Zara stared at the closed doors of the prince's chamber, her hands trembling by her sides. The hallway behind her was cold, but the storm inside her chest was colder. Her legs refused to move, even though every part of her screamed to run.
Run away from him.
Run away from the fear.
Run away from this life she never chose.
But she couldn't—not with the guards stationed at every turn. Not with her father's debts hanging over her like a noose. Not with Prince Zaire holding the key to both her freedom and her destruction.
The door creaked open, making her flinch.
"Enter," came the prince's commanding voice.
Zara swallowed hard and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a few lanterns. The scent of expensive spices and musk lingered in the air, strong and almost suffocating. Prince Zaire stood near the window, his silhouette tall and unmoving. He didn't turn to face her. Not yet.
She waited in silence.
"I heard what happened at the garden," he finally said, his tone unreadable. "Why did you speak to Lady Miren?"
Zara flinched at the mention. Miren—the elegant, venomous courtier who had made it clear that Zara was nothing but a burden in the palace.
"She approached me," Zara said softly. "I didn't intend to cause any scene."
Zaire turned around slowly, his sharp eyes piercing into her. "You're not to engage with nobles unless I say so. Especially not her."
Zara bit her lip. "She insulted me, my lord."
"Did you insult her back?"
"No."
"Good." He walked closer, his boots silent against the marbled floor. "But next time, walk away."
Zara lowered her gaze, the weight of his presence overwhelming. Every time he was near, she felt like a bird trapped in a golden cage—too stunned to fight, too scared to fly.
Zaire studied her face for a long moment. "Look at me."
She hesitated before lifting her eyes to meet his.
There it was again—that strange flicker of something in his gaze. Not cruelty. Not anger. But possession. Like she was something he owned, something fragile he didn't quite understand yet but refused to let go of.
"I've arranged a dinner with my mother," he said.
Zara blinked. "The Queen?"
"Yes. She wants to meet you properly."
Fear lanced through her chest. The Queen. A woman known for her strictness, for her icy demeanor. Zara had only seen her from afar during court sessions—majestic, intimidating, unapproachable.
"When?" she asked, voice small.
"Tomorrow evening. Wear the blue dress my maids will deliver. Be on your best behavior. No mistakes."
Zara nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord."
He tilted his head slightly, stepping even closer now. "Why do you look like you've been sentenced to death?"
Zara's breath hitched. "Because that's how it feels," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Silence.
The air between them thickened. Zaire's eyes darkened, but he didn't raise his voice or move away. Instead, he reached out slowly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"You're not a prisoner here, Zara," he said quietly.
She couldn't stop herself from laughing softly—a hollow, bitter sound. "Then why do I feel like one?"
He paused, his hand still near her face. "Because you haven't accepted what this marriage truly means."
She dared to meet his gaze again. "Then tell me. What does it mean, my lord?"
Zaire's voice dropped to a low, gravelly tone. "It means you belong to me. And I protect what is mine."
Zara's heart thudded painfully in her chest. There it was again—that terrifying mix of possession and protection. He was fire and ice, war and shelter. She couldn't understand him. She wasn't sure she ever would.
"May I return to my chamber now?" she asked softly.
He studied her for a long moment before stepping back. "You may."
She turned quickly and walked away, feeling the heat of his stare until the door shut behind her.
—
Zara couldn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the silk sheets cool beneath her skin. Her thoughts spun endlessly—about the Queen, about Miren, about Zaire. About the way he looked at her like he owned every part of her soul.
And maybe… he did.
There was no escaping this life. No undoing the chains that bound her to him. But there was one thing she could do—she could survive it. Quietly. Carefully.
Even if her heart ached for freedom, even if her body trembled with fear, she wouldn't let them see her break.
Not the court.
Not the Queen.
Not even Prince Zaire.
—
The next evening came faster than she expected.
Maids arrived just before sunset, bringing a stunning blue gown with silver embroidery. It shimmered under the light, the kind of dress only noblewomen wore.
Zara barely recognized herself once dressed. The maid applied soft kohl around her eyes and pulled her hair into a braided crown. When she looked into the mirror, she saw someone else. Someone confident. Someone regal.
But inside, she was still trembling.
As she walked through the halls toward the Queen's chamber, escorted by two guards, her mind raced with rehearsed pleasantries and polite answers.
The Queen was seated already, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Zaire stood beside her like a silent sentinel.
When Zara entered, he gave her one long look—approval, perhaps. But he said nothing.
She bowed deeply to the Queen. "Your Majesty."
The Queen's sharp eyes assessed her from head to toe. "So you are the girl my son chose."
Zara kept her voice calm. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Sit."
Dinner was served.
It was the most uncomfortable hour of Zara's life. The Queen asked subtle questions—about her family, her education, her opinions. Every answer Zara gave was met with a scrutinizing gaze. She couldn't tell if the Queen liked her or not.
Zaire remained mostly silent, but Zara felt his gaze every time she spoke. Watching. Judging.
At the end of the meal, the Queen finally spoke. "You are quiet. That is good. Speak only when needed. The court devours foolish tongues."
Zara bowed her head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
When she finally left the chamber, her legs almost gave out. She barely made it back to her room before collapsing onto her bed.
But that night, something had changed.
She had faced the Queen. She had survived.
And now, she knew one thing for sure.
If she was to remain in this palace, in this marriage—she would need to stop being afraid.
She would have to learn to play the game.