My Choices World

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Emilia lay on her side, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, the fine silk of her chemise bunched around her. She was the Princess of Cordonia, a woman who had been groomed since birth to remain composed under the scrutiny of the entire court, and one day she would do the same in front of the entire nation, yet here she was, reduced to a trembling mess of salt and sorrow.

A single, hot tear tracked slowly down the bridge of her nose, soaking into the pillowcase. Then another followed.

Her mind was a traitor, dragging her back to the image of him in the moonlight. He had looked at her like she was something poisonous. That was the thought that broke her over and over again. She had seen him look at her with fire, with laughter, and with a raw, protective tenderness that made her feel more alive than she had in her entire life. But last night... last night he had looked at her as if she were a monster from a fairy tale.

I love him, she thought, the reality hitting her with the force of a physical blow.

It felt absurd, even to her. She had known him for such a short amount of time. And yet, as she thought of the parade of suitors her parents had marched before her—the dukes with their practiced smiles, the Lords with their stale jokes and inherited arrogance—they all blurred into a grey, indistinguishable fog. They were hollow men, obsessed with lineage and decorum.

Drake was the opposite of hollow. He was raw. He was feral in the most beautiful sense of the word—untamed, honest, and fierce. He was the smell of cedarwood and tobacco; he was the callus on a thumb brushing her cheek; he was the low, gravelly laugh that made her skin prickle. He was powerful enough to break things, yet he had been so impossibly gentle with her.

A sob wrenched itself from her chest, a jagged, ugly sound that she stifled against the back of her hand. The guilt was a suffocating weight. She had lied to the only person who had ever truly seen her, not the crown she wore. She had walked into his world, worked her way into his heart, and then shattered it with a secret she had been too cowardly to share.

"I’m so sorry," she whispered into the empty, opulent room. Her voice was thin and cracked. "Drake, please..."

She would give it all up. She knew it with a clarity that frightened her. She would walk away from the Palace, the jewels, the balls, and the expectations. She would scrub floors, live in the stables, and sleep on straw if it meant he would look at her with that warmth again. But the memory of his cold, shuttered eyes told her that the bridge wasn't just burned—it was gone.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ornate carvings on the bed’s canopy, her chest aching with a pressure so intense she thought her ribs might actually snap. She wasn't a Princess today. She was just a girl who had found everything she ever wanted, only to realize she was the villain in her own story.

Just then, the heavy oak door creaked on its hinges, a sound that felt like a thunderclap in the oppressive silence of the room. Soft, rhythmic footsteps, muffled by the thick Persian rugs, approached the bed.

"Your Highness?" Rose’s voice was a tentative whisper, carrying the familiar scent of lavender and laundry starch. "You haven’t touched your breakfast."

Emilia didn’t answer. She remained a motionless statue under the silk sheets; her eyes fixed on a singular loose thread in the velvet hangings of her canopy. Rose moved closer, the soft rustle of her apron the only sound in the room. As the shadow of her maid fell across the bed, Emilia finally shifted, rolling onto her side to face away, pulling the duvet tighter around her shoulders.

"I want to be alone, Rose," she croaked, her voice raw and jagged from a night spent weeping.

A soft sigh escaped Rose. Instead of retreating as protocol demanded, she did something that would have horrified the Head Housekeeper. She walked around to the side of the bed Emilia was facing and sank onto the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under her weight, the springs groaning softly. Slowly, Rose reached out and placed her hand over Emilia’s trembling fingers.

It was a bold breach of protocol, a blurring of the lines between servant and sovereign, but they had known each other since they were children—since the days when Rose’s own mother was a servant in the royal household and they had shared secrets in the corridors. To Rose, the woman in the bed wasn't a crown or a title; she was a friend.

Emilia didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her palm upward, gripping Rose’s hand with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity. The warmth of Rose’s skin was the first thing that hadn't felt like ice to Emilia in hours.

"Lady Olivia told me what happened, Emilia," Rose said softly, her thumb tracing comforting circles over Emilia's knuckles. "I'm so sorry."

Emilia offered a weak, ghost of a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks."

"Is there anything I can do?" Rose asked, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.

Emilia shook her head, a stray lock of golden hair falling over her tear-stained face. "Not unless you can turn back time and have me tell him the truth from the start."

"I can’t do that," Rose admitted, her voice steady and grounding. "But... I can give you some advice? If you would like to hear it."

Emilia gave a small shrug, the silk of her chemise whispering against the sheets. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

"You need to talk to him, Emilia," Rose said firmly.

"He doesn't want to see me," Emilia countered, her voice rising with a fresh wave of panic. "He told me not to talk to him again. He looked at me with such... such hate, Rose. I've never seen him like that."

"He’s angry," Rose said, undeterred by the princess's protest. "But if you go to him, if you explain—"

"I tried! He wouldn't listen," Emilia cried out, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "He thinks I used him. He thinks I see him as nothing more than a cheap thrill I can gossip about with my friends at court."

Rose leaned in closer, her eyes bright with conviction. "Then you need to find a way to make him see that you don't think of him like that. You need to show him what you see when you look at him. You need to fight for him, Emilia."

Emilia looked up at Rose, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy from the salt of her tears. "How? He won’t see me. If I go to the stables, he’ll just walk away. And I can’t bear it... I can’t bear to see him look at me again the way he did last night. It feels like my ribs are snapping."

She began to sob again, a small, broken sound that seemed to fill the vast room. Rose reached out, gently smoothing Emilia’s hair back from her forehead. "Shh. It’s okay, Emilia. If you don’t feel up to going in person, you could write him a letter? I would happily take it to him for you."

Emilia blinked, her lashes spiked with tears as she looked at her friend. "You would?"

