Beep. Beep.
The soft pulse of a heart monitor echoed faintly in Ariel's ears.
She squirmed slightly, frustration flickering beneath her grogginess as the repetitive sound drilled into her senses.
After a while, she slowly opened her eyes—only to be met by the stark white ceiling of a hospital room.
She blinked against the harsh light, then lifted a trembling hand to rub the fog from her vision.
She tried to remember what had happened—how she'd ended up here—but a sharp ache pulsed behind her temples, clouding her thoughts and leaving her memory frustratingly blank.
With a quiet sigh, she turned her head toward the rhythmic beeping, her gaze landing on the heart monitor and the IV tubes snaking around her arm.
"You're awake..."
A low, husky voice echoed through the room.
Ariel flinched.
She slowly turned her head to the other side—and saw her father, Raymond, sitting in a chair beside the bed.
His hair was slightly disheveled. Dark circles framed his tired eyes.
Ariel's heart ached.
She had never seen him like this before—so worn down, so hollow. It was as if sleep had abandoned him for days.
She tried to speak, but her throat was bone-dry. She swallowed, hoping to summon some moisture, but it was no use. Her mouth felt like it hadn't produced saliva in ages.
She shifted, trying to sit up—but her body felt bolted to the bed.
She had no strength.
None at all.
Which could only mean one thing.
She'd been unconscious longer than she should have.
Days... or worse. Weeks.
Raymond noticed her struggling and quickly rose to her side.
"Hey, easy. It's okay. Let me help you."
He gently supported her, easing her into a sitting position with her head resting against the pillow.
Then he poured a glass of water, helping her sip it slowly before settling back into his chair.
Ariel stared at the sterile hospital room, her eyes tracing the blank walls and dull furniture.
Silence stretched between them.
Eventually, she cleared her throat, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"How long was I unconscious?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.
She turned to face Raymond.
His expression was tired. Blank. Worn.
"Two days," he said curtly.
'Two days?'
Ariel's mind reeled.
'But it feels like I've been gone out cold for weeks...'
Raymond saw the confusion on her face and sighed.
"I've always told you not to behave recklessly. But you never listen, do you?"
Ariel bit her lower lip, guilt tightening in her chest. She clasped her hands together, rubbing them nervously.
She could feel his disappointment. And beneath it—a flicker of restrained fury.
She hadn't wanted to end up here. Her mission to the palace was supposed to be smooth this time. She'd gone in fully prepared.
But the sterile walls, the cold furniture, and Raymond's exasperated demeanor told her otherwise.
Something had happened.
Something bad.
Even if she couldn't remember it yet... the tension in the room said it all.
It wasn't good.
"I'm sorry..." she whispered, her voice hoarse, her gaze fixed on the blue linen sheets beneath her trembling hands.
Raymond sighed.
"Sorry?"
Ariel nodded weakly, still staring down at the sheets.
She couldn't bring herself to look at him—not when his anger was so palpable.
Raymond exhaled, his voice rising.
"I'm glad you're alright. But that was too close, Ariel."
He paused, then continued, voice tight.
"And I'm afraid your 'sorry' isn't going to undo the damage you brought upon yourself this time. Do you have any idea what you've caused?"
Ariel's head snapped up.
"I did what I had to, Father. I had no choice. I thought we talked about this."
"Talked about this? Talked about this? Ha!"
Raymond ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then stood and began pacing the room, muttering under his breath.
"Talked about this..."
Ariel rolled her eyes, watching him pace like a storm cloud.
"What is wrong with you, Father? I did exactly what we discussed. I retrieved the chest from the Royal Archives. The mission was a success. My family's legacy is safe—just like I always wanted. Just like we always wanted. Isn't that what we agreed on?"
"No!" Raymond snapped, his voice sharp enough to make Ariel flinch.
He exhaled again, dragging his hand through his hair.
"No. What we talked about, Ariel, was for you to enter the palace quietly, retrieve the chest, and leave without drawing attention to yourself—or doing something recklessly unbelievable!"
Ariel stared at him, confusion clouding her face.
Raymond let out a heavy sigh.
"Recklessly unbelievable... like attacking the Crown Prince!"
Ariel's blood ran cold.
She froze.
"I did what?" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
Raymond sighed.
"You attacked the Crown Prince. Caused an entire meltdown that's going to ruin all of us!"
Ariel stared at him, her face twisted in disbelief.
"I did what?"
She asked again, needing to be sure she'd heard him right.
