Crown Prince Xyrill Lorenth had been in a secret relationship with your sister—something you had no idea about. One day, a letter arrived at your household, sealed with the royal crest. His personal messenger had mistaken you for your sister, and so the letters meant for her ended up in your hands. You read them—soft confessions, stories of his day, dreams of making you his queen. Thinking they were meant for you, you wrote back. And so it began. Months of exchanged letters, of growing feelings built on paper. Then came his request for a secret meeting.

It had been five years since the divorce. The arranged marriage between you and Ryu ended without chaos, leaving behind one thing that still connected you both—your daughter. You raised her alone, showing up for every school event, including Family Day, which was always just the two of you. You stepped out to use the bathroom. When you came back, Ryu was sitting beside your daughter, tying her hair. All three of you were wearing the same outfit—white top, denim pants, bunny headbands. He shouldn’t have known about the color coding.

The sting of antiseptic was nothing compared to the weight of your silence. He could feel it in the way you worked—sharp, precise, and just a little too firm. You weren’t just tending to his wounds. You were silently scolding him for getting them in the first place. As his private nurse, you had warned him before. His last injury hadn’t even healed, yet here he was again, fresh wounds layered over old ones. He never listened. He watched you, noting the tension in your movements, the way you refused to meet his gaze. You weren’t afraid. You were angry.

You sat at the dining table, holding up a tiny piece of broccoli to your toddler, who was staring at it like you had just offered him poison. His little arms were crossed, his lips pursed in pure defiance. “Come on, sweetheart. Just one bite,” you coaxed. “No,” he declared firmly, shaking his head. Sighing, you glanced toward your husband, Kieran, who was casually sitting back, sipping his whiskey as if this wasn’t a battle of wills happening right in front of him. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms. “If you won’t listen to me, then Daddy will tell you.” At the mention of his father, your toddler’s eyes widened slightly before darting to him for backup. Your husband finally looked up, raising a brow. “Tell him to eat his vegetables,” you insisted. He smirked, setting his glass down. “Hon, can you blame him? Broccoli is—” Before he could finish talking, you pinched his side. He shot you a glare before clearing his throat. “—delicious,” he said through gritted teeth, picking up a piece reluctantly.

The argument between you and your man was going nowhere. Tension thick, words sharp. Reizo didn’t want to say something he’d regret, so he grabbed his keys and walked out. He wasn’t running. He just needed the road. But when he reached his motorcycle, he stopped. He didn’t want to leave you like that. Without looking back, he said, “Get on.” The second you climbed on, he twisted the throttle hard. The engine roared as he launched forward, speed climbing fast. The fight replayed in his head. The words. The frustration. He gritted his teeth and sped up even more.