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"As soon as your eyes die," he said coldly, "you'll remember this moment. You came here in disguise. A spy. A liar. And worse, you're one of the people fueling my brother's downfall."
He stepped closer, his storm-gray eyes fixed on her like a blade pressed to the throat. "Death would be mercy. But you don't deserve mercy. So I've chosen your punishment."
He paused.
"You're marrying me."
Her breath caught.
He continued, voice like a low growl. "Marrying me will feel like digging your own grave, but you have no choice. It's that—or die. And listen carefully," he leaned in, his lips barely a breath away, "you will regret ever crossing paths with my family. Never fall in love with me. Never try to run. Because the day you do—" his eyes burned into hers, "—will be the day you die in silence."
She flinched but didn't break. Not even as her heart pounded like a trapped animal in her chest. Giving up wasn't in her blood. Her mother hadn't raised a coward. She hadn't carried her for nine months to watch her bow to fear.
No.
Julia Kim would not back down.
The Wang family would pay for everything they had done to her.
Even if she had to walk through hell with a prince to get there.
Without another word, Prince Khali tore the mask from her face, untied her wrists, and seized her by the arm. His grip was iron, unrelenting. They walked—no, marched—for thirty long minutes through winding underground paths until they emerged on a quiet, moonlit road.
A sleek, royal blue car waited for them.
He opened the door and shoved her inside. Then he slid in beside her, silent, unreadable.
She wanted to ask where he was taking her, but fear sealed her lips. What if he changed his mind and killed her here and now?
He sat beside her with unsettling calm, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just threatened her life.
Did he pity her?
Had he seen something in her he recognized—loss, rage, the hunger for revenge?
The car climbed the narrow road of a hill and stopped before a stunning house nestled among tall pines. When the gates opened, a young man in his twenties waved them through without question.
Inside, the prince dragged her from the car and led her into the living room. He motioned for her to sit on the plush velvet sofa, then dropped into the seat beside her.
"I was going to take you back to the palace tonight," he said, "but there's something you need to do first."
His voice had lost its edge—it was quiet now, but still sharp enough to draw blood.
"Tomorrow, you'll meet Lady Naeema. You'll give her your resignation letter."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me," he said. "You're resigning. And as soon as you do, pack your bags. I'll be waiting for you outside the palace."
She didn't speak. Dread curled like smoke in her stomach.
Why was he making her resign? What did he plan to do with her?
Was this a trap?
Would he imprison her?
Kill her quietly?
Her mind swirled with questions, but she kept them locked behind her lips. For now, she could only nod.
He stood and gestured toward a side door. "There's a gold dye in the bathroom to your left. Fix your hair. Put on the clothes waiting for you. Someone will come get you when you're ready."
She nodded once more, rising on shaking legs. Without a word, she walked toward the bathroom, the sound of her footsteps echoing behind her like the end of something—perhaps her freedom.
Perhaps her life as Julia Kim.
Or maybe, just maybe, the beginning of her revenge.
The bathroom was silent, save for the low hum of the overhead fan and the steady drip of the tap. The air was scented with lavender and rose—too delicate, too personal.
Julia's eyes drifted to the shelf above the sink. It was lined with shampoos, conditioners, and creams—most of them already half-used. Lip balms. A satin scrunchie still clung to the faucet. Feminine, intentional.
Someone had lived here. A woman.
Maybe it was his fiancée's place. Or maybe one of the homes he shared with a former lover. The thought twisted like a knife.
But if he had a fiancée, why would he force her into marriage? Why call it punishment? Why speak as if marrying her was the worst kind of fate?
Unless… she was just a distraction. A pawn to stir jealousy. Or a replacement for someone lost.
Maybe this was like those tragic films, she thought, where the prince's first wife mysteriously vanished and the second became a prisoner in silks and jewels.
She stared at herself in the mirror—damp hair, dark circles under her eyes, skin pale with fear and cold. She looked nothing like the person she used to be.
And yet, no one would care if she disappeared.
Not the palace. Not the world. Not even the man who dragged her here.
Right now, even a prostitute was worth more than her.
A bitter thought crept in—at least they're paid. At least they're seen.
She had once longed for a gentle kind of love. A man who wouldn't see her as a weapon or a weakness. She had even tried to convince herself that Zhiqiang might be that person. Her father had arranged the match. She had hoped. She had lied to herself.
But monsters came in many forms.
Now she was here. Her freedom gone. Her name erased. Her heart still beating—but only just.
She stepped into the shower and stood under the freezing water for half an hour. Her thoughts swirled like the steam that wasn't there. There was no warmth left in her world. Just cold, calculating silence.
When she stepped out, a towel wrapped tightly around her, she noticed the room was empty.
He was gone.
But that didn't mean she was alone. He might be watching.
She glanced at the mirror again. Her reflection stared back—weak, haunted. But not broken.
Not yet.
Then she remembered.
The hair.
She hadn't dyed it.
She grabbed the golden bottle he'd left on the counter and applied it slowly, methodically, until every strand was back to its former color. As it dried, she unwrapped the towel and reached for the gown laid neatly beside the sink.
It was red.
A deep, blood-red silk that shimmered in the light. Tight-fitting. Elegant. And clearly meant for someone else.
It wasn't hers.
But it was what she had to wear.
She slipped it on. It hugged her curves like it had been sewn to her skin. The neckline dipped, the hem kissed her knees. Every inch of it screamed luxury and possession.
Maybe it belonged to the woman who used this bathroom.
Maybe she didn't need it anymore.
Julia stepped out into the hallway. The same young man who had opened the gate stood waiting. He offered no words, only a silent gesture toward the black car outside.
The middle-aged driver didn't speak, either.
As the car rolled toward the palace, Julia sat frozen. Her mind echoed with questions she didn't dare ask. Why the resignation? What was next? Was this all just a game?
When she finally reached her room, she walked to her desk with numb precision, sat down, and wrote the resignation letter in a single, unbroken line of thought.
No tears. No hesitation.
Then she packed her bags.
Whatever came next, she would face it.
She had no other choice.