Raymond exhaled, his voice sharp with frustration.
"You attacked the Crown Prince—with explosives, Ariel. You turned his bathing haven into a bloody war zone. The blast nearly destroyed an entire wing of his chambers. It was a disaster. A scandal. Now the King is after all of us. So thank you, Ariel. Everything we've worked for is on the verge of being ruined."
Just then a faint memory flashed into her mind.
The visuals were blurry and trying to focus on them made her head ache even more.
But she saw the explosion.
Water exploded violently out of the bathtub and sending a naked figure plummeting in the air and making them plunge into the wall.
Hard.
Before flooding the entire space with water.
The rest of the memory became more hazy but, she remembered stumbling into an open space before feeling strong arms carrying her. Through the haze she saw, Raymond's panicked face as he carried her before everything completely went dark.
'So he followed her.' She thought.
'But how did he enter the palace? And how did they escape unscathed?' She wondered.
"How is Daniel?" she blurted.
'Wait—why the hell was she asking about that scumbag?
She remembered the moment he—when she was disguised as Bailey—asked her to wash him. To undress. For him. The most perverse request he'd ever made. Just thinking about it made her stomach churn.
She couldn't remember what happened next. Her memory blurred after that moment. But something must've snapped. Something must've pushed her to do the unthinkable.
What the hell was I thinking?
Attacking him like that? Drawing attention to myself? That's not how I operate.
So what happened? What made me lose control?'
Raymond sighed again.
"What do you think?"
He threw the question back at her.
And in that tone—she heard everything.
The beast was awake. Reveling in thoughts on how to get his revenge on her.
If what she'd done before hadn't provoked him enough...
This had truly awakened the king dragon.
And two thoughts echoed in her mind:
'Will I survive his wrath this time?'
'Or would it be total annihilation?'
Ariel's gaze drifted to the television mounted on the wall.
A broadcast was playing—an announcement about the upcoming Bridal Selection Season, set to begin the day after tomorrow.
The time had finally come.
Would she tame the beast?
Or be consumed by his fury?
For the first time, Ariel felt something unexpected.
Anticipation.
But beneath it, a cold dread coiled in her chest.
It was confusing.
Was the dread meant for her?
Or maybe...
It was meant for him.
.....
Meanwhile, at the palace...
Soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a faint glow across the otherwise dark, ominous room.
Daniel sat in a high-backed chair, draped in nothing but a deep crimson robe that clung to his sculpted frame like silk over marble—concealing just enough to stir the imagination.
The faint scent of shower gel lingered in the air, a trace of his recent bath. His damp hair fell in sleek strands across his face, catching the light like strands of black silk.
His golden honeydew eyes glowed faintly beneath the dim lighting, their intensity undimmed by shadow.
In his left hand, he twirled a delicate blue necklace, the initials A.R.S. engraved into its pendant. In his right, he cradled a small glass of brandy, the amber liquid catching the light like fire.
On the table before him lay a worn, synthetic masculine torso—its texture and design so disturbingly lifelike, it could easily be mistaken for the skinned flesh of a real man.
Daniel stared at it in silence, his gaze fixed, unblinking. As if he were watching something... fascinating.
Then, without a sound, a figure cloaked in black and gold materialized from the shadows and stood just behind him.
There was a long moment of silence until—
"Did you finally catch the scent of our dear visitor?" Daniel asked, his voice low and husky.
"Unfortunately not, my Prince," replied the Dragonfly.
"Whoever we're dealing with is smart. Cunning. Their tactics are titanium-secure. But... I did find some information about him."
Daniel lazily extended a hand.
The Dragonfly stepped forward and placed a tablet in his palm.
Daniel's eyes landed on a figure cloaked in a hood and mask—face completely concealed.
The figure appeared in multiple surveillance stills, always careful to hide their identity.
"His name is Bailey the Mailman. That's the alias he uses when summoned for business," the Dragonfly explained.
"Word on the street is, he's a legend. The Dark Springers from the slums praise him—and fear him. He's Ruthless. Efficient. His last known attack was on the Greyhounds, the Scorpion Kings' bloodhounds. Traffickers. Rapists. Addicts. Killers. He infiltrated their den and scorched their leader's face with sulphuric fire. The guy's face is barely recognizable."
As he spoke, Daniel scrolled through the images.
One photo showed a man with a face melted beyond recognition—no eyes, no nose, no lips or ears. Just raw, ruined flesh.
"The others—his bodyguards—he shot them in the legs and escaped," the Dragonfly continued.