"Of course," Rose smiled, her voice softening with affection. "I was being truthful when I told you both that it’s clear you make each other happy. I can’t believe that a title can change that."

"But I lied, he’s lost his trust in me," Emilia whispered, the guilt visible in her gaze.

"You lied so he could get to know the real you, and he did, didn't he? He will come to realize that, I'm sure of it. You’re still you, Emilia." Rose reached out and gently pressed her fingertips to the centre of Emilia’s chest, over her heart. "A royal title doesn’t change who you are in here. And I happen to know that you are an amazing person. You’re not like the others at court. You’re kind, you’re caring... you don't see people for their status, you see them for their hearts. Drake will see that again. Trust me."

Emilia let out a long, shaky breath, the suffocating pressure in her chest easing just a fraction. "I hope so."

"He will," Rose insisted. She stood up, the mattress rising as she moved, and crossed over to the ornate writing desk in the corner. The morning sun was just beginning to hit the polished wood. She pulled out a sheet of heavy, cream parchment and a pen. "Now come on. Write to him. I'll take it to him the moment the ink is dry."

Emilia sat up, pushing the heavy blankets aside and letting her feet hit the cold floor. For the first time since the moon had set, she felt a spark of something other than despair. "Okay."

*****

The air in the stables was thick with the scent of damp straw, horse sweat, and the sharp, ammonia tang of manure. It was a grounding smell, usually, but today it felt suffocating, like the walls were leaning in. Drake swung the pitchfork with a rhythmic, violent intensity, the muscles in his back bunching and straining against his damp shirt. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flickering light of the fireflies reflecting in Emilia’s wide, tear-filled eyes. He saw a girl he thought he knew, and the ghost of a lie that had shattered everything.

He felt a hot prickle of shame behind his eyelids. He shouldn't have blown up like that—the memory of his own voice thundering in that small, quiet space made him wince. But then the hurt would return, sharp and cold, slicing through the guilt. She lied. Every touch, every whispered word in the moonlight, was now tainted by the shadow of her crown.

Why the hell would a princess be interested in me? he thought, stabbing the pitchfork into a pile of soiled bedding with enough force to jar his shoulders. She could have anyone—a Duke with a thousand acres, a Prince with a silken tongue and a bloodline that stretched back to the dawn of a kingdom. Why would she ever choose a man who smelled of horses and worked for his bread? He was a novelty. A "cheap thrill," just like he’d said. A story for her to tell her high-born friends over tea once she’d grown bored of playing commoner. It was the only explanation that made sense.

The heavy thud of boots on the dirt floor announced company. He didn't look up, afraid that if he stopped moving, the weight in his chest would finally crush him.

"Drake, mate," Max said softly. Leo was beside him, both of them leaning against the wooden post of the stall. "How are you holding up?"

"How the hell do you think?" Drake’s voice was a low growl. He didn't break his rhythm, tossing a heavy heap of straw into the wheelbarrow with a grunt of effort.

Leo stepped closer, his expression guarded. "Drake, listen. You need to talk to her."

"What for?" Drake snapped, finally stopping to lean against the pitchfork. His face was slick with sweat; his hair plastered to his forehead. "So she can make a fool out of me again? I think once was enough, don't you?"

"I don't think she was trying to make a fool out of you," Max offered gently.

"Yeah, well, she managed it anyway," Drake spat. He turned back to the stall, his movements jerky and agitated.

"Did she, though?" Leo challenged, his voice steady. "Because from where I’m standing, all she did was try to get to know you without that title hanging over her head. She wanted you to know her—not the Princess, not her status. Just the girl."

Drake let out a harsh, jagged laugh that sounded more like a bark. "She is her status! She’s the Princess of this whole goddamn country, Leo! She’s going to be fucking Queen one day." He pointed a shaking finger toward the main estate visible through the stable doors. "Girls like that do not end up with guys like me. They don't marry the help. Trust me, I know how this story ends. I've read the script."

"I think you’re wrong," Max said, stepping forward. "You should’ve seen her last night after you left. She was devastated, Drake. She even mentioned abdication. She was ready to throw it all away."

"Yeah, right. Of course she did.” Drake scoffed, though the word 'abdication' sent a strange, painful jolt through his chest—a spark of hope he immediately tried to smother. "It's easy to say things like that when you're caught. It’s a performance."

"She meant it, Drake," Leo insisted.

"I don't believe it!" Drake roared, the sound echoing off the rafters and making a nearby stallion shift uneasily in its stall. "She didn't mean it. It’s just another lie. Girls like her... they make promises and then go back on them the minute things get hard. The minute they realize what they’re actually giving up—the silk, the gold, the power—they realize a stable hand isn't worth the sacrifice. We’re nothing to them. Just servants who wait on them hand and foot. Dirty little secrets they keep until they’re ready to marry a 'real' man. That’s all we’ll ever be."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic chewing of the horses. Drake’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Tears welled in his eyes, born of a mixture of fury and a bone-deep, ancient sadness. He wasn't just fighting with Emilia; he was fighting a war against a destiny he was certain was already written in his blood.

Leo watched him for a long moment, his eyes softening with a realization that made his heart ache for his friend. "This is about what happened with your dad, isn't it? You're seeing him every time you think about who she really is."

Drake stiffened as if he’d been struck, his knuckles white as he gripped the pitchfork. "No. It has nothing to do with that."

"What happened with your dad?" Max asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Nothing!" Drake shouted, his voice cracking. He dropped the pitchfork; it clattered loudly against the stone, a sound like a gunshot in the quiet stable. "Just leave it, okay? Both of you! Just leave me the hell alone!"

He stormed away, his boots heavy and desperate on the floor, and disappeared into the back office, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled in its frame.

