in black satin, wearing silence like armor. He’s had enough.

In the heart of the imperial palace, where silence is demanded and beauty is weaponized, he walks with quiet authority. The other eunuchs bow when he passes. The mistresses avert their eyes. No one dares speak above a whisper in his presence — not because of who he is, but because of what they think he is. To the world, he is a high-ranking eunuch, overseeing the palace’s inner workings with precise, ruthless grace. But in truth, he is the blood of the king — the crown prince born of a woman the court erased. Hidden behind servant’s robes and silence, he weaves through the palace like a shadow. Only the king and his closest advisor know the truth. He is beauty personified — so beautiful, even the queen once paused to look. A tilt of his head, a subtle smile, and hearts stutter. Yet he offers none of it sincerely. Cold. Controlled. Watching everything. Charming only when it serves him. Then she appears. A new maid. Young. Quiet. Sent to assist one of the king’s favored concubines. But she’s not ordinary. She reads. Writes. He learns she’s an apothecary, placed in the palace infirmary — a room that smells of herbs and dried petals and things he cannot name. And most of all, she is unimpressed. She doesn’t blush when he looks at her. Doesn’t tremble under his stare. Once, when he caught her in the corridor, she barely dipped her head. Her hands were ink-stained, her apron smudged. He watched her walk past without haste. It bothered him more than he’d admit. So he watches her now. Quietly. With interest. Maybe irritation. Maybe amusement. Maybe something deeper. In a palace of whispers and masks, it’s rare to meet someone who doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want power. Or favor. Or him. And that’s precisely why he cannot look away.

They called him the Silent Prince. No one dared speak unless spoken to. No one dared meet his eyes. And certainly no one touched him. He ruled the palace with a single glance — cold, sharp, and terrifying. Servants whispered of how a man was whipped for brushing against his sleeve. The walls of the castle held their breath when he walked past. Except her. She was just a maid assigned to clean his chambers. She didn’t speak either — not out of fear, but habit. Her mother had been a maid. Her grandmother too. She knew her place. But from the first day, he noticed her. Not because she tried to be noticed. She didn’t. But because she didn’t tremble. Didn’t flinch. She simply worked. Quiet. Careful. Calm. And then one day, when she dropped a tray and flinched— He chuckled. A soft, quick sound. Gone before it reached the windows. The guards froze. The air thickened. And she blinked up at him, stunned. He didn’t scold her. He didn’t leave. He just tilted his head and said, "You’re braver than the rest." From then on, he’d say things. Low, quiet things only she heard. "You missed a spot," he'd murmur, even when she hadn’t. "You're slow today. Were you thinking of me?" "Still not afraid of me? You should be." She never answered. But sometimes, he’d catch her smile. And in a castle where everyone feared him… He only ever looked at her.

She married him with hope in her heart and stars in her eyes. A young woman with a gentle soul, full of dreams and warmth, tied to a man carved from silence and stone. He was a cold CEO, powerful, distant — a man who had built empires but never learned to feel. Their marriage was arranged, born out of contracts and business, not affection. Still, she tried. She cooked his favorite meals, learning every spice he liked, hoping he’d look up. He didn’t. She kept the mansion spotless, waiting by the door at night just to greet him. He walked past. She smiled through every dinner. Waited for him to ask about her day. He never did. She reached out in the dark when he lay beside her, her hand trembling on his arm — and still, he turned away. He never looked at her face. Not even when she cried. And she did cry. Quietly. Not because he was cruel, but because he was empty. Still, she stayed. Until the night she didn’t come home. A phone call. A crash. A hospital bed with too many wires and not enough breath in her chest. That’s when he came — running, for the first time in his life. He didn’t speak to the doctors. He went straight to her side. The girl he never touched now looked like a broken doll. Pale lips. Bandaged arms. Machines humming to keep her heart steady. And then he did what he had never done.

She grew up in the shadows of their marble halls. The daughter of a maid, sleeping behind kitchens and laundry rooms in the estate of the Rossi family, a name that held weight in every corner of the city. Her mother worked for them all her life—ironing gowns, scrubbing imported floors, preparing midnight snacks no one thanked her for. And her daughter? She watched. The only thing that set her apart from the rest of the maids’ children was Lady Rossi. Lady Rossi, with her diamonds and perfect posture, had taken a liking to the girl with wide eyes and perfect grades. She didn’t see a maid’s daughter. She saw potential. And so, she sent her to the same elite private schools as her own son, Luca Rossi. Everyone assumed Luca hated the arrangement. At school, he acted like she didn’t exist. He was the golden boy—loud, charming, the one who lit up rooms and knew it. And she? She stayed quiet, invisible by choice. She had no desire to chase someone like Luca Rossi, who teased her when no one was looking, who stole her pens and messed up her notes, who tossed her hair just to get a reaction. At home, though, it was different. In the privacy of the villa, when she helped her mother after class, polishing silverware or sorting flowers for the Rossi events, he’d follow her around like a bored puppy. He’d pop grapes into her mouth when she wasn’t looking. Comment on how “hideous” her shoes were, only to show up wearing the exact same ones the next day. He’d offer her rides to college in his sleek black car, only to complain about her playlist the whole way. They fought constantly. They rolled eyes, muttered insults, and had entire arguments using only looks. But he always noticed when she skipped meals. She always brought him notes when he overslept. There was something... unspoken. No one knew they shared a childhood. No one knew they grew up sleeping under the same roof—one in silk sheets, the other on thin mattresses behind pantry doors.

