His Secret Lover

{1}

Iviane Hale had been posing under the hot glare of lights for hours. The air inside the studio buzzed with the hum of equipment, the clicking of cameras, the chatter of assistants shuffling about. It was glamorous in theory, exhausting in practice.

She tilted her chin just so, lips curved into the sultry smile the photographer demanded. Her wine-red dress shimmered against the backdrop, hugging her petite, curvy frame like it had been poured onto her. The flash popped again. And again. And again.

Finally, the photographer clapped his hands. “Break time.”

Iviane sighed in relief, slipping away toward the vanity room. The click of her heels echoed in the hall, until she stepped into the quiet, dim-lit chamber. She collapsed into the velvet chair, tugging her hair free from its styling pins, letting her golden locks tumble over her shoulders like silk. For the first time that day, she exhaled without someone watching.

Then she noticed it.

The air grew heavy, the corners of the mirror darkening as if shadows themselves had thickened. At first, Iviane thought it was just her tired eyes playing tricks. But when the shadow moved—curling like smoke, alive and deliberate—her pulse jumped.

“What the—”

The smokey figure stretched upward, faceless and silent, and before Iviane could scream, it surged forward. Cold fabric smothered her face as a bag slipped over her head.

Her world went black.

---

She awoke to damp earth pressing against her back. The smell of moss and rain filled her lungs, sharp and strange. Iviane bolted upright, clutching the cloak of mist that hung thickly around her. The studio was gone. The city was gone. She was in a forest—ancient, towering trees, their trunks knotted like they had been standing for centuries. Strange silver fog curled between the branches, glowing faintly as though touched by starlight.

Her heart pounded. “No, no, no, this isn’t real.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her red dress offering no warmth. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

The silence was too deep, too vast. She began to tremble.

And then—hoofbeats.

Her head snapped toward the sound. From the mist emerged a horse, black as night, its mane tossing. Upon it sat a man, tall, broad-shouldered, with black curls brushing his temples. His emerald eyes pierced through the fog as if he could see directly into her. He dismounted in a single fluid motion, boots crunching against damp leaves.

Before she could even think to speak, steel hissed—the long blade of a sword glinting in the pale light.

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice low, commanding.

Iviane froze, staring at him. Her heart thudded wildly, but absurdity bubbled up inside her. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of some medieval epic—leather armor, cloak, sword gleaming.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said with a short laugh. “Wow. Great cosplay. Seriously, the commitment is next-level.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Cos… play?”

“You don’t know what cosplay is? Dressing up? Acting? Look, I get it, you’re method or whatever, but could you maybe put the giant sword down?”

Instead of lowering it, his gaze raked over her dress with undisguised disdain. “What are you wearing? Is this some manner of—” his lip curled, “—nightgown?”

Iviane’s cheeks flushed hot. “Excuse me? This is fashion. A designer dress. Twenty-first century style.”

His brows knit together. “Twenty-first…? You speak madness.”

“I’m the mad one? You’re the one waving a sword around like some Game of Thrones reject!”

He slid the weapon back into its sheath with a sharp snap. “Enough. I am Lyron Nightgale, Crown Prince of Avarinth.”

Iviane blinked at him. Then she snorted, covering her mouth to stifle laughter. “Oh, my God. That’s priceless. You’re really leaning into this role. Crown Prince, huh? Sure. And I’m Cinderella.”

Lyron didn’t flinch. His eyes held hers with unwavering seriousness. Finally, with a scoff, he unclasped the heavy cloak from his shoulders and tossed it at her.

“Cover yourself,” he said, turning his back. “You’re indecent.”

Her jaw dropped. “Indecent? Are you kidding me? People dress like this all the time. It’s the twenty-first century—we actually have freedom now, if you’ve heard of that.”

His head turned slightly, green eyes sharp. “You keep saying strange things. Twenty-first? Freedom? You make less sense with every word.”

Iviane hugged the cloak around her shoulders anyway—it was warm, and she was shivering. “You know what? Forget it. Just tell me where I am.”

“You’re in the royal forest, on the borders of Avarinth. The real question is why.” His tone hardened. “No ordinary woman wanders here. Are you a spy? An assassin?”

Her mouth fell open. “I’m Iviane Hale. An actress. Famous, actually. Hello? Hollywood? Do you really not know me?”

Lyron studied her like she was speaking another language.

Frustration boiled over. “Fine. Whatever. If you don’t want to help me, at least don’t leave me here alone. Please.”

He mounted his horse again, dismissive. “I warned you. This place isn’t safe. If you stay, you’ll learn that truth quickly enough.”

Her stomach dropped. “Wait! You’re seriously going to abandon me?”

He smirked faintly. “Watch me.”

“No! Please!” Her voice cracked, desperation clawing at her throat. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how I got here—just don’t leave me, okay? I’ll do anything.”

His reins stilled. Slowly, he turned his head, studying her. A glimmer of amusement touched his lips. “Anything, you say?”

Her heart skipped. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve had enough of my parents pressuring me to find a bride. If you pretend to be my lover, they’ll be appeased. It won’t last forever, but it will buy me time.”

Iviane stared, dumbstruck. “You… want me to fake-date you? Prince Cosplay Guy?”

“I don’t jest.” His voice was serious, his expression unreadable.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “This is insane. You’re insane. But fine. Whatever. I’ll play along—just until I figure out what’s going on.”

“Good.” He extended a hand.

Reluctantly, she took it, and he pulled her onto the saddle behind him. The horse shifted beneath their weight, powerful and steady.

As they rode through the mist, Iviane tried to convince herself this was still a dream, some surreal prank, maybe even an elaborate set. But her doubts crumbled as the fog thinned, revealing spires of white stone glinting like crystal in the distance.

Her breath caught. The palace rose from the horizon, vast and gleaming, towers stretching into the clouds. Bannered walls shimmered with golden light, too intricate, too immense to be fake.

Iviane’s jaw fell open. She pinched her arm hard, wincing at the sting.

“This… this can’t be real,” she whispered.

Lyron’s voice was steady as he guided the horse toward the gates. “Welcome to Avarinth.”

Her heart sank.

This wasn’t a dream.