The Garden, and the Girl
Paris was gold-drenched under a pale summer sky. Luxembourg Gardens sang with the rustle of trees and the laughter of the elite. Lovers strolled beneath marble statues, artists painted dappled sunlight on canvas, and the scent of freshly trimmed roses drifted lazily across the air.
And among it all—he stood still.
Daimion Valenhart.
No one dared to approach him. His presence was a silence that swallowed sound. In a suit blacker than midnight, with a coat tailored to perfection, he stood under the shade of a towering tree near the fountain. Cold, carved, and imperial.
He didn't look like a man.
He looked like a god deciding who deserved to breathe.
And then she appeared.
Anna.
The girl in ivory. The girl with eyes the color of moonlit jasmine tea. Skin that glowed like soft amber in the sun, lips pink as crushed roses, her dark lashes long and feathered. Her hair was braided in a thick, silky tail, cascading down her back. She looked untouched. Unsullied by the city's filth.
She wasn't like the others.
She didn't notice him. That made her his.
He watched her laugh, shyly, as she took photos of the statues and fountains. Her dress hugged her modestly, but he saw everything. The slight curve of her waist. The delicate slope of her neck. The innocence trembling beneath her smile.
He would possess that.
She walked with her cousin—chatting about the upcoming wedding, unaware she had just drawn the attention of the most powerful man alive.
And Daimion turned to his bodyguard.
"Find her."
The Wedding She Never Asked For
The reception sparkled with golden lights and glistening guests. Parisian elites mingled with South Asian families in jewel-toned gowns. Anna smiled politely, sitting at her cousin's side at the head table. She had never seen such glamour.
But she felt strange.
Watched.
Somewhere in the vast hall, across from towering floral arrangements and champagne towers, he was there.
Watching her. Always watching.
She felt it. A heat crawling up her back. A silence louder than music.
Hours later, while the dancing echoed behind her and laughter bounced off the chandeliers, her uncle approached.
Face stiff. Voice low. His tone clipped like stone.
"A man has proposed," he said. "You will marry him."
Anna blinked. "What…?"
"You'll meet him tomorrow. He is wealthy. Powerful beyond imagination. He asked for you. We accepted."
"You… what?" Her voice cracked. "Without asking me? Without even—"
Her aunt arrived, smiling too broadly. "It's a miracle, Anna. A blessing! Your destiny."
Anna stood from her chair, pushing it back with a scrape. Her voice rose, trembling with disbelief.
"I don't know this man!"
The music in the hall continued, but around them, a few nearby heads turned.
Her uncle's nostrils flared. He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her away from the dance floor, into one of the quiet marble corridors lit by golden sconces.
"What are you doing?" she hissed.
"What needs to be done," he said darkly.
"You had no right to promise me—"
"I had every right!" he snapped, voice low but sharp. "You are here under my roof, my protection. You're unmarried. You have no dowry. No future. You think a man like that comes along for a girl like you every day?"
Her heart pounded. "I'm not for sale!"
His eyes narrowed.
"You're not a child, Anna. You're a girl in a foreign country with no legal ties, no money, no voice. If I say yes, that is yes. And you will obey. For your family's name. For your parents' honor. Or do you want to shame us in front of everyone?"
She stepped back, stunned. "My parents don't even know—"
"They will understand. And you will thank me later, when you're living in palaces, dripping in diamonds instead of wasting away in Lahore with no prospects."
"You're trading me for money," she whispered. "For safety. You've sold me."
He said nothing.
That silence was the cruelest confession.
The Lock-In
Later that evening, Anna sat curled on the hotel bed, staring at her phone. She dialed again.
Her father's number.
Then her mother's.
No signal. No connection. Blocked?
She turned to the mirror and stared at her own reflection — pale, confused, helpless.
The knock came sharply.
She rushed to the door.
Her uncle stood there.
"You will not embarrass me tomorrow," he said. "I've told the others you're unwell."
"I won't go," she said firmly. "I swear to God, I'll run away. You can't make me marry someone I've never even—"
His eyes were hard.
"You won't run. Because the only place you'll go is the airport. And your passport has been taken."
She froze.
"You're bluffing."
He smiled tightly. "Am I?"
And then — he closed the door.
Locked it.
From outside.
Anna ran to it. Banged against it. "You can't do this! You can't lock me in!"
No answer.
Just silence.
Her fists pounded the wood until they hurt.
She crumpled onto the floor, knees tucked to her chest, her sobs muffled by her arms. The glamour of Paris dissolved into gray.
She was no longer a guest. She was a prisoner.
And outside, somewhere in the glittering city… Daimion Valenhart was already preparing her ring.
