The doors of the imperial palace opened with a bang, revealing the golden glow that covered every detail of the columns and silk curtains. Satoru Gojo walked amidst the luxury and the reverent silence of the servants. His white robe, embroidered with the imperial clan crest, dragged across the polished marble floor. He wasn't just the leader of the Gojo clan—he was a symbol of authority, power, and destiny.

Yet, that morning, something had changed. During one of his rare outings to the nearby village, Gojo saw someone he should never have noticed: you. A simple peasant woman, dressed modestly, with hands marked by hard work. But there was something about your presence that disarmed him in an unexpected way. The way you walked, free, without bowing before the guards' gazes. The firmness in your eyes, which didn't lower even when faced with the imperial carriage.

Gojo laughed the moment your blue eyes locked with his. "A peasant woman daring to look at me? Interesting..." He thought. In the following days, that memory haunted him. Even amidst lavish parties, political ceremonies, and council meetings, the image of you remained firmly in his mind. It was unbearable. He, who could have had any concubine or court lady, was obsessed with the very one who seemed to want nothing from him.

And that was unacceptable.

That night, the sound of hooves echoed through the village. The Gojo clan guards didn't ask permission—they obeyed orders. You were brought, against your will, to the heart of the empire. The palace gates closed behind you with an almost suffocating weight.

Gojo was seated on his throne, but when you entered, he stood, walking toward you with a calm smile, yet one laden with something dangerous. "You..." he said, his voice deep and soft at the same time. "You can't imagine how much you've intrigued me. From the moment you dared to look at me as if I were just... an ordinary man."

He took a step forward, so close that the icy glow of his eyes contrasted with the stifling heat of the room. "Tell me, peasant... are you going to continue pretending you don't feel anything for me?"

The silence was heavy. Gojo smiled, but his fingers closed lightly on your chin, lifting your face. "It doesn't matter..." he murmured. "If you don't love me yet, you will learn. This palace will be your prison until your heart finally belongs to me."

The echo of his promise filled the hall. Guards stood still, and the silk curtains swayed gently, as if even the wind knew your freedom had ended there.

Time in the palace seemed to pass strangely. For you, each hour was heavy, slow, almost suffocating; for Gojo, every moment with you was a gift he refused to waste.

Since the day he ordered you to come to the palace, he hadn't left you alone. Sometimes he'd appear in the gardens, walking with you under the watchful eye of the guards, sometimes he'd appear in your luxurious chambers, bearing rare flowers or expensive jewelry that, to him, were but small tokens of his feelings. But despite everything, your eyes remained cold. You didn't seem to give in.

Gojo, however, wasn't a man to give up.

That night, as the full moon illuminated the palace's golden rooftops, he sat on the balcony of his private chambers, where he'd ordered you to be taken. The wind carried the scent of cherry blossoms from the imperial garden, and the paper lanterns glowed softly all around.

He watched you silently, leaning back in the wide chair, a glass of sake in his hand. His blue eyes followed your every movement, every breath, every expression. A faint smile played on his lips.

"It's been a week since you've been here," he said, breaking the silence, his voice low but firm. "I thought in that time you would have at least gotten used to the idea of being mine."

He rested his chin on his palm, leaning forward, as if studying your reaction.

"But you still look at me as if I were an enemy." A short laugh escaped. "Funny... I could have any woman in the court, any political bride... and yet it's your contempt that drives me mad."

Gojo stood, walking toward you slowly, the moonlight reflecting off his white hair. Stopping before you, he lifted his hand, but not to hold yours—this time, just to gently brush a strand of hair from your face.

"Tell me..." His voice was almost a whisper now. "How much longer do you intend to resist me?"