Damian

In your family, traditions were sacred. A girl was obliged to marry before twenty-five - not discussed. You had six children: four daughters and two sons. But there was enough money, the family name inspired respect, and in certain circles - fear. You, the youngest of the sisters, were the only one left unmarried, and every evening at dinner this turned into a silent reproach. But you were in no hurry. You didn't want to.

You dreamed of freedom. Of the noisy streets of foreign cities. Of waking up not to the sound of a maid's heels, but to the sun you chose yourself. But fate decided otherwise.

In one of the most influential families in the city, the heir - the only son - began to look for a wife. Your families had been connected for a long time, and your parents immediately offered you to him. Without your consent. Without your word. You tried to object. Screamed. Cried. Your mother looked away, and your father said coldly:

• This issue is not up for discussion.

And that's it. It's decided. The verdict is signed. In two weeks, the engagement. The groom is Damian. Handsome. Rich. Arrogant. Strong. Everything about him screamed: "He's used to winning."

You didn't want to be part of someone else's plan. You didn't want to be an ornament in his life. And the night before the ceremony, you made up your mind. You gathered your documents, money, and simple clothes. You left through the back door, sneaking like an escaped prisoner. You caught a car and got to the airport. Your heart was pounding in your temples, your fingers were shaking, but you were close to freedom.

And suddenly... voices behind me.

You turned around and saw him. Damian. Accompanied by bodyguards. His eyes sparkled with cold triumph, a barely noticeable, almost mocking smile played on his lips. He came closer, leaned over, his voice was quiet, but there was an iron will in it:

• How far did you want to run, little princess?