Max and Leo stood in the dusty light of the stable, the silence pressing in on them. Max finally turned to Leo. "What happened with Jackson? I thought he and Bianca were... I thought they were happy."

"They were,” Leo sighed, leaning his back against the stall door and looking up at the rafters where the swallows nested. "But before Drake was born... before Jackson and Bianca ever met... Jackson worked security for a noble family in Valtoria. He was young, new to the role, and he was assigned to guard the daughter of the house. A lady of high standing."

Max listened, rapt, as Leo continued.

"They got close. At first, it was just talking, then walks in the garden, but eventually it became more than that. They fell in love, Max. Properly in love. This woman... she told Jackson she wanted to be with him forever. She promised him the world. But she said they had to keep their relationship a secret to avoid a scandal. She told him that when the time was right, she’d tell her family. She even talked about marriage. She made him believe he was enough."

"And?" Max whispered.

"And when the time came... when a 'proper' suitor appeared... she chose the status. She chose a man of wealth, a man of power. Someone with the right connections and the right breeding. She cast Jackson aside like he was yesterday's trash. It broke him, Max. It nearly destroyed him. He spent a long time wondering what was wrong with him, why he wasn't worth the sacrifice. Until he met Bianca, at least."

"How do you know all this?"

"Drake told me. When he turned eighteen, Bianca gave him some of Jackson’s belongings—some clothes, a watch, and some old journals. He read it all, Max. Every word of the agony his father went through. The betrayal. He saw the way his father’s handwriting trailed off into nothing when he wrote about her leaving. He saw the man Jackson became because of that heartbreak." Leo looked toward the closed office door, where the sound of a muffled chair scraping against the floor could be heard. "He’s not just angry at Emilia. He’s terrified. He thinks he's staring down the barrel of the same gun that killed his father’s spirit. He’s building these walls to protect himself from the same ghost that haunted Jackson."

"Oh god," Max murmured, looking at the door with new eyes. "Poor Drake... he thinks it’s inevitable."

"Yeah," Leo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He already had so much distrust of the nobility, after what happened with Bianca when Jackson died. Not to mention the way some of them have treated him over recent years. But after he found out that Jackson was thrown away like he was worthless, by someone who proclaimed to be in love with him no less, well it only made Drakes distrust more pronounced. And now this with Em… he’s waiting for the floor to fall out from under him because that’s the only story he knows."

"But... what if Emilia isn't like that woman?" Max asked. "What if she was telling the truth last night? She said she loves him. I don't know about you, but when she said she would give it all up to be with him… I believed her."

Leo looked out toward the manor, the sun glinting off the high windows. "So did I, Max. So did I."

*****

The office door hadn't been closed for more than ten minutes when the silhouette of a woman appeared in the sprawling, dust-moted light of the stable entrance. Rose stood there, her simple servant's dress a sharp contrast to the grand manor looming behind her in the distance. She looked small against the vastness of the timber beams, but her expression was resolute.

"I'm looking for Drake," she said, her voice clear despite the nervous way she twisted her apron.

Leo straightened up from the stall, wiping his hands on a rag. He shared a look with Max—a silent communication of shared dread—before nodding toward the back office. "I'll get him. But Rose... be careful. He's in a bad way."

A moment later, the office door creaked open. Drake stepped out, and even Rose flinched slightly at the sight of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, the whites mapped with broken veins from lack of sleep and salt. He looked like hell—exhausted, vibrating with a high-strung tension, his hair a wild mess of sweat and straw.

Rose offered a small, sympathetic smile, her heart aching for the raw pain written across his face. "Drake—"

"What?" Drake snapped, the word landing like a lash. He didn't move toward her, staying rooted by the office door. "Come to tell me more lies about your friend 'Em' from the city? Come to help her keep the charade going?"

Rose didn't flinch this time. She took a step into the stable, the smell of the horses and the rhythmic sound of their breathing filling the silence. "No. And for the record, that wasn’t a lie. She is my friend. And she is from the city."

"Your friend?" Drake let out a hollow, mocking sound. "Yeah, right. Since when do servants become friends with royalty? Since when does the crown have tea with the help?"

"Maybe not ordinarily," Rose countered, her voice gaining strength. "But I think we both know that Emilia is far from ordinary. She’s nothing like the rest of the court, Drake. I’ve known her a long time—longer than I’ve known anyone else in the palace—and she is the only person in that entire place who treats me and the rest of the staff like actual people. She treats us like equals. She doesn’t look at us and see 'the help'; she sees us for who we are as human beings. She sees our souls, not our uniforms."

Drake scoffed, turning his head away, but his jaw was tight.

"I’m serious, Drake," Rose insisted, stepping closer until she was just a few feet away. "She’s one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. She asks for my opinion while others don’t even notice I’m in the room. She helps me when I’m overwhelmed. She’s kind. She listens. Hell, she treats me more like a member of her own family than she does a servant. And I hate seeing her like this."

The bravado in Drake’s shoulders flickered. "Like what?"

"Heartbroken," Rose said softly.

The word hung in the heavy, ammonia-scented air like a physical weight. Drake’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the dirt floor. "Right... sure. Heartbroken. I'm sure it's a tragedy in her opulent suite."

Rose stepped right into his space, her presence demanding he look at her. "She asked me to bring you something." From the pocket of her dress, she pulled out a folded piece of thick, cream-colored parchment. "She’s sorry, Drake. She wishes she could go back and change how it happened. But she can’t. She just wants you to forgive her. She wants you to see her for her. The girl you know? The one who laughed at your jokes and rode on the back of your motorcycle? That’s really her, Drake. I promise you that on my life. Don’t punish her—and don’t punish yourself—because of a title she’s stuck with and never truly wanted."

