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?