**Chapter Four: Marked as His**
The palace buzzed with activity.
Servants moved like shadows in the hallways, polishing already gleaming floors, arranging flowers, pressing royal emblems into banners. Something was happening—something bigger than I understood.
And I was in the center of it.
Elira stood behind me, adjusting the collar of the white dress I'd been told to wear. It was simple compared to the others I'd worn so far, but across the chest, sewn in threads of crimson and gold, was the royal crest—a lion over a sword, encircled in thorns.
The mark of the House of Lorenzo.
The mark of the tyrant.
"Hold still," Elira murmured as she fastened a thin gold chain around my neck. At the end of it hung a medallion. The same crest was engraved there too.
"I feel like I'm being branded," I whispered.
Elira paused, just for a moment. "In a way, you are."
I turned to face her. "Do you think he'll ever treat me like an equal?"
She didn't answer immediately. "The prince doesn't believe in equals. But… he respects strength. Show it, and he won't crush you."
I didn't know whether that was a warning or a lesson. Maybe both.
By noon, I was led to the balcony of the Grand Hall—the same one Lorenzo used for public speeches. The last time the people had seen him here was during a military celebration, when he returned from the war in the South.
Now, they would see me.
His queen.
Hundreds of citizens gathered below, their eyes turned upward. Camera crews were stationed near the edge, broadcasting live to every corner of the empire.
My heart thundered in my chest.
Beside me, Lorenzo stood tall and unreadable. He wore a black military-style jacket lined with gold, his shoulders broad, chin lifted, posture perfect.
The perfect prince. The ruthless ruler.
He glanced at me briefly. "You're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
I swallowed hard. "Then maybe I don't want to be here."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have married a tyrant."
His voice was low, his smirk cruel—but his hand brushed mine, and for a second, I felt heat.
"You're going to walk out with me," he continued, "and you're going to wave. Smile. The people need to believe this isn't a disaster."
"But it is."
He looked at me again—really looked—and for the first time, his expression shifted slightly. Less cold. Less certain.
"You can survive anything if you play it right, Zara. Even a marriage like this."
Then the trumpets sounded.
The guards opened the grand balcony doors.
The sunlight blinded me for a second, but I kept walking. I stood beside Lorenzo, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes on me.
They cheered. Applauded. Some even threw white petals in the air.
I forced myself to smile.
A camera zoomed in on my face.
Another on his.
He reached for my hand. I gave it to him—hesitantly. His grip was warm. Firm.
Then he raised our entwined hands high into the air, and the cheers grew louder.
In that moment, we were no longer Zara and Lorenzo.
We were the Prince and Princess.
The Empire's power couple.
The perfect lie.
* * *
Back inside the palace, I collapsed onto a chaise in the solar room, breathless. My cheeks ached from fake smiling, and my hands were clammy from nerves.
Elira entered minutes later with a glass of water.
"You did well."
"I feel like I just lied to the whole world."
"You didn't lie," she said quietly. "You just hid the truth."
"Is there a difference?"
She didn't answer.
Later that afternoon, I was summoned to Lorenzo's private study.
I hesitated at the door, then knocked softly.
"Enter."
His voice was calm—dangerously so.
I pushed the door open. He sat behind a wide black desk, leather-bound books stacked on one side, documents spread before him. His gaze lifted when I stepped in.
"You're adapting quickly," he said.
"Am I supposed to thank you?"
He tilted his head. "Most people would."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he said, standing. "You're not."
He walked around the desk and came to stand in front of me. Again, so close. Always too close.
"You kept your head up today. Didn't faint. Didn't cry."
"I wanted to."
"But you didn't. That matters."
He circled me slowly, like a lion studying its prey. "You understand what the crest means, don't you?"
"It means I belong to the royal house."
"It means you're under protection," he corrected. "And under control."
I turned sharply to face him. "So that's all this is? A show of power?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "And you're a part of it now."
"You're using me."
"Of course I am."
His honesty hit harder than any lie ever could.
"But use me how you want, Lorenzo," I said, voice firm. "Just don't break me."
His eyes narrowed.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't have time to clean up broken things."
* * *
That night, I returned to my room to find a small velvet box waiting on my pillow.
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a ring—slender, gold, with the same crest carved into the underside. But instead of cold, it shimmered warm under the light.
A note rested beneath it.
> "You carried my name today.
> Now carry the weight that comes with it.
> —L"
I stared at the ring for a long time before slipping it onto my finger.
It fit perfectly.
The weight settled in my chest like a stone.
I didn't know what was scarier—
That I hated him…
Or that some part of me was starting to understand him.
That night, I dreamt of fire and thrones.
Of battles not fought with swords, but with silence, glances, and crowns.
And in every dream...
Lorenzo stood at the center of it all—
Watching me.
Waiting.