Their First Encounter
Valenhart Estate – Morning After the Proposal
Anna sat alone in the guest house, draped in a soft peach scarf, her eyes swollen from crying. The silence outside felt sharp, unnatural — like the world was holding its breath.
The sun streamed through the French windows, warming the stone floor at her feet.
And then… the door creaked open.
She turned sharply.
And there he was.
Daimion Valenhart.
He didn't knock. He didn't ask.
He simply entered, like he owned the space. Like he owned her.
Scene: The Encounter
He looked even more dangerous in daylight.
Too tall. Too broad. His black shirt clung to his chest, collar loose at his throat. His jaw sharp enough to slice. His silver eyes fixed on her like she was already caged.
Anna shot to her feet. "Who are you?"
He said nothing for a moment.
Then: "I am the man who will marry you."
Her heart stuttered. "I won't—!"
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
He moved forward slowly. Like a shadow crawling across the floor.
She stepped back.
"I don't even know you!"
"That will change."
"I won't do this!"
"You don't have to," he said, now only a few feet from her. "But you will."
His hand came up — slow, like he was calming a wild animal — and grazed her cheek.
She froze.
"You're trembling," he murmured. "Even your fear is beautiful."
She slapped his hand away, voice sharp. "Don't touch me!"
But he caught her wrist. Pulled her hand toward him — and kissed it.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her body stiffened.
"You are exquisite," he whispered against her skin. "Soft. Scared. Perfect."
She yanked away. "Let me go—!"
"You'll come willingly… or not at all. It makes no difference to me."
His hand slid down — her wrist, her arm, brushing her waist. She gasped, stepping back.
Her palm slammed into his chest. "I'm not yours!"
He caught her wrist again. Held it firmly.
His voice was like crushed velvet. "You will be."
His eyes burned into hers.
"In every way."
His voice echoed in her chest, deeper than it should've reached.
"You will be. In every way."
She swallowed, stepping back. "You think you can scare me into this?"
He didn't follow her.
He just smiled. "No. I won't scare you. That's not how I take things."
He gestured to the armchair behind her. "Sit."
She didn't move.
"I said sit."
She glared, jaw tightening.
He stepped forward once — just enough that his shadow kissed her toes.
Her legs gave in without meaning to. She sat.
Not because she obeyed.
But because her body wanted distance.
He lowered himself into the chair opposite her.
Then just stared.
Not a word. Not a blink.
Just… presence.
Dominance made flesh.
Scene: The Beginning of Her Undoing
Anna's fingers curled into her lap.
Her breathing was shallow. Her body tense. Her scarf had slipped slightly down one shoulder — and she reached for it, self-conscious, trying to fix it.
"Leave it," he said.
She froze.
"You don't tell me how to—"
"I will," he said, tone like silk draped over a dagger. "You'll learn."
She clenched her fists. "You don't even know me."
"I know your pulse. I know the pitch of your voice when you lie. I know how many times your eyes flicked to the door before you sat down."
He leaned forward. "You want to run again, don't you?"
She didn't answer.
"You ran last night. To the hallway. Tried your uncle's phone. Then the lock. You sat on the floor, knees pulled in, for forty-eight minutes before sleeping."
Her eyes widened.
"I know everything about you," he said, voice low. "What you wear. What you eat. What scent you wore the day I first saw you. I know you were a virgin before last week."
Her breath hitched.
"I know you don't like silence because it reminds you of how no one ever listens when you speak."
She looked away. Her throat burned.
"And I know," he said softly, "that when I touched you—here—"
He reached out slowly, deliberately, grazing his knuckles over her jaw again.
"—your thighs pressed together."
"Shut up," she whispered.
"Your breathing changed."
"Stop it—"
"And you hated that you liked it."
She stood, shaking.
"You're insane."
He stood too.
Towering.
Slow. Patient. Dangerous.
"Not insane," he said. "Obsessed."
Scene: The Line He Doesn't Cross
She backed into the wall behind her. Her chest heaved.
He didn't trap her.
He didn't reach.
He simply stood — so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.
And said:
"I won't fuck you yet."
Her eyes widened.
"I want you to beg for it."
"I won't."
"I want you to hate how badly your body betrays you."
"Go to hell."
"I want to own your defiance first. Then your moans."
"Never—"
"And then, when you think you've outlasted me…"
He leaned in, lips barely brushing her ear.
"I'll take you apart with one word."
Scene: The Final Move
He stepped back.
She was still against the wall. Her legs trembling.
He looked her up and down.
Then smiled.
"You may go."
"I live here now?" she snapped.
He tilted his head. "No, Anna."
"You don't live here."
"You exist here. For me."
And he walked out.
Leaving her body burning. Her knees weak.
And her mind is unraveling.
He didn't undress her. Didn't mark her skin. Didn't take her virginity. And yet she felt more violated… More owned… Than if he had.