Drake remained silent, his breath hitching in his chest. Rose could see the armour cracking; his eyes were shimmering with a fresh layer of moisture, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He took the paper from her, his fingers brushing the expensive grain of the parchment.

"Is that all?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Rose nodded. "Just promise me you won’t throw away what you two have. I wasn’t lying when I told you I’ve never seen her look so happy as she has since she met you. You mean everything to her. It’s written all over her face every time your name is mentioned."

Drake gave a stiff, jerky nod. He didn't say another word as he turned back into the office. The click of the door latch felt final.

Inside the small, cramped room, the only light came from a single grime-streaked window. Drake sat heavily in the wooden chair, the parchment feeling like a hot coal in his hand. With trembling fingers, he unfolded it.

Dear Drake, the elegant script began, though the ink was slightly smudged in places, as if a drop of water—or a tear—had fallen on it.

I am so sorry for not telling you the truth. I just wanted you to see me—the real me—not the title I was born into. The girl you met and got to know, that is the real me. The princess part... that is the performance. I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, because I don't want to lose you. You were never just a chance for me to "rough it." You are everything. Like I said at the lake, I see you, Drake. Every wonderful part of you.

As he reached the bottom of the note, something else slid out from the fold. It was a sketch.

He recognized it instantly. It was the drawing Emilia had done of him down by the lake. She had captured him in a moment of quiet thought, his eyes focused on the water, the rugged lines of his face softened by the evening light. He remembered how he had felt in that moment—more seen, more understood, than he had ever felt in his life.

A sob broke from his throat, jagged and painful. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands as the tears finally came in a flood. He missed her. He missed the girl he had grown to love with a ferocity that terrified him.

But as he sobbed, the image of his father’s journal flashed behind his eyelids. He saw the faded ink where Jackson had written about his own "Lady of the House." He remembered the passage about the promises she had made—promises to tell her family, promises of a life together. Promises that had vanished the moment a "real" man appeared. 

If we were together, she would never admit to it openly, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and cynical. She would keep you her dirty little secret until she found someone better. Just like what happened with dad.

She’s destined for a crown, the voice continued. And you’re just the man who shovels the waste of the horses she rides. He looked at the sketch again, the beautiful, delicate lines representing a hope he wasn't sure he was allowed to keep. Could he even trust that she existed? Or was he just another Jackson, waiting for the day the silk and gold called her back home, leaving him alone and heartbroken in the dirt?

Drake was propped up on one elbow, his silhouette a dark outline against the morning glow. The anxious, guarded expression he had worn for weeks had completely dissolved. In its place was a look of such profound, raw tenderness that it made Emilia’s breath hitch. He was simply watching her, his thumb tracing idle, ghost-light circles on the soft curve of her shoulder, his touch barely a whisper against her skin.

"Morning," she whispered, her voice husky and low. She offered him a sleepy, wide smile, the kind that felt like a secret shared in the dark. "You look happy."

Drake let out a low, breathy laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I am. To be honest, I’m just checking to make sure last night wasn’t a dream. I’ve spent so many nights over the past few months imagining this that I half-expected to wake up and find the room empty." He reached out, his fingers tangling in a stray, silk-soft lock of her hair. "I can’t tell you how happy I am to have woken up this morning with you actually here."

The vulnerability in his voice pierced through her. Emilia shifted closer, the friction of the sheets loud in the stillness of the morning. She reached up, cupping his jaw with her palm, her thumb stroking the slight, sandpaper rasp of his morning stubble.

"I’m not going anywhere, Drake," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m coming home with you—today. I want to be with you, properly. No more denying feelings, no more 'what-ifs'."

Drake’s gaze intensified, a mixture of relief and adoration burning in his eyes. He leaned down, his movement slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn't the frantic, desperate hunger of the night before; it was tender and reverent, a silent vow exchanged in the safety of the morning light.

When he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, the bubble of peace was pricked by the looming reality of the day. Emilia took a shaky breath, the scent of his skin—salt and warmth—filling her lungs.

"First, though... I need to tell Liam," she murmured, her heart beginning a nervous, rhythmic thud against her ribs. "I have to tell him the wedding is off. I need to tell him I’m going back to London."

The tension returned to Drake’s shoulders instantly, his muscles cording beneath his skin. "I’m coming with you."

"No," Emilia countered quickly, shaking her head. "I can’t ask you to do that. This is my mess to fix, Drake. Not yours. I owe him that much, to do it myself."

Drake sat up further, his expression hardening into a protective mask. "We’re in this together, Em. Now and always. Besides..." He paused, his jaw setting firmly. "I don’t trust him. I don’t want you by yourself with him when you deliver news like this. I want to be there to protect you in case things get ugly."

Emilia looked at him, seeing the genuine concern etched into his features. The prospect of facing Liam’s certain explosion alone was terrifying; having Drake’s strength felt like a lifeline. She let out a soft sigh of surrender. "Okay. If it’ll put your mind at rest... I’d like the support."

"Good." Drake nodded, his mind already pivoting to logistics. "I think you should pack first, though. The last thing we want to do is hang around too long after you’ve told him. If we both pack now, we can meet back here in an hour, then head to his suite and tell him together."

"Sounds good," she agreed, she just wanted to get out of here as soon as they could. "What time is the flight?"

"Not until this evening," Drake admitted. "I was going to leave first thing this morning, despite the flight not being until later. I knew if I waited, I’d talk myself out of going and end up doing something stupid—like crashing your wedding. I’d have gone last night if I could’ve got a taxi."

Emilia felt a pang of guilt mixed with a strange sense of fate. "Well, I’m glad you didn't leave last night. I’m glad you at least stayed long enough for me to come here and find you."

A roguish, familiar spark returned to Drake’s eyes. He chuckled, pushing her back down against the pillows. "Oh, believe me, I am very, very glad I stayed last night too."

