Prologue
The sky was never truly clear on the day my mother died—at least that much I know. They said nature was sending down rain, but I knew it was a warning. A sign that since the day I was born, I had ceased to be anyone of significance.
Not a princess the kingdom awaited. Not an heir they were proud of. Only the remnant of a mistake they yearned to sweep away.
Outside the palace's glass window, I witnessed the memorial ceremony I was never permitted to attend—it was the same every year. Within the walls of gilded gold and the red carpet, slippery with lies, I watched someone seize my mother’s throne—not as a king, but as an executioner in uniform.
His name was Joseph de Montfort. My stepfather. The moment the great crown was placed upon his head, I should have realized that my life was no longer my own.
“A daughter should be silent. Sit pretty. Smile sweetly,” he said. His fingers then struck the table with a motion more elegant than a dancer's. The world was made to halt its rotation.
“And never refuse the prepared engagement.”
They valued me as no more than trash. The toxic waste that ruined Nyxshire. I remained silent while deliberately acting innocent, like a child grasping for attention.
Then they thought my silence stemmed from fear. They assumed I was fragile because I was gentle. But even clear glass can inflict a wound when shattered. And… I had been cracked for a long, long time.
So that night, before the sun could rise again and illuminate my life on the brink of ruin,
Before my wound was magically transformed into a false Duchess’s crown,
Before my history was buried within textbooks full of lies,
I chose to leave. Without a farewell. Without direction. Without a plan other than one: To seek out a life of my own—or to burn the world down if they dared try to reclaim it.
At the time, I never knew…
that a greater threat was waiting for me. With a false smile and dark eyes that never blinked. That my destiny wasn't at the end of the escape—but at the epicenter of one man's obsession, a man born from the exact same tragedy as mine. It was foolish of me to harbor sympathy.
Love is like war,
it always arrives when we are least prepared.
Love is like war,
its identity is like a hatred that doesn't know how to distinguish between a kiss and a laceration.
This isn’t a story about running away.
This is a story about setting the sky on fire while they beg you to rain.
This is a story about me.
Arisha Fontaine.
And I’m about to rain on someone’s parade.
