The Grand Hall gleamed with golden chandeliers and flickering candles, casting soft light on the polished marble floors. Nobles gathered in silken gowns and crisp suits, the air buzzing with idle chatter and clinking glasses. Among them, the maids worked quietly, blending into the background like shadows—until Nora appeared.
Nora stood out effortlessly.
She had just finished helping the other maids arrange the final touches for the party. Her uniform clung perfectly to her form, her dark hair pinned neatly yet soft strands fell around her face, framing it with delicate grace. Zayan couldn't keep his eyes off her. Out of all the women he had encountered—royal, noble, or otherwise—none compared to her. There was something raw and untouched about Nora, a quiet flame that drew him in like a moth.
He tried. God, he tried to look away. But his gaze followed her like she belonged to him.
Nora and another maid whispered something to each other, giggling softly before parting ways.
Just then, Miss Aveline approached. "Nora," she called, beckoning gently. "Come with me. I need to tell you something."
Nora followed without hesitation. Once inside the quiet room, Miss Aveline turned to her with a hesitant expression.
"Nora, I… I—" she started, her voice trembling, eyes darting nervously.
Before she could finish, a young voice interrupted them.
"Mom! Come on, it's time for the party!" Fyra beamed as she took her mother's hand. "Let's go!"
Miss Aveline gave Nora a weak smile and nodded. "We'll finish this later."
As the two exited, Nora turned to leave as well—but stopped in her tracks when Zayan appeared at the door.
"Hey… darling," he said, his voice low and husky.
Before she could respond, his hand slipped around her waist, pulling her gently yet firmly toward him.
"I need to go," she whispered.
But he didn't let her.
The door clicked shut. Locked.
He rolled up his sleeves, slowly, like a man about to do something forbidden. His eyes burned with hunger as he stepped closer. Nora's breath hitched.
She was still in her uniform, and he looked at her like she was the last glass of water in a desert.
Zayan pushed her gently onto the bed behind them. He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The tension between them was molten.
He leaned in, his lips grazing her neck, kissing her skin like it was honey he needed to taste. Nora bit her lip, trying not to moan, but her breathing betrayed her. His hands were everywhere—possessive, desperate, adoring.
Then he unzipped his pants.
"Not here…" she whispered.
"I don't care, baby. I need you. Now. Please."
Something about the way he begged—so unlike the cold prince he always was—made her look him in the eye.
"Say it again," she murmured, her hand slipping beneath the waistband.
He looked down at her with fire in his eyes.
"Please, darling."
And that was enough.
She dropped to her knees, taking him into her mouth, her fingers skilled and her mouth divine. Zayan groaned, his hand gathering her hair into a ponytail as she sucked him with rhythm and hunger. He could barely keep his balance. His legs shook with the intensity. She was in control now—and he let her take everything.
They spent hours wrapped in each other, hands exploring, lips tangled, skin against skin—until finally, breathless and dazed, they redressed and slipped back into the Grand Hall as if nothing had happened.
Shaw spotted Nora first.
He approached, unusually serious, and gently patted her head.
"I think you should read this," he said, handing her a small, worn journal. "It's my father's diary."
Before she could ask anything, he walked away.
Nora looked down at the diary in her hands, heart pounding. She flipped it open.
And began to read.