Back to the present.
Daniel smirked as he watched the servant—Bailey, a.k.a. his mystery woman—wrestle with his thoughts after that bombshell of a request.
He knew she'd be pissed. Obviously resistant. But that was part of the fun.
He wanted to toy with her a little longer... then finally squeeze the truth out of her—preferably through sweet, breathless moans as she writhed beneath him in tormenting pleasure.
The thought alone stirred something beneath the water. Slowly rising. Growing impatient. Demanding satisfaction. And if left untamed, it would become... problematic.
"What are you still waiting for... an invitation?" he growled, voice low and dangerous.
"May I remind you—you're the one who agreed to do anything to appease me for your foolish mistake, weren't you? So why the hesitation? Going back on your word now?"
Bailey swallowed hard.
'Pervert! Ingrate! Royal jerkass! I can't believe you're such a beastly pervert!'
Then a thought struck him—
'Wait... does this mean... our dear, fearsome dragon is... gay?!'
Bailey gasped internally.
'So the rumors were true. The reason he's a deadbeat asshole who never beds women—it's not because he's celibate. It's because he's not interested in them at all. He's into his own kind. How... unexpected. And also... convenient. For my plan.'
'Or maybe... maybe he's just doing this to mess with me. To throw me off. Either way, there's only one way to find out.'
A small, mischievous smirk tugged at Bailey's lips.
"Of course not, Your Highness," Bailey replied, his voice now low and velvety smooth.
"I would never go back on my word."
He stepped closer, eyes locked on Daniel's.
"Because... my will is to serve His Highness to my... full potential."
He tilted his head slightly, wiggling his eyebrows in a mock-seductive flourish, a sly smile playing at his lips.
Still holding Daniel's gaze, he began to undress—slowly, deliberately. Fingers moving to unbutton his shirt with theatrical flair.
Daniel growled low in his throat.
'This would be so much more satisfying if she weren't wearing that damn man mask. I want to see that luscious figure beneath—not this fake muscle suit.'
Bailey caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes.
'Oh, you're uncomfortable now? This is what you wanted, you grumpy ore pervert. So sit back and enjoy the show—until your perverted little eyes are satisfied.'
He peeled off the shirt, revealing not a soft, curvaceous form—but a gleaming, muscle-framed torso.
Daniel's eyes widened in confusion. His appetite dying instantly.
'What the fuck?! Did I make a mistake that day? Did I actually fantasize about a man instead of a woman?!'
He watched, stunned, as Bailey's hands drifted toward his belt, fingers toying with the buckle in slow, seductive rhythm.
'Well, hell no. If that's the case... this scumbag is going to die a slow, painful death for fooling me. For making me feel like this. Oh, he's going to pay', Daniel growled inwardly, his crimson eyes narrowing with fury.
Bailey saw the shift in Daniel's eyes—the irritation was unmistakable, and it was quickly curdling into rage. He could feel the beast stirring beneath the surface.
'He's the one who asked me to do this, so why the fuck is he boiling in fury now? I need to get out of here before he snaps my neck', Bailey thought, fingers trembling as he slowly unbuckled his belt.
Daniel's eyes darkened to a deep, blood-red hue. The air around Bailey thickened, pressing in on him like a vice. A sharp pain—like icy needles—stabbed at his skin.
Time was running out.
'Damn it, RT. What the hell is taking you so long? I'm about to become dragon chow!'
The icy sensation deepened, biting into his flesh. Then came the heat—his chest igniting from within, as if his lungs and ribs were being scorched and frozen at the same time.
Bailey looked up.
Daniel's eyes were glowing crimson, locked on him with terrifying intensity.
'Fuck... is he doing this to me? But how? Does he have some freakish superpowers or something? RT, what the fuck is going on? Get me out of here!' he screamed internally, struggling to maintain composure. To act like everything was fine in order not to give himself away.
However.
The pain surged. His skin felt like it was being gnawed by frostbite, merciless and unrelenting.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He tried to move his hand toward the tranquilizer device hidden in his trouser pocket—but his fingers wouldn't respond. His limbs had gone numb.
Paralyzed.
His breath came in shallow gasps. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. Consciousness was slipping.
Daniel watched him closely.
He could see the struggle—the refusal to give in. The will to survive.
He admired that.
He didn't want to kill him. Not yet. He just wanted to render him powerless enough for him to get his answers from him.
Then, when he had what he needed—
He'd kill the scumbag and feed him to the vultures like the rat he was.
What stung most was the shame.
The shame of ever believing he was a woman. Of fantasizing about him.
This imposter had wrecked his mind. Toyed with his instincts.
He deserved to die.
