The morning began with an oppressive, ringing silence. The high, lancet windows of the dining hall admitted only a scant gray light, which drowned in the dark wood of the walls and the heavy tapestries depicting cruel hunting scenes.

  Gathered around the long dark oak table in the gloomy dining room were the inhabitants of the estate: Marquis Garrick Hawke at the head; Amelia, pale but straight-backed; and the younger half of his numerous progeny.

  The Marquis’s older daughters had long since left this house, having married well, so a stifling hierarchy of those remaining now reigned at the table. Twenty-one-year-old Tristan, the eldest son and primary heir, stared gloomily at his plate. Around him sat his younger brothers and sisters—ranging from teenagers down to a six-year-old girl who seemed afraid to even breathe. The only sound was the distinct, aggressive clatter of the Marquis's knife and fork against the porcelain plate.

  Amelia, seated at her husband's right hand, felt the food stick in her throat. She took a sip of water and realized she couldn't even taste it. Marquis Hawke finished his meat, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and swept his heavy, mocking gaze over his children. His eyes settled on Tristan.

  "Well, heir?" his voice rasped like an ungreased hinge. "Did you enjoy my little joke at the ball? Thought the Princess was yours?" He let out a dry, barking laugh. "I am teaching you the most important rule, boy: in this house, the prey always belongs to the alpha of the pack. Remember that."

  Tristan, sitting opposite, flushed to the roots of his hair. He sat with his head bowed low, and Amelia could see the muscles in his jaw working.

  He’s not just humiliating him, she thought with cold disgust. He’s enjoying it. He is breaking his will in front of everyone so that no one else dares to make a peep. Classic middle-management tyrant tactics. I saw plenty of those in my past life.

  This thought gave her resolve. She had no intention of becoming just another silent, cowed statue at this table. She had to test the length of her chain. Amelia neatly dabbed her lips with her napkin and let out a light, elegant sigh, befitting a young lady weary of a boring breakfast.

  "Thank you for breakfast, Milord, but I am full," her voice sounded surprisingly steady and melodic. "I plan to take a walk. I’m thinking of going into the city; I need to buy a few trinkets for my new chambers."

  The Marquis stopped chewing. He slowly placed his knife and fork on the plate. The sound of silverware hitting porcelain rang out in the silence like a hammer blow. He turned his head toward her, and a predatory curiosity appeared in his eyes, as if a mouse he had cornered had suddenly decided to argue with the cat.

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  "No."

  The word fell onto the table like a block of ice. He held the pause, savoring the effect produced.

  "If you need something," he continued slowly, as if explaining to an unreasonable child, "I will order the capital's best merchants to come to the estate. From now on, you do not leave these walls without my personal permission. And today, I do not give it."

  The expression of submission was wiped from Amelia's face as if it had never been there. She straightened up, measuring him with a cold, appraising look. Years spent in the body of Kim Bok-hee had taught her not to back down before a petty tyrant boss.

  "I am the daughter of the King of this country, a Princess of the Blood. I am not your prisoner, and I do not need permission to visit a few shops!"

  The Marquis didn't even dignify her with an answer. He looked past her at the two guards wearing the Hawke crest standing by the massive doors, and gave a lazy, barely perceptible nod.

  The guards moved toward her, synchronized and emotionless, two statues coming to life. Amelia sprang to her feet, knocking over her chair. The shock that someone would dare use force against her mixed with rage.

  "Don't you dare touch me! I am a Princess!"

  One of the guards grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. Years of training with Leon kicked in: she instinctively twisted away, her elbow slamming into the guard's steel breastplate with a dull thud. But it was like punching a wall. The second guard grabbed her other arm, and ignoring her screams and furious resistance, they hauled her out of the hall.

  She managed to cast one last, desperate look at the table. The Marquis's younger children were pressed into their chairs, heads down. Tristan's face was twisted in a grimace of impotent rage and shame. He didn't dare move.

  She was dragged down a long, dark corridor to her chambers. The heavy oak door slammed shut. Outside, the key turned in the lock with a grinding sound.

  That sound was the final sentence.

  A week passed. A week of humiliating isolation. Amelia's life turned into the routine of a high-ranking prisoner. Food was brought to her under the watchful eye of the guard, who stood silently in the doorway while she ate. The only person allowed to see her was Clara. But even she was thoroughly searched upon entry and exit every time to ensure she wasn't smuggling anything forbidden.

  On the eighth day, the Marquis's secretary appeared. He entered without knocking, his face impenetrable.

  "The Marquis wishes to see you in his chambers. Tonight," he announced in an indifferent tone.

  The week spent in rage and contemplation had given Amelia strength. She stood up; her small stature seemed irrelevant before the cold fury burning in her eyes.

  "Tell your master that I do not forgive his behavior," she articulated clearly. "And that I refuse to meet with him."

  The secretary didn't even blink.

  "The Marquis's orders are not up for discussion, Your Highness," he replied with a slight, almost mocking emphasis on the title, and bowing, he left.

  Evening came. Amelia, dressed in a simple day gown, sat in an armchair with a book, demonstrating defiance with her entire being. She wasn't going anywhere. Clara paced the room nervously, glancing at the door every now and then.

  When the clock struck ten, the door didn't open—it was thrown open with a crash. The same two guards burst into the room. They said not a word. They simply walked straight toward her.

  "Don't touch me!" Amelia shouted, jumping up, but her words were empty sound.

  They grabbed her again, and this time their grip was even harsher, leaving not a single chance for resistance. Clara screamed in horror, but one of the guards shoved her aside.

  Amelia was forcibly dragged from her room through the dark corridors, straight to the bedroom of her hated husband.