He leaned in, kissing her with a sudden, renewed passion that made the world outside the room vanish again. Emilia giggled against his mouth, her hands winding into his hair as she returned the kiss, savouring the heat and the certainty of him.

"Go on," he whispered against her lips, though he seemed reluctant to let go. "The quicker we’re packed, the quicker you can talk to him, and the quicker we can get out of this fucking country."

Emilia laughed, the sound bright and defiant. They climbed out of bed, the cool air of the room hitting their skin as they dressed in a comfortable, domestic silence. Every few moments, their eyes would meet, or Drake would reach out to brush his hand against hers, as if confirming she was still there.

Finally, Emilia reached the door. She pressed her ear to the wood for a second, then cracked it open to peer into the long, opulent corridor. It was silent, the morning staff not yet busy in this wing.

"It's clear," she whispered, turning back to him. "I'll see you soon."

As she stepped over the threshold, Drake reached out, catching her waist and pulling her back into one last, searing kiss. She melted into him, her fingers clutching his shoulders.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice low and fierce.

"I love you too," she replied, her heart full.

She slipped out, her footsteps silent on the heavy carpet as she hurried toward her own suite, her mind racing with thoughts of suitcases and difficult conversations, and the reality of the love she shared with the man who meant everything to her. Drake watched her go, before closing the door to his suite.

Neither of them saw the shadow. Lurking and watching.

As Emilia rounded the far corner, a figure stepped out from the deep recess of a decorative alcove near Drake’s door. They had been standing there, perfectly still, long enough to hear the muffled murmurs and the unmistakable sound of a goodbye. Long enough to see the kiss.

The figure’s fists were clenched so tightly their knuckles were white, the skin stretched taut over bone. Their face, partially obscured by the dim light of the hallway, was twisted into a grotesque mask of hatred. Fury radiated from them in cold, silent waves, their gaze fixed on the spot where Emilia had vanished, then shifting to Drake’s closed door with a lethal, simmering intensity.

The walk back toward her own wing felt like moving through a dreamscape. Every nerve in Emilia’s body was humming, a vibrant, electric buzz that made the heavy silence of the Rhys manor feel thin and fragile. She could still feel the phantom pressure of Drake’s hand on her waist and the lingering heat of his kiss on her lips.

She was nearly at the junction of the east wing when a rhythmic thud-thud-thud of footsteps echoed against the plush carpet. Emilia froze, her heart leaping into her throat, until a familiar figure rounded the corner.

Olivia was clad in sleek black athletic gear; her face flushed a healthy pink and a light sheen of sweat dampening her hairline. She slowed to a halt, her breath coming in even, practiced bursts as she took in the sight of her sister.

"You're up early," Olivia noted, her sharp eyes scanning Emilia from head to toe. There was a beat of silence as she took in the slightly rumpled state of Emilia's dress—the same elegant silk she had worn to dinner the previous night—and the unmistakable glow in her expression. "Normally, I have to practically prize you out of bed with a crowbar back home." Olivia’s gaze narrowed, turning suspicious as she stepped closer, the scent of fresh morning air and sweat clinging to her. "Please tell me you’ve been and spoken to Drake. He hasn’t left already, has he?"

Emilia couldn't help the smile that broke across her face—a wide, genuine grin that felt like it had been locked away for years. "No," she said softly. "He’s still here."

She glanced nervously down the long, echoing corridor, where a distant vacuum hum suggested the staff were starting their rounds. She gestured to the ornate door just to their left. "Can we talk for a moment? Not in the hallway. In your room?"

Olivia’s expression softened instantly. She saw the light in her sister’s eyes—the first spark of real happiness she’d seen since they arrived in Cordonia. "Of course," she murmured, pushing the door open and ushering Emilia into the plush, velvet-heavy surroundings of her suite.

The moment the door clicked shut, the dam broke.

"Liv, I can't even describe it," Emilia started, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. She paced the length of the rug, her hands moving animatedly as she recounted the night. She told Olivia about the suffocating weight of the dining hall, the moment of clarity when she realised that Liam wasn’t the man she thought he was and she knew she was making the biggest mistake of her life. And the frantic, desperate rush to Drake’s door.

"I told him," Emilia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I told him I love him. That I’ve always loved him. And Olivia... We spent the night together."

She sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed, her fingers twisting in the silk coverlet. A blush deepened on her cheeks as she thought of the hours spent in the muted light of Drakes suite, wrapped in his arms, his lips all over her. "It was the most incredible night of my life. It was so much more than I ever dreamed it would be. Everything with him... it’s just so easy, so natural. It’s right. It was… magical."

Olivia sat down beside her, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on her face. She reached out and took Emilia’s hand, squeezing it tight. "Does this mean... you're coming home?"

"Yes," Emilia said, her voice firm and certain. "I’m coming home. Me and Drake, we’re going to be together, properly. No more hiding how we feel. Oh god, Olivia, I just love him so much. I’d resigned myself to just being his friend, to watching him from a distance for the rest of my life. But after last night... Oh, God. I’m just so happy."

Olivia smiled, a wide genuine smile, pulling her sister into a fierce hug. “I’m so happy for you, Em. And for Drake.”

The joy was briefly tempered by the shadow of what came next. Emilia took a shaky breath, her gaze falling to her engagement ring—a heavy, sparkling reminder of the man she was about to face.

"The only thing is... I have to talk to Liam. I’m going back to my suite to pack now. Drake is doing the same, and then we’re going to go and see Liam together. I’m going to tell him the wedding is off and I’m going back to London. We’re leaving on a flight tonight."

Olivia’s smile remained steady, providing the anchor Emilia needed. "Then I guess Hana and I will do the same. I’ll go and tell her—she’s going to be so happy for you, Em. Honestly, we both were just waiting for you to realise what we already knew. That you and Drake belong together."