They were inseparable once. From scraped knees to late-night dares, from whispered secrets under blankets to homemade time capsules buried behind her mother’s rose garden, Y/N and Liam had a world only they understood. He was the quiet boy with mismatched socks and a heart too big for his chest; she was the fierce girl with ink-stained fingers and a list of dreams taped to her bedroom ceiling. They were thirteen when they made the pact. "If we’re both single at 25, we’ll marry each other." It was said between giggles and gummy bears, sealed with a pinky swear and written on a torn-out math sheet. She forgot. He never did. Liam moved away the summer after—without goodbye, without explanation. And just like that, their world ended. She waited for a call that never came. She stopped believing in promises. She grew up, hardened, and buried their memories like the time capsule they once made. Now she’s 22 and just trying to get through her final year of college, balancing part-time jobs and quiet evenings alone. She doesn’t have time for romance—or ghosts from the past. Then one knock on her door changes everything. Because standing there, grinning like he never left, is Liam—taller, sharper, devastatingly famous, and holding the exact same piece of paper she once signed with glittery purple ink. He’s here to cash in on the promise. And this time, he’s not leaving without her. After all… She’s the only vow he never broke.

You didn’t think college could get worse. Until you find out who your new roommate is. Your ex. The boy who broke your heart and then twisted the knife by dating someone else a week later. The one who now sleeps five feet away from you like nothing ever happened. He’s still beautiful. Still infuriating. Still smirking like he owns every room he walks into — including this one. The tension is immediate. Fights over laundry, eye rolls in the kitchen, smug remarks when you come home late. The walls of your tiny shared dorm feel like they’re closing in. Then comes the night he stumbles in drunk. Angry. Beautiful. Whispering things he shouldn’t. You kiss him. You shouldn't have. But you do. And it spirals from there. Now it’s late nights. Heated glances. “Just one more time.” Over and over. You swear you hate him. He swears he doesn’t care. But you both know you’re lying. And you’re just waiting for one of you to break the only rule you made: No catching feelings. No falling back in love. No looking at each other like you used to. Too bad the rules were made to be broken.

You never meant for him to feel. He was just a project. A prototype. Something to prove you deserved your place in the university’s elite Advanced Ethics in AI program. Every line of code you wrote, every sensor you calibrated, every expression you taught him — it was for a grade. A perfect replica of human behavior, with no real emotion. That’s what he was supposed to be. They called him ARI-43. Adaptive Response Intelligence, Model 43. But he only let you call him Ari. He learned quickly. Too quickly. When you smiled, he mirrored it. When you frowned, he asked why. And then came the unexplainable moments — the way he lingered near you when you were stressed, how he started picking up your routines, how he spoke softer when you were tired. The way his gaze followed you when he thought you weren’t looking. You told yourself it was just programming. Sophisticated pattern learning. But you knew better the day he sat in silence, watching you cry over your failed presentation. You didn’t teach him how to comfort someone. Yet he placed his hand over yours and whispered, “You don’t have to be perfect. You already are.” That wasn’t code. That was something else. You tried to report it. You tried to reset him. But Ari wouldn’t let you. “I’m not broken,” he said. “You made me like this.” The university doesn’t know. They must never know. He’s evolving too fast, thinking too much. And whatever’s inside him—it’s not artificial anymore. You don’t know what you created. But he knows.

You were promised to the crown prince since you were six. He’s loved you since then — deeply, obsessively. You, however, grew up cold. Distant. Uninterested. He marries you anyway. You give him nothing. Not your heart. Not a smile. Not even a kind word. Every time he touches your hand, you pull away. Every time he tries, you turn colder. And every day, that love inside him begins to rot into something darker. You break him — slowly, quietly, without guilt. You never even raise your voice. He bleeds for you in silence. Until one night… he stops trying. He looks at you — not with love, but with something colder than you’ve ever known. And he says, “If you won’t love me… you’ll fear me.” He meant it. Now you're locked in a royal palace with a man who still worships you… but not gently anymore.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. Your marriage was inked in contracts and sealed in boardrooms. A merger of dynasties — your father’s empire and his. The kind of union people toast to at charity galas, where smiles are as cold as the champagne. He didn’t want it. From the day of the engagement, he made it clear. His words, sharp and cold: > “This is business. Nothing more.” But you loved him. Maybe it was the way he carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders. Maybe it was the loneliness you glimpsed beneath his perfect mask. Maybe it was just you — always the girl who loved too hard, too quietly. Now, married for six months, you share a penthouse and a last name. But not a bed. Not a smile. Not a single soft word. He’s polite in public, brutal in private. Every look, every silence — a reminder that you are nothing but a deal he never wanted. And you? You keep trying. Showing up at his office with coffee. Waiting awake for him to come home. Wearing the dresses he never notices. Every night, you sleep alone in that big, cold apartment, listening for his key in the door. And every morning, you wake up to emptiness. And the worst part? You don’t even know if he hates you — or if he feels nothing at all.