CHAPTER ONE: THE FALL OF THE PRINCESS
1273 Words
It was night, the moon shined bright, inside a popular hall in the hills, had golden chandeliers dripped light across the marble floor, violins sang in the background, and the scent of roses floated through the air like perfume. Every detail screamed money. It is Arian's eighteenth birthday today. Aria stood at the top of the staircase, the center of attention in a silver gown that hugged her curves like moonlight, and the whole world seemed to revolve around her.
“Happy birthday, baby!” one of her friends said to her, snapping a picture for her socials. Aria smiled, flipping her long curly hair over her shoulder. “Make sure you get my good side,” she teased. and her friend laughed
Everyone loved Aria, or maybe pretended to. That was what power did: it made people bow without words even if they had something in mind but wouldn't spill. Downstairs, her father’s business associates mingled with others having a glass filled with expensive champagne. Her father, Damien Wren, towered in the middle of them, laughing and smiling, the kind of man who believed wealth could hide anything.
For Aria, tonight was the proof she’d won at life because of the luxurious lifestyle. She was beautiful, rich, and adored. Nothing could ever change that.
Until it did.
Halfway through the night, a strange hush swept through the room. The violins stopped and the laughter dimmed into uneasy whispers. Aria frowned, glancing down from the balcony. Two men in black suits had just walked in not guests, not friends, but government officials.
Her father’s smile faltered.
“Daddy?” Aria called softly, but he didn’t look at her. One of the men handed him a paper the guest felt crisp and cold as the silence that followed. “Damien Wren,” the man said, “You are under investigation for financial fraud and embezzlement. You need to come with us.
The guests began to murmur. Someone gasped.
“No, there’s been a mistake,” Aria’s father said quickly, but his voice cracked. “You can’t do this here, not in front of my daughter
“Sir,” the man interrupted, “please cooperate.”
When the handcuffs clicked, Aria’s world shattered.
She ran down the stairs, her heels echoing against the marble. “Wait! You can’t take him, my father didn’t do anything!” She turned to the crowd, desperate. “Say something!”
But no one did. The same people who had toasted her father’s success only hours ago now looked away.
By the time she reached the door, her father was already gone.
The party ended in whispers.
By midnight, the mansion was quiet. The caterers had vanished, the guests had disappeared, and all that remained was the faint smell of extinguished candles and broken pride.
Aria sat in her father’s study, her silver gown wrinkled, mascara smudged under her eyes. She stared at the fireplace, but the flames offered no warmth.
Her world, the designer bags, the school reputation, the friends had crumbled in a single night.
She picked up a framed photo from the desk of her and her father smiling at the beach. “You promised me everything would always be fine,” she whispered. Her voice cracked halfway through.
“Promises,” said a deep voice behind her, “are easily broken.”
She froze.
Turning slowly, her eyes met a man she’d never seen before. Tall. Too tall. His presence filled the room before his voice did. He wore a black coat and his hair was dark as ink, his eyes silver. Not gray, not blue. Silver. They caught the firelight and seemed to pulse like liquid moonlight.
“Who are you?” Aria demanded, standing up. “This is private property.”
He smiled faintly. “Not anymore.”
His voice was calm but carried an edge that made her heart skip. He stepped closer, and the air grew colder, sharper.
“You have your father’s eyes,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. “He never told you, did he?”
“Told me what?” she asked, backing toward the desk.
“That debts don’t die easily.”
Aria frowned. “Debts? My father’s the richest man in the city
“Was,” the stranger corrected. “And every fortune is built on a promise. Some promises come with a price.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin sheet of parchment — not paper, not electronic. “Your father made a deal eighteen years ago. To save your life.”
Aria’s heart pounded. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His gaze dropped to her wrist. “You still have the mark.”
“What mark?”
Before she could react, he lifted her hand gently. His touch was ice, yet she couldn’t pull away. Under the light, faint and almost invisible, was a small crescent-shaped scar near her pulse.
Aria had always thought it was a birthmark.
“What does it mean?” she whispered.
His eyes met hers. “It means you belong to me.”
She jerked her hand back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a puzzle. “You’ll understand soon. The Moon takes what it’s owed.”
“I’m calling security,” she said, grabbing her phone — but the screen flickered and died. The lights dimmed. For a heartbeat, she could swear the shadows on the wall moved.
When she looked up, he was gone.
Only the faint scent of cold air remained — and the whisper of his words, echoing through her head.
You belong to me.
By morning, the news had spread.
Damien Wren bankrupt, arrested, and awaiting trial. Their accounts were frozen, the mansion sealed by the authorities.
Aria didn’t cry. She didn’t know how. She walked through the empty halls of her home like a ghost, touching the things that had once defined her. The piano she’d never learned to play. The mirror that had loved her reflection too much.
Everything looked smaller now. Useless.
She sat on the grand staircase, phone buzzing with messages from fake friends.Sorry, Aria. Hope you’re okay.
Can you believe it? Wren Industries gone!
Heard your dad fled the country!
She deleted them all.
When the doorbell rang, she didn’t move at first. Then came a knock firm, deliberate, like someone who already knew she would open.
Aria hesitated, then pulled the door open.
The man with silver eyes stood, dressed impeccably in black, a faint mist curling around his boots.
“Good morning, Miss Wren,” he said, voice calm. “Your father has agreed to the terms.”
“What terms?” she demanded.
He extended a hand, offering her the same glowing parchment. “Marriage.”
The world tilted. “You’re insane.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled faintly. “But debts must be paid. You will be taken care of, protected, and kept safe. Your father knew the price when he signed.”
Aria’s voice trembled. “And if I refuse?”
His silver gaze hardened, the softness fading. “Then I collect in another way.”
For a moment, the light caught his eyes, and she thought she saw something there, something ancient and lonely beneath all that power.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
He bowed slightly. “Eryndor Vale. Headmaster of Moonridge Academy.”
And with that, he turned away, leaving her with the paper that shimmered faintly in her trembling hands — and a mark on her wrist that suddenly burned.
- Writer