He would die.
Bailey felt something trickle down his nose.
He didn't need to guess—it was blood.
His body was giving in to the invisible, crushing pressure inside him.
He was going to die in this room.
He was going to die without executing his revenge.
He was going to die without becoming Queen.
He was going to die without taming this monstrous, merciless beast beneath his feet.
He was going to die without delivering justice to the enemies who had taken everything.
He was going to die a pathetic death—alone, forgotten. No one would even bury him.
Then—
A voice crackled through his earpiece.
"Bailey! I finally got the Dragonfly—but you need to leave now! Do what you can and get out of there!"
RT's voice pierced the haze.
With that spark of hope, Bailey summoned every ounce of strength. Something surged inside him—raw, unfamiliar power. It begged to be released.
And then, with a voice not entirely his own automated one.
A voice powerful, feminine, and thunderous—he screamed:
"NO! NO! I AM NOT GOING TO DIE! ESPECIALLY NOT IN THE HANDS OF A PERVERT SCUMBAG LIKE YOU! RAAAR!"
The bathtub exploded.
Water erupted in a violent blast, hurling Daniel across the room. He slammed into the wall with a sickening crack.
The explosion rocked the palace, shaking its very foundations.
Water engulfed the room—first scalding hot, then freezing cold. It sliced across Daniel's skin like a million icy blades.
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears.
"Aaah... aah..." he groaned, vision blurring.
Through the haze, he saw Bailey staggering to his feet.
She reached to her chest—
Ripped something free—
And threw it to the floor.
The fake torso.
She turned to face him one last time.
And in that final moment, through the blur, Daniel saw her—
Although her face was completely blurry.
A perfect view of full, luscious breasts beneath a shimmering lining came into his line of sight.
Then she was gone.
Stumbling out as alarms blared through the palace.
And Daniel slipped into unconsciousness.
....
Bang!!
"This is preposterous!" roared King Reginald, slamming his hand on the table.
"An attack in the palace—and on the Crown Prince, no less! Who would dare do such a thing?"
It was the following day, in the royal courtroom.
The hall was filled with royal officials and ministers, summoned urgently after news of the previous night's incident had spread.
The Crown Prince had been attacked.
For some, it should have been a cause for celebration—those who secretly wished him dead.
But it wasn't.
Because no one knew who the attacker was.
And that meant the tables could turn at any moment. Anyone could become a suspect. Anyone could be next.
The ministers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Discomfort thickened the air. No one dared speak, lest suspicion fall on them.
Silence reigned.
Until—
"Your Majesty, if I may."
A voice rang out from the King's side.
It was his uncle, Lord Archford Devonte. He stood tall and composed, dressed in a commanding red-and-black regal suit. A golden royal brooch gleamed on his chest.
As the eldest member of the royal family and Supreme Minister of Royal State Affairs, his presence carried weight.
"Yes, Uncle. You may speak," Reginald replied.
Archford nodded once, then descended from the dais, stepping onto the courtroom floor to face the ministers directly.
"I see that all of you have chosen silence over clarity in this matter," Archford said, his voice calm but cutting.
"Don't tell me... that all of you are responsible for the attack last night."
Immediately the courtroom erupted in murmurs of denial.
Archford raised a single hand.
Silence fell instantly.
"The Bridal Selection is in three days," he continued, voice echoing through the chamber.
"If such an incident occurs so close to such a pivotal event... one must wonder—could this be sabotage? A calculated attempt to shake the kingdom? To instill fear for the safety of the future Crown Princess? To provoke unrest and calls for the event's cancellation? To leave our kingdom without a queen... and cast doubt on the Crown Prince's fitness to rule as the next King....?"
He let the words hang in the air, his gaze sweeping across the room like a blade.
Tension spiked.
Ministers shifted in their seats. Some dabbed their brows with handkerchiefs. Others avoided his eyes.
Archford's words had struck a nerve.
And now, the guilty weren't sure if he knew something about them—or was simply fishing.
Archford smirked to himself.
'Hot, isn't it? Well... it's about to get hotter. Just you wait.'
"My Lord, if I may speak."
A voice rang out from the benches.
It was an elderly man—Lord Bishop Freeman, Minister of Rites. A loyal servant of the Crown for decades.
King Reginald nodded.
"I believe and understand that the incident at the palace last night was unanticipated," Lord Freeman began, his voice steady and grave.
"It was sudden—unthinkable. Even I can scarcely believe someone dared to commit such a preposterous act against our Crown Prince. Whoever they are, they must be punished severely for treason. No forgiveness. No leniency. An attack on the Crown Prince is an attack on the King himself—and on the kingdom."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the courtroom.
