Zara's stomach growled, loud and unforgiving, as she lay on the edge of the massive bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The chandelier above sparkled with an elegance that mocked her situation. Her wrists still ached faintly from last night, but it wasn't the physical pain that gnawed at her now. It was the sheer silence. The locked door. The absence of food. And him.
She had expected at least something—an apology? Bread? A reason? But hours had passed since he stormed out, and the only thing she had received was a cruel emptiness that made her feel more like a prisoner than a wife.
She sat up, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "Selfish bastard," she muttered. "He locks me up and can't even remember I haven't eaten? Typical."
A sharp knock broke her thoughts.
Zara rose slowly, each step heavy with distrust. She didn't respond. The door cracked open anyway, revealing a maid—young, eyes wide with fear, her mouth tightly sealed.
The girl stepped inside without a word and placed a large white box on the vanity, then turned to leave immediately.
"Wait," Zara said, voice rough.
The maid paused but didn't meet her eyes.
"Is there... food?"
A silent shake of the head. Then the girl slipped out and locked the door behind her.
Zara stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the box. Her lips curled in disbelief. With a bitter laugh, she marched to it and flipped it open.
Inside lay a dress.
Royal blue silk, dripping with elegance. A gown meant to dazzle. She stared at it for a long second, her jaw tightening.
A folded note sat beside it.
> "Get ready. You'll attend the royal banquet tonight. Be presentable." — Rael
No greeting. No explanation. No mention of her being starved in his gilded prison. Just a dress and an order.
Her hands trembled.
"So this is what I am to you," she whispered. "Something to dress up and parade around in."
With a cry of frustration, she hurled the box across the room. The gown tumbled out in a whirl of silk, landing in a heap near the wall. Zara turned away, fists clenched, eyes burning.
She wasn't going. Let him attend his precious banquet alone.
But as the minutes passed, something shifted. She looked down at her reflection in the mirror—messy hair, sunken eyes, cracked lips. She looked defeated. And she hated it.
No. If he wanted to control her, he would have to try harder.
Gritting her teeth, she picked up the dress and slipped into it. She didn't wear it for him. She wore it to remind herself she wasn't broken yet.
---
The banquet hall shimmered with gold and firelight, a spectacle of wealth and power. Nobles lined the long tables, their voices weaving into a symphony of gossip and laughter.
Zara stood at the entrance, every eye turning as she entered.
She heard it all.
"Is that the wife? Gods, she's plain." "Where did he even find her?" "She looks like a mouse in a lion's den."
She held her head high and walked in like she belonged, even though every step felt like walking through knives.
And then, silence.
Prince Rael had arrived.
Tall, commanding, dressed in black and silver. His sharp jaw, intense storm-grey eyes, and broad shoulders radiated power. His presence devoured the room.
He walked straight to her, took her hand without asking, and turned to the crowd.
"This is my wife," he said. "Zara."
A pause.
Polite claps. Forced smiles.
Then a woman with blood-red lips and a gown far too tight stepped forward.
Lady Mirelle.
"Your Highness," she said sweetly. "She's lovely. It's refreshing to see such... humble roots at the royal table."
A ripple of snickers.
Zara smiled politely. "And it's refreshing to see your tongue still sharp despite your age, Lady Mirelle. Royal tradition must keep some things preserved."
Gasps echoed across the room.
Rael turned to her slowly.
His eyes betrayed something brief and unreadable. Then he gestured for her to follow him.
---
The hallway outside was dim and empty.
He didn't speak until they were alone.
Then, he turned, his face hard. "Did I give you permission to speak back to her?"
Zara blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You are not to respond unless I tell you to. Do you understand that?"
Her blood boiled.
"So that's how it is?" she snapped. "I'm just your doll now? Dress me up, starve me, and parade me around like I can't think for myself?"
He stepped closer. "You will ask for permission. For everything. That is how this marriage works."
"Then find yourself a puppet!" she shouted.
His jaw clenched. The moment froze between them.
Her chest heaved as she glared at him.
"You didn't bring food. You brought a dress," she hissed. "Not because you care, but because you wanted to use me. And now you want obedience? Respect isn't given to tyrants."
He stared at her for a moment, then walked over to a window, looking out in silence.
In two strides, he closed the gap between them and grabbed her by the throat—not tightly, but firmly enough to make her gasp.
Soon he released her
He gave her one last look—intense, unreadable—before walking away, the door slamming behind him and locking once more.
She stood alone in silence, heart pounding, but something inside her smiled.
He could lock her in. Starve her. Humiliate her.
But he couldn't control her spirit.
Not anymore.