I paused to look at Zayn again
oh my goodness.....
If someone had told me years ago that I would marry a prince, I would've laughed. Not out of disbelief, but because nothing in my life ever pointed toward crowns, palaces, or fairy-tale endings.
Yet here I was—wrapped in the warmth of Zayn Montclair's world, a world I entered not because of fate… but because of him.
After breakfast, Zayn slipped on a crisp white shirt, half-buttoned, revealing the faint sculpted line of his chest. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him fix his cuffs with the quiet precision only royalty could have.
"How are you this handsome so early in the morning?" I asked.
He smirked. "It's the burden of being me."
I threw a pillow at him, and he dodged effortlessly, laughter rumbling from his chest. Then he walked toward me—slow, confident—and lifted my chin gently.
"You're staring," he teased.
"You're worth staring at," I replied.
For a moment, the world stilled. His thumb brushed my jawline, slow and deliberate. "Maya…" he whispered, "you have no idea how long I waited for mornings like this."
He sat beside me, and his silence shifted—becoming thoughtful. Almost nostalgic.
"Do you remember the day we met?" he asked.
Of course I did. I remembered everything.
---
I had been working at the old art museum downtown. A small place, always smelling of dusty books, oil paint, and quiet dreams. I was arranging newly donated paintings when the doors opened—and in walked a man so breathtakingly composed I nearly dropped a frame.
A white shirt. Black slacks. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. No guards. No entourage. No crown. Just a man who looked like he had stepped out of a magazine and accidentally into my life.
I didn't recognize him at first—not until I noticed the identical twin portraits displayed near the entrance.
His portrait.
And the portrait of his twin brother, Azael.
He caught me staring and raised a brow. "If the painting is more handsome than the real person, tell me now. My ego is fragile."
I gasped, embarrassed, but he only chuckled—deep and warm.
That was the first day I saw the softness behind the prince.
The gentleness behind the sharp jaw and powerful name.
The loneliness behind the royalty.
We talked for almost two hours about art, travel, dreams, and things he said he'd never shared with anyone outside the palace.
And when he left, he turned back and said—
"I hope this is not the last time I see you."
It wasn't.
He made sure of it.
Zayn returned the next day… and the day after… and then asked me out with a smile that made my heartbeat stumble.
---
I snapped back to the present as Zayn finished tying his belt, glancing at me with that same heart-shaking gaze.
"You loved me before you even knew my title," he said softly.
"I loved you because of your heart," I replied. "Not the crown."
He leaned in and kissed my forehead. "And that's exactly why I chose you."
We stood facing each other—in the golden-lit royal suite, surrounded by memories—when a knock echoed sharply through the room.
Zayn frowned.
I froze.
No one knocked this early unless it was urgent.
A palace guard bowed at the doorway.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "Prince Azael has requested your presence. He says it's… important."
Zayn's expression changed—subtle, unreadable, but serious.
He took my hand gently. "I'll be back soon, love."
But as he walked away with the guard, something in my chest tightened.
Azael never requested anything.
Not personally.
Not urgently.
And never involving me.
The door closed.
The sudden silence felt heavy… too heavy.
That was when I realized:
Something was coming.
Something that could tilt our perfect world.
And it had already begun.