Chapter 1
The Slap That Echoed
The sound came after the silence.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.
Prince Naymar's head turned with the force of it.
For a moment neither of them breathed.
Bella's palm stung.
Her fingers curled slowly into a fist, as if only now realizing what she had done.
"I said no.’”
But the moment didn't start there.
It started from.......
Bella had imagined London would smell like rain and ambition.
She wasn't wrong.
An Indian-origin girl in London. Long black hair and expressive dark eyes. In Late twenties Quiet but strong-minded. Polite until disrespected. Hates arrogance and entitlement. With quiet determination in her eyes, Bella had come to the city on a short-term work assignment. Her company had landed a prestigious contract: supplying custom-designed tablecloths and décor for a royal palace event. It was the kind of opportunity that could change careers—and lives.
On the evening of the palace party, the corridors buzzed with urgency. Designers, coordinators, and staff moved like clockwork. Bella was carefully adjusting linen placements when her manager rushed over.
"Bella, we need the file with the final layout approvals," he said, breathless. "It should be in one of the private rooms near the east wing. Please get it—quickly."
She nodded and hurried off.
The palace, however, was a maze. Ornate hallways looked identical, doors unmarked, silence heavy. Bella checked one room, then another. Nothing. Her nerves tightened—she didn't want to mess this up.
Finally, she reached a door slightly ajar. Assuming it was another storage or office room, she pushed it open.
And froze.
Inside stood a man she recognized instantly—Prince Naymar of London.
Late thirties Cold royal aura. Broad shoulders, towering presence. Sharp jawline, unreadable dark eyes. A man used to obedience. Known for scandals, parties, alcohol, and reckless habits. Feared more than loved. A man people whisper about, never confront. But behind the bad reputation is a terrifyingly sharp mind. Which Turned failing royal businesses into empires. Every royal decision under him succeeded. Brought massive growth and influence to the country's economy. Ruthless in work, flawless in strategy. Even his enemies admit he is brilliant. No one can openly question him because his results are impossible to ignore
The man whose face had appeared in newspapers, whose presence alone commanded rooms. He was mid-change, shirt discarded, expression sharp with surprise.
"I—" Bella's voice stumbled. She immediately turned away. "I'm so sorry. I was looking for the file room. I didn't mean—"
She rushed through an apology, cheeks burning, explaining how she'd been sent by her manager, how she was lost, how all the rooms looked the same.
Prince Naymar didn't interrupt.
When she finally paused, breathless and embarrassed, he studied her coolly. There was something unreadable in his gaze—half suspicion, half amusement.
"You expect me to believe that?" he asked calmly.
Bella turned back, startled. "Yes, Your Highness. I swear. I wouldn't—"
He stepped closer, voice low. "People invent excuses all the time when they want access they shouldn't have."
Her heart raced. "I really don't want anything. I just need the files."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, a slow smile curved his lips.
"Very well," he said. "I'll take you to the room you're looking for."
She exhaled in relief—until he added, almost casually,
"Thank you, sir."
Bella stood near the door, her back half-turned, eyes fixed on the carved wooden panels as she waited for him to finish changing. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, heart still racing from the embarrassment of moments earlier.
She didn't hear him move.
A sudden brush of warmth near her face made her gasp. Prince Naymar had stepped close—too close—and before she could react, his fingers gently swept a loose strand of hair back from her cheek.
She startled violently, stepping away at once.
He followed, voice calm but edged with something unsettling.
"Come on now," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You don't need to pretend anymore. I understand why you came in. And I don't have a problem with it."
Bella's breath caught. "Sir—"
He continued, lowering his voice. "People would do a lot for opportunities. Recommendations, connections... I could help you move up in your field. Very easily."
Her face drained of color.
She stepped back again, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. You're understanding this completely wrong. I don't want anything like that."
She reached for the door, panic rising.
Suddenly, his hand closed around her wrist.
"So now you're trying to play hard to get?" he said quietly.
"You rushed in," he murmured.
Bella frowned, confused.
"I told you, I'm searching for the file."
A quiet chuckle.
"No one walks into a private room by mistake inside a palace."
Her shoulders stiffened.
"You think I planned this?"
"Hmm."
He stepped around her, leaning casually against the table - blocking the exit without touching the door.
"So," he said lightly,
"you want to negotiate first."
Bella blinked. "Excuse me?"
His gaze moved over her - assessing, certain.
"You came alone. No introduction. No request."
He tilted his head.
"Which means you want something... unofficial."
The meaning settled in the air.
Bella's grip tightened on the file list in her hand.
"You're mistaken."
"Then tell me," he continued calmly,
"what do you want in return?"
Her stomach dropped.
"In return for what?"
"For this."
His fingers lifted a strand of her hair and let it fall slowly over her shoulder.
Bella stepped back instantly.
"Don't."
He watched her retreat.
Not anger.
Not confusion.
Certainty.
"I don't mind," he said.
"People usually ask for recommendations. Positions. Money."
She shook her head.
"I asked for a file location."
"You'll get more than directions."
She moved sideways toward the door.
His arm reached past her first.
The door clicked shut.
Now her breathing changed.
Not panic.
Calculation.
"I need to leave," she said firmly.
His hand caught her wrist.
"Hard to get rarely works this far."
She pulled once.
Didn't free herself.
"Let go."
His grip tightened - not painful, but controlled.
"You came here."
Her voice lowered.
"I opened the wrong door."
"And stayed."
"You told me to."
A pause.
For the first time, irritation flickered in her eyes.
She tried to twist her wrist free.
Failed.
Tried again.
Still held.
"Last time," she said quietly,
"move."
He didn't.
He didn't just hold her wrist.
He pulled her toward him.
For a split second Bella froze—shock stealing her breath as his face came too close, intent unmistakable. Instinct took over before fear could settle.
She shoved him back with all her strength.
The sound of her palm against his cheek cracked through the room.
"I said no," she said, her voice shaking but fierce.
The room went deathly still.
Bella didn't wait for a reaction. In that moment she forgot crowns, titles, everything. She opened the door and walked out, her steps fast, her chest burning—but her spine straight.
Behind her, Prince Naymar stood frozen.
No one had ever raised a hand to him.
Not once.
Not ever
No one had ever refused him.
No one had ever forced his hand away.
And no one had ever made him feel... dismissed.
The palace remained quiet.
But something inside him did not.
Pride remembers longer than pain.