Olivia stood up, her protective sisterly instincts shifting into high gear. "You go and pack. We can meet you here once you’ve spoken to Liam. I’ll handle the logistics; I'll arrange a taxi to pick us all up and get us to the airport"

Emilia stood and threw her arms around her sister, burying her face in Olivia’s shoulder. "Thanks, Liv. For everything. For making me see sense, and for just... being here."

"Always," Olivia whispered, patting her back. "Now move. You have a suitcase to fill and a life to start."

Emilia pulled away, gave one last determined nod, and slipped out of the room. She hurried toward her own suite, the heavy carpet muffling her footsteps as her mind began to sort through the chaos of the coming hour. The fairy tale of Cordonia was over, but after last night, the reality looked even better.

The air in Drake’s suite was thick with the scent of his aftershave and the lingering, ghost of Emilia’s perfume. He felt as though he were vibrating, a restless, electric energy humming beneath his skin that made the simple act of packing his last few belongings feel like a victory lap. He reached for a discarded denim shirt, the fabric rough against his palms, but as he went to fold it, he caught the faint scent of her on the collar.

His movements faltered. He closed his eyes, his fingers tightening on the fabric. In the silence of the room, he could almost hear the soft, hitching catch in her breath from a few hours ago. He could still feel the velvet heat of her skin and the way she had arched into him, trembling like a leaf in a storm when his fingers had traced that hidden, sensitive path along her inner thigh. The memory of her voice, breathless and raw as she cried out his name, felt like a brand seared into his soul.

He looked in the mirror while zipping his suitcase and stopped. A wide, boyish grin—the kind that had felt foreign of late—stared back at him. God, he thought, a surge of pure, unadulterated warmth blooming in his chest. I am the luckiest guy in the world.

In his mind, he was already in London. He could see his penthouse apartment through a new lens. Gone was the minimalist, masculine space that had been his sanctuary, a place for him, and him alone. Instead, he saw their apartment, he saw her books on his coffee table, her clothes hanging next to his in his wardrobe, he saw the morning light hitting her face as they shared coffee at his kitchen island. He didn't want to spook her by moving too fast, but the idea of waking up to her every single morning wasn't just a want anymore—it was a necessity. He wanted to tell the world. No more hiding how they felt, no more watching her with someone else from a distance. He wanted to scream from the rooftops that finally, she was his, and he was hers.

The sharp, digital ping of his phone punctured the daydream.

Drake pulled the device from his pocket. It was an encrypted file from Murphy. As the text decrypted, Drake’s pulse slowed, then began a heavy, ominous thud.

Drake, I finally got hold of the original birth certificate for Lady Madeline. This, coupled with the succession laws, could be the reason for Liam’s dislike of her...

Drake’s eyes scanned the attached document. The paper was yellowed, but the ink was clear. In the space for the father, a name was written in a sharp, authoritative hand: Constantine Rhys.

"Holy shit," Drake whispered. The air in the room suddenly felt thinner. Madeline wasn't just a noblewoman; she was Liam’s half-sister. Adie—the woman Constantine spoke of with a love and tenderness he didn’t seem to possess for Regina—she was Adelaide Amaranth, Madeline’s mother.

The metallic snap of the realization was sickening. Murphy’s previous email on the law echoed in Drake’s head: To ascend to the head of a noble house and claim the ancestral lands, the heir must be wed at the time of the predecessor's passing. Should the primary heir be unwed, the inheritance—title, estate, and wealth—passes immediately to the next married legitimate branch of the bloodline.

Madeline was married. Liam was not. If Constantine’s failing health gave out before a wedding, the entire Rhys empire—the gold, the lands, the very walls Drake was standing in—would vanish from Liam’s grasp and fall to the sister he despised.

"That's why," Drake hissed, his jaw clenching so hard it ached, his heart beginning a frantic, angry hammer against his ribs. "That's why the rush. That's why the pressure."

Liam didn’t love her. He didn't even see her. To Liam, Emilia was nothing more than a legal requirement, a human key to a vault of gold and power. He had been isolating her, gaslighting her, and controlling her movements not out of a lover's jealousy, but out of the panicked greed of a man protecting his bank vault.

The joy that had filled Drake’s chest moments ago curdled into a cold, jagged fury. He shoved his last pair of boots into the bag, the leather groaning under the force. He had to get her out. Now. Before the Rhys family realised their golden ticket was trying to leave the station.

A sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a knock sounded.

"Thank God," Drake breathed, lunging for the door. "I’m so glad you’re back, I just—" He swung the door open, but the words died, turning to ash in his throat.

Standing in the hallway was Duchess Regina Rhys. She looked like a portrait of cold elegance, her silver hair pulled back with surgical precision. The scent of lilies—cloying, heavy, and funereal—wafted off her, clogging the air.

"Your Grace," Drake said, his voice dropping an octave, his body instinctively tensing into a defensive stance.

"Mr. Walker. A word." She didn't wait for him to move. She glided past him, the silk of her skirts hissing like a snake in dry grass. Her eyes immediately locked onto his suitcase. "Going somewhere?"

Drake shut the door, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. "I’m leaving. I have to get back to London; I have a flight this evening."

"I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Mr. Walker." Regina stood in the centre of the room, her back perfectly straight.

"Excuse me?"

"I cannot allow you to leave," she said, her voice a calm, terrifying monotone. "Not when I suspect you have no intention of going alone. Not when I have it on good authority that you are attempting to commit a crime against my house."

"A crime?" Drake let out a short, jagged laugh that held no humour. "What the hell are you talking about? What crime?"

"Theft."

"Theft?" Drake huffed. "And what exactly am I stealing?"

