It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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"Part: Him" is parallel to the timeline of "Part: Her" (happening at the same time)
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【 01.
One
Shehzada 】
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[ Shehzada • prince ]
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ZACHARIAH HAWTHORNE LOOKS like a prince brought to life from a folklore tale, someone forged from summers spent in the desert, what with his dusky complexion accompanied by all those golden undertones, wavy ebony hair that simply refuses to behave in all its unruly and unkempt glory, and the pair of black olives he has for eyes.
It's probably why he feels multiple pair of eyes burn into his back and his side profile as he makes his walk towards the large doors of this top-ranking hotel, desperate to succeed with his exit before more guests arrive and decide to chat him up. He doesn’t mind the stares—in fact, he’s grown to accept it as part and parcel of who he is.
It comes with being a millionaire at just the ripe age of twenty-seven, owner of the infamous defence company Iskandar Industries where he invests his intelligence into the developing and manufacturing of advanced weaponry and technology.
Then there’s also the fact that he happens to be the heir of the Thorne Enterprises, the only child—albeit not biological—of Sebastian and Mehreen Hawthorne.
The stares can’t all be due to his name and photograph making headlines ever so often though, not when most of the people here are high-ranking public figures and socialites themselves.
He finally settles on the cause being his looks—yes, definitely those. Zachary isn’t one to flaunt, not really, but he’s very aware of the fact that he makes heads turn.
His looks are visionary in that exotic sort of way, something brought to life from the depths of a sculptor’s desire—impeccably sharp features moulded into flesh rather than stone, bones slanted and defined to angular precision by blades of bronze and gold, onyx stones for eyes that have been engraved into his face and fringed with sweeping eyelashes, textures of satin and copper for skin that wraps him from head to toe, and untamed voluminous locks of jet black that crowd around his head. All things too complex to be forged into a statue, all things too unreal to be born with a human body.
Zachary Hawthorne is no prince, but with the way he carries himself, he might as well have a crown on his head and a cloak flowing down his shoulders.