King Reginald shifted slightly in his seat.
He didn't like his beastly son. In fact, he doubted Daniel was even his biological child. He would've been thrilled to see him fall—
and finally make his son Eric the Crown Prince and future ruler.
But regrettably.
He still needed Daniel. Alive.
As much as he hated to admit it, Daniel was more fit to become the next King than Eric. Eric was weak and also Esmerelda's pawn. There was no way in hell he was going to let King Damascus Bontly's daughter take control of his kingdom. No way.
He would rather support his beastly supposed son than her.
He sighed and turned his attention back to the courtroom.
"However," Lord Freeman continued, "my suggestion is this: we investigate thoroughly to uncover those behind the attack. But in the meantime, the Bridal Selection must proceed. Its continuation will reassure the people that the future Crown Princess is safe—and that the Crown is in control to ensure her safety."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"And if—if—these traitors dare to strike again..."
His gaze swept the room, sharp and unflinching.
"Your Majesty, I urge you: do not hesitate to place all of us under scrutiny. Every minister, every official in this room—subject us to investigation and interrogation until the culprits are found and brought to justice."
The courtroom erupted.
Ministers shifted wildly in their seats. Those with secrets—whether guilty or not—felt the walls closing in. Panic bloomed behind composed faces.
Because they didn't know who the attacker was.
And worse—if another attack was coming.
Even if they weren't involved, their secrets could still be exposed.
And what terrified them most?
The Dragonflies.
The ruthless, heartless enforcers rumored to be under the Crown's direct command. If they were unleashed... no one would be safe.
The ministers shivered in their boots.
They were done for.
Archford watched them squirm, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth.
'The heat has now been turned higher. And I can't wait to watch you scumbags burn.'
He turned to the King.
"My King. What is your answer to this proposition? Is it acceptable?"
Reginald met his uncle's gaze.
He saw the game. Saw the trap being laid.
And he didn't care.
If it wiped out the venomous snakes threatening his son's throne—and his own legacy—so be it.
"What has been said... is what shall be done. So be it."
A servant stepped forward, presenting a parchment.
Reginald dipped his signet ring into bold red ink and stamped it with finality.
It was sealed.
...
"What!!"
Esmerelda yelped, springing from her seat.
"The King is going to investigate and interrogate everyone if that beastly son of his is attacked again? How preposterous!"
Across from her sat a man with short, wavy black hair, small round eyes, a sharp nose, and plush lips. He wore a navy-blue suit adorned with a crimson brooch—marking him as a royal minister.
He held a teacup in one hand, swirling its contents slowly.
"Well... that's how things are going to be," he said, taking a sip—calm, unbothered.
Which only irritated Esmerelda more.
"Oh, what the hell, Ezekiel!" she snapped.
"Why are you so calm at a time like this? If the King investigates us, he'll uncover everything—our plans, our alliances. He'll ruin everything!"
She growled in frustration and collapsed back into her seat.
"I gave birth to his perfect children. I thought he'd favor me—make Eric the Crown Prince so we could control the throne. But now he's backing Monalisa's beastly son? Unbelievable!"
Ezekiel drained the last of his tea, then sighed and turned to face her.
"You should learn to calm down, cousin-sister. If you let emotions rule you, all will be lost."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Besides... this only proves you need to do a better job of wrapping him around your finger. Uncle is growing impatient. His desire to conquer this kingdom—and the world—is growing stronger by the day."
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper.
"It won't be long before he finds... a replacement."
Esmerelda froze.
Ezekiel smirked.
"Think about it carefully. Try your best not to disappoint—otherwise, things will turn for the worse, not better."
He stood, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate ease.
"Redeem yourself by finding something that will turn the heat higher. You know what I mean. Otherwise, your useless son will end up as nothing more than a rag at the threshold."
Esmerelda's hands clenched around her gown until her knuckles turned white.
Ezekiel paused at the door.
"So... make sure we all get what we need. Or it will be..."
He leaned in, voice low but sharp.
"Erisa."
Then he opened the door and exited, leaving silence—and fury—in his wake.
Esmerelda stared at the door, her body trembling.
Without warning, she seized the teacup and hurled it across the room.
"Aaah!!!" she screamed.
"You're going to regret underestimating me, Ezekiel Slovak! You will regret this!"
She roared, her face contorted with rage.
"You want me to turn the heat up? I'll burn the whole damn palace down if I have to. Just you watch. Or my name isn't Esmerelda Gabriella Bontly!"
A wicked smirk curled her lips as her eyes blazed with fire.
She was going to make it burn.
And she couldn't wait for the chaos.