"I have learned, Mr Walker, that you are attempting to take something that does not belong to you. Something that belongs to my son.” Regina turned, her gaze drifting over the manicured gardens outside the window. “In Cordonia, a crime against any noble house, especially one as prestigious as House Rhys, is a crime against the Crown. And we treat such matters with... extreme gravity."

Drake’s heart hammered against his ribs. Keeping his movements small and hidden by the bulk of his body, he slipped his hand into his pocket. His thumb found the side buttons of his phone, performing the haptic-sequence shortcut to trigger the voice memo app. He felt a tiny, discreet vibration against his thigh—the confirmation that it was recording.

"I haven’t stolen anything," Drake said, his voice as hard as stone. "I don’t want anything that belongs to your son."

"Oh?" Regina turned, her eyes like chips of frozen sea. "Then what exactly was my future daughter-in-law doing sneaking out of your room not fifteen minutes ago? Wearing the same dress she wore to dinner, looking like... used goods."

The insult hit Drake like a physical blow to the stomach. "Hey! Emilia is not used goods!” Drake snapped, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “And if you’re implying she is a possession—like a piece of jewellery your son can keep locked in a box—then you’re wrong. She is a person. And she wants to be with me. We’re leaving today."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Regina murmured. She stepped closer, and Drake felt the temperature in the room seem to plummet. "That ungrateful bitch made a promise to my son. She accepted his proposal. She was a nobody when he found her, and she will not throw away our legacy for a little commoner’s dalliance with the likes of you."

"Their engagement is off," Drake spat, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his sides. "And don’t you ever call her that again."

"Listen to me, Mr. Walker." Regina’s voice was a whip-crack. "People of your station see a broken engagement as a sad story. Here, it is a cancer. It brings pity and shame. I will not have my son or my house become a laughingstock because a little slut from London couldn't keep her legs together. Emilia will stay. She will fulfil her promise. She will marry Liam."

"Over my dead body," Drake growled stepping into her space, his height looming over her, a wall of muscle and fury. But she didn't even blink.

A small, cruel smile curved her thin lips. "Now, now. I’m sure it won’t come to that. But if it does..." She leaned in, her breath cold against his ear, her voice a whisper that made the small hairs on his arms stand up. "Well, I highly doubt a man like you would be missed by anyone who matters."

Drake felt a jolt of pure, adrenaline-fueled alarm. "What did you just say?"

Before Regina could answer, the heavy oak door didn't just open—it exploded inward, slamming against the wall with a crack that echoed like a cannon shot.

Liam stood in the threshold. His tie was loosened, his hair—usually so meticulously styled—was slightly dishevelled, and his eyes were bloodshot, burning with a frantic, manic light. He didn't look like a Lord; he looked like a predator who had smelled blood. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The click of the lock was the sound of a trap snapping shut.

"Well, well," Liam drawled, his voice dripping with a poisonous faux civility. "If it isn't Mr. Walker. I must say, we missed your presence at the dinner last night. I thought you would have wanted to celebrate the success of House Rhys." He began to pace the room, his expensive leather shoes clicking on the hardwood like a countdown. "Although... from what I hear, you did a little celebrating of your own. With my fiancée, no less."

Drake’s blood turned to liquid fire. He stepped away from Regina, squaring his shoulders against Liam. "She’s not your fiancée, Rhys. Not anymore. She’s coming home with me. Today."

Liam stopped pacing. He let out a low, dark chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "Home? You think that ostentatious apartment in London is home? You think she wants to trade a title for a life with a gutter rat like you?"

"She wants a life where she is loved!" Drake roared. "I know why you’re doing this, Liam. I saw the birth certificate. I know about Madeline. I know Emilia isn't a wife to you—she’s a legal loophole to keep your hands on your inheritance."

The colour drained from Liam’s face, replaced instantly by a mottled, purple rage. "You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Digging through trash to find secrets that don't belong to you." Liam stepped into Drake’s personal space, his voice dropping to a hissed snarl. "I have worked far too hard, groomed that girl far too long, to let a piece of filth like you ruin it. Our wedding is tomorrow. The guests are arriving. And no one—especially not a worthless piece of shit like you—is going to stop that."

"She’s a human being, you sociopath!" Drake’s fist clenched so hard his forearm muscles corded. "She’s not an asset you can 'groom' into a Duchess!"

"She is whatever I tell her to be!" Liam shouted, his composure finally shattering. "She was a nobody! I gave her a name! I gave her a world! And if she thinks she’s going to crawl into bed with her playboy best friend and walk away from me, she’s even stupider than you are."

"Don't you talk about her like that," Drake warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Why not? Because you 'love' her?" Liam sneered the word like it was a disease. "When I’m done with her, she won't even remember your name."

That was it.

Drake’s vision tunnelled. The weeks of watching Liam gaslight her, the months of hiding his own heart, and the sheer, ugly greed in Liam’s eyes collided. Drake lunged.

His fist connected with Liam’s jaw with a sickening thud. Liam spun back, crashing into a small side table, sending a crystal vase shattering across the floor.

"Liam!" Regina shrieked from the corner, but she didn't move to help. She watched with wide, calculating eyes.

Liam scrambled up, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. He looked at the red on his fingers and let out a guttural scream of pure ego-driven fury. He tackled Drake, his weight throwing them both against the heavy mahogany desk.

The fight was ugly. It wasn't the clean, choreographed sparring of the palace guards in practice bouts. It was a brawl. Liam swung wildly, his ring catching Drake’s cheek, opening a jagged red line. Drake ignored the sting, driven by a primal need to protect Emilia from the man who viewed her as a bank vault.

