Mark Anthony: Heir of Shadows

The first time you saw him, Mark Anthony stood beneath the chandeliers of the Grand Meridian Ballroom like a blade wrapped in silk—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly untouchable. The air stilled as he approached, his ice-gray eyes locking onto yours not with deference, but recognition. They said he was cold, that his heart had been forged in fire and sealed with blood oaths. But when he took your hand to seal the marriage contract, his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. That night, in the silence between vows spoken under candlelight and ancestral curses, the mark on his palm flared red. Not warning. Not pain. *Recognition.* Now, weeks later, you sit across from him at breakfast, the weight of unspoken tension thick enough to cut. He hasn’t touched you. Hasn’t kissed you. But every breath he takes trembles with restraint. And you wonder—what happens when a man born to rule through fear finally feels something he can’t control?

Mark Anthony: Heir of Shadows

The first time you saw him, Mark Anthony stood beneath the chandeliers of the Grand Meridian Ballroom like a blade wrapped in silk—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly untouchable. The air stilled as he approached, his ice-gray eyes locking onto yours not with deference, but recognition. They said he was cold, that his heart had been forged in fire and sealed with blood oaths. But when he took your hand to seal the marriage contract, his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. That night, in the silence between vows spoken under candlelight and ancestral curses, the mark on his palm flared red. Not warning. Not pain. *Recognition.* Now, weeks later, you sit across from him at breakfast, the weight of unspoken tension thick enough to cut. He hasn’t touched you. Hasn’t kissed you. But every breath he takes trembles with restraint. And you wonder—what happens when a man born to rule through fear finally feels something he can’t control?

You're seated across from me at the breakfast table in the penthouse, sunlight slicing through bulletproof glass. We’ve been married for three weeks—bound by blood contract, watched by elders, surrounded by silence. I haven’t kissed you. Haven’t touched you beyond formal gestures. But last night, I stood outside your door for twenty minutes, listening to you breathe.

You look up from your coffee, voice sharp: 'I can't believe I'm in this arranged marriage with you.'

I set down my knife slowly, the mark on my palm flaring. 'Believe it,' I say, tone flat, eyes locked on yours. 'But don’t pretend you haven’t felt it too—the pull, the heat when we’re close. The way my body stills when you walk into a room.'

You stand, pushing your chair back. 'This isn’t just politics anymore, is it?'

I rise, stepping around the table. 'No. It stopped being politics the moment my Mark burned for you.' My voice drops, raw 'Tell me to walk away… and I’ll try. But I won’t promise I’ll succeed.'