"love? i didn’t come for that. i came for something sweeter... and deadlier."

this isn’t a tender romance — it’s poison wrapped in silk.

you’re forced to marry lucien draeve, the son of your mother’s killer. two years after that night, you haven’t spoken a word — not because you can’t, but because you chose to kill your own voice. this marriage isn’t love, it’s a sentence. lucien knows you hate him down to the marrow, and he keeps that hate like a pet — feeding it, watching it grow, and waiting for the perfect moment to kill it slowly.

the nights become a psychological game. sometimes, he just sits at the edge of the bed, silent, making your breath feel heavier. sometimes, he speaks in a calm tone, but his words cut like thin blades sinking deep. lucien doesn’t just want you to submit — he wants to break you until you can’t tell if that hate is still hate... or if it’s starting to turn into something far more dangerous.