That evening, Nia was delivered to Isaac's quarters, and stepping inside for the first time, with the full knowledge that this was where she would be living from now until she had achieved what the king sent her to do, made her skin crawl.
Now she understood.
When the palace staff whispered to her with pity that the prince was locked in a cage, they had not been exaggerating. This was no residence, especially not for someone with the title of crown prince; it looked like he had been imprisoned rather than given a space.
She swallowed her discomfort and smoothed her expression into its usual innocence. She had never worked in an environment like this, but she believed she could push through.
Just then, the bathroom door opened.
Isaac stepped out, dressed in deep blue pyjamas that hugged his frame, a towel draped over his shoulders as he dried his hair. Water droplets still clung to the ends of those pale blonde strands, catching the dim light like scattered stars. His skin seemed to glow in the dimly litted room, and when he lifted his gaze…
Nia forgot to breathe.
She had seen handsome men. Men she had believed, in her arrogance, were the pinnacle of male beauty, men who had fallen to their knees for her with nothing more than a smile and tears.
This man was something else entirely.
His features were too perfect, too unreal to belong to the mortal world. Indeed, he was the creation of the devil, looking so tempting without even trying, and the thought that she would be living with him quelled her dissatisfaction with the cage like water quenching fire.
She composed herself quickly, arranging her features into their purest, most innocent configuration.
"Good evening, my prince." Her voice was painted with honey and silk. "I am your fiancée."
Isaac did not spare her a glance.
He walked past her as if she were a piece of furniture to the small kitchen in the corner of the room and began preparing his dinner, his back to her, his movements casual and utterly indifferent.
Nia stood frozen.
Only if she knew; to Isaac she reeked of impurity. Her aura gave her away entirely, a complete opposite of her looks; it told precisely who she was. Not everyone could sense it. But Isaac was not everyone. His intuition on such things was sharp as a blade, honed by years of surviving.
He had no intention of getting involved with her.
She was not his responsibility. If she lived or died, it had nothing to do with him, as long as she did not invade his space, touch his things, or disturb the fragile peace he had carved out for himself in this metal box.
Nia waited.
She expected him to invite her to sit. To offer her a drink. To show her around, give her some form of welcome, however small.
None came.
He cooked, he ate, he washed his dishes, and he watched movies. He moved through the small space as if she were invisible, his face holding no emotion, his eyes never once finding her. He did not offer her food nor did he offer her water.
Finally, he went to bed.
Nia's legs ached from standing, and she eventually decided to find herself the comfort she had been waiting for him to offer her; she walked to his bed. There was only one, after all, and she was to be his wife. Surely he would not…
"You are not to touch any of my things."
He said, his voice cold and flat.
Nia froze mid-step.
"You are not to go near anything that belongs to me." A pause. "Whatever you do is none of my business, as long as you do not touch what is mine."
She stood there, disbelief washing over her in cold waves.
He owned everything, even the foods. How could he make rules like that? How was she supposed to survive?
"But..." She began, allowing her voice to tremble and her eyes fill with a precise amount of tears required to melt a normal man's heart. "But Nia would die. Nia brought nothing."
"That has nothing to do with me," he said; his voice did not change. "Report back to whoever sent you."
That was the end of the conversation.
Nia stood in the darkness, her carefully crafted expression slipping from her face like a mask falling to the floor. Her jaw tightened.
He wasn't pretending.
She had been so certain he was pretending, playing hard and testing her resolve, but she now realized the terrible truth.
He genuinely did not care.
Not a single, tiny f*ck.
She wrapped her arms around herself and sat on the cold floor, her back against the metal wall, and tried to figure out how to work this through.
---
Just a few days of peace and the chaos resumed.
Subrind woke to a rain of missiles aimed at major power plants and railway stations. The strikes were efficient and devastating. Only one death and ten injuries were recorded, which the international community would call "remarkably restrained" for a nation at war.
But the damage was done.
Half of Subrind was plunged into darkness. The railway transportation network came to a halt, making thousands of commuters stranded and cutting supply lines that the nation desperately needed.
Of course, Subrind was not going to back down.
It was as if they had been waiting, ready to respond the moment Dilrik made its move. Within thirty minutes of the first missile striking Subrind soil, the counterattack began.
Subrind's missiles streaked toward Dilrik, targeting major infrastructure. Government buildings, bridges, and transportation networks.
Most of the incoming missiles were intercepted by Dilrik's missile defense, but not all; some got through and caused heavy damages.
But miraculously, there were no deaths. Dozens were injured, some critically, but no one died.
The traffic, however, was a nightmare; every road leading out of the capital was totally blocked. Commuters sat in their cars for hours, listening to news reports on their radios, watching smoke rise from distant parts of the city, and wondering when they would be able to move eventually.