"However since the name is an alias used by many, we can't find out who he really is or if he is the one that attacked you that night. We have tried but it we are still being led to dead ends. I am sorry my Prince. We are still failing you." He lowered his head in guilt.
Daniel just listened but did not pay enough attention as his eyes narrowed as he spotted the timestamp on one of the street cam captures—Bailey fleeing the scene.
It was the same night he met him.
The same night he met her.
So... she was an underdog from the slums. Disguised as a man.
Or was she merely pretending to be from the slums?
Was she someone far more powerful?
And far more dangerous?
Daniel winced slightly as a dull ache pulsed through his body.
The injuries from the explosion two days ago still lingered.
If it had been a normal blast, he would've healed by now.
His powers never let him suffer from pain for long.
He was like an immortal.
A god in this world.
But what happened that night proved him otherwise.
That attack wasn't normal.
She wasn't normal.
His mystery woman also possessed power.
Power that nearly matched his own.
Or perhaps even more.
And that intrigued him.
He wanted to know more.
He wanted to feel more.
He wanted to see if he could tame the ferocious lioness—and claim her.
Harness her power.
Bend it to his will.
The thought made his heart race.
Anticipation coiled in his chest like a serpent.
And he couldn't wait to begin.
"How is Wisp?" Daniel asked, his voice low and unreadable.
"He's doing well," the Dragonfly replied.
"Though his memory of two nights ago still hasn't returned. But physically, he's stable."
"Good," Daniel murmured, rising from his chair and walking toward the closet.
"I want the real Bailey the Mailman brought to me. Lure him out—use whatever means necessary. I don't care if it takes all of you to devise a plan. I want him standing before me again. Otherwise..."
He paused, turning to face the Dragonfly.
"You'll suffer a fate worse than his."
His eyes flashed crimson—just for a moment—before returning to their usual golden hue.
The Dragonfly swallowed hard.
"Yes, Sire."
Just then, a knock echoed at the door.
Daniel gave a slight nod, and the Dragonfly vanished into the shadows without a sound.
"Who is it?" Daniel called out.
"Good afternoon, Your Highness," came a small voice from the other side.
"The Queen Dowager has summoned you to the Royal Family Lounge to discuss matters regarding the Bridal Selection Season, which is scheduled to begin the day after tomorrow."
Daniel hummed in acknowledgment.
The servant, understanding the dismissal, quietly stepped away.
Daniel turned back to the closet and began sifting through his garments, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the room.
"Looks like it's time to choose my useless, pathetic wife," Daniel muttered, snorting.
"She'll probably bring more headaches than blessings. Hell, they're all puppets—and I fucking hate puppets. None of them are as good as they pretend to be. Tsk! Hypocrites."
Just then, an image flashed in his mind.
An exceptionally beautiful woman with black eyes, a small, delicate nose, rosy lips. Long, wavy black hair cascading down her shoulders, partially hidden beneath a bright summer sunhat embroidered with flowers. She was smiling at him—radiant, disarming.
Daniel blinked.
"Well... except maybe for her," he murmured dreamily.
As his mind drifted to the memories where the two always met.
Her mischievousness.
Her boldness.
Her scolding.
Her cute laughter.
Her deviousness.
They were all deliciously attractive.
A challenge that he was eager to partake in to see where it will take him.
The thrill surged in his heart, adrenaline making it pump faster.
Unbeknownst to him, an uninvited smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he revelled in the memory.
Until—
Wack!
He slapped himself.
Hard.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Daniel? Sheesh! Since when did you become such a goofus? The hell!"
He shook his head, pacing.
"I better stay away from that flamingo. Her pettiness is infectious. That's not a good sign. I'd rather pluck her than be pecked by her."
He scoffed, voice rising with each word.
"If she thinks she can win me over, she's in for a rude awakening. She's about to enter the dragon's den, and I'll make sure to burn those feathers off—until she's nothing but grilled chicken. Yeah. Just wait. I'll make sure she pays for crossing me. Just you wait."
He muttered to himself, trying to convince his own heart that he wasn't soft. That he wasn't the kind of man a woman like her could unravel.
He finally selected his clothes and stepped into the dressing room.
But despite all his bravado, despite every word of denial...
A strange feeling crept into his chest.
Uninvited. Unshakable.
Dread.
Because deep down, he feared one thing.
That it was a blatant lie.
She was capable of winning him over.
And she already started.
And that terrified him more than anything else.