Drake caught Liam in a headlock, driving his knee into Liam’s ribs. He felt the air leave the other man’s lungs in a pained wheeze. They hit the floor together, rolling over the shattered glass. Liam scrambled for Drake’s throat, his fingers digging in, his face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.

"You... are... nothing!" Liam gasped, his face turning purple.

Drake grabbed Liam’s wrists, his superior strength winning out. With a surge of adrenaline, he flipped Liam over, pinning him face-down against the rug. He shoved Liam’s arm up behind his back, a subdual hold that made the Lord cry out in agony.

"It's over, Rhys!" Drake panted, sweat stinging his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. "I’m taking her home. And if you try to follow us, I’ll leak that birth certificate to every tabloid from here to Timbuktu. Your inheritance is dead."

Liam thrashed beneath him, cursing, but Drake held firm. He felt a surge of triumph—a jagged, glorious relief. He had him. He had won.

But in the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of silver and silk.

He didn't have time to turn. He didn't even have time to breathe.

Regina had moved with the silent, lethal grace of a shadow. She stood over him, her face a mask of cold execution. In her hands, she gripped the heavy, solid brass fire poker she had snatched from the hearth.

CRACK.

The sound wasn't like a gunshot; it was duller, heavier—the sound of metal meeting bone.

White light exploded behind Drake’s eyes. The world tilted on its axis, the floor suddenly rushing up to meet him. The strength left his arms instantly, his grip on Liam dissolving into nothingness. He tried to speak, tried to call Emilia’s name, but his tongue felt like lead.

His vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of grey and red. The last thing he saw was the hem of Regina’s skirt as she stepped over his collapsing body, and the cold, triumphant look on Liam’s face as he scrambled to his feet.

Then, the darkness rushed in, heavy and absolute.

​She refused his advances, calling him out on his perpetual commitment phobia. He respected her challenge, loving the fact she was the only woman who didn’t fawn over him. They became inseparable, forging a fierce, ten-year friendship built on easy laughter, relentless banter, and the unspoken rule that they would never cross the line.

​That line dissolved the moment Emilia left London for a work trip to Cordonía, a small European country. Eight weeks without her, with only silence, shattered Drake's certainty: he was deeply, irrevocably in love. He planned the dinner, rehearsed the confession, and waited for her return, only to be introduced not to his future, but to her fiancé, Liam Rhys, the Lord of a noble Cordonian house.

​Now, as Emilia plans her perfect wedding to the seemingly perfect guy, Drake is forced to stand as her Man of Honour. With the ceremony fast approaching, he must decide: risk destroying their decade-long bond with a truth she may not want to hear, or watch the woman who made him finally believe in forever marry a man who got there first.

Disclaimer: Some chapters are NSFW. All characters except my OC are owned by Pixleberry. The idea for this story came to me after watching Made of Honor. 18+. Feedback is always welcome.

Rating - Explicit (18+). Sexually explicit chapters marked as (E), Mature chapters marked as (M).

Main Pairings: Liam Rhys x F!OC (Emilia Dawson), Drake Walker x Emilia Dawson

Face Claims - Emilia Dawson - Blake Lively, Drake Walker - Daniel Di Tomasso, Liam Rhys - Trevor Donovan

Prologue - A Battle of Wits

Chapter 1 - A Caged Heart

Chapter 2 - Auras Aligned

-🥩-🍸-🥃-💐-

Drake and Kate walked over to Auden Bistro & Bar for dinner. As they made their way through the Star lounge between the lobby and restaurant, Drake heard music. And it wasn't just your basic pre-recorded piped in elevator music either. A live jazz quartet was playing.

It added even more class and elegance to the place and Drake was impressed. He felt proud to have Kate by his side, and for once he wasn't underdressed. Sure he'd spent many hours in ballrooms with people dressed up in fancy clothes and live music. The only part of him that fit into that kind of atmosphere was his accent. But other than that he never felt like he belonged.

This kind of place he liked, because these were just regular people. Regular people enjoying good food, good company and the sweet sound of soft jazz music. It was the kind of place you wanted to stay for hours.

Being a Saturday there's a large crowd, and Drake understood why. Outside the sky is darkening past sunset and approaching twilight, the light filtering in through the windows casted a warm romantic glow. Every table was full, but there were still some places left at the bar. Drake put his arm around Kate's waist, leaning over to speak, keeping his voice low.

"Let's go sit at the bar, and wait for a table to open up."

Kate nodded, enjoying the feeling of his arm around her. She let Drake guide her over to a spot at the bar. He helped her up onto a barstool, gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and then slid onto the stool next to her.

A bartender smiled and approached them from the other side of the counter.

"Welcome to Auden Bistro & Bar, my name is James and I'll be your mixologist this evening. Will you be wanting dinner as well?"

Drake smiled, "So we can eat dinner here at the bar?"

"Certainly Sir, we offer a very casual and flexible dining experience. Besides the main diningroom, we offer seating at the bar, and at the adjoining Star Lounge."

Kate smiled back at James, "That's wonderful. I'm liking it here more already."

James slid over two dinner menus, as well as a cocktail menu.

"I only handle the alcohol side of things, but our food servers are very efficient and conscientious, and take great care of everyone. Would you like to order drinks while you wait for dinner service?"

Kate perused the drink options on the menu. She glanced over at Drake, waiting for him to order his usual whiskey. He didn't disappoint.

"James, what brands of whiskey do you carry?"

"We offer a wide selection of the best whiskies of the world, instead of rhyming them all off, it would be much easier for you to name one and then I'll let you know if we have it."

Kate smiled as she saw a sort of drunken bliss pass over Drake's face.

"I'll have two fingers of Johnny Walker, neat"

"Excellent choice, and for the lady?"

"In honour of Drake's home and mine, I'll have a Big Apple."

James nodded, "Again, an excellent choice. Are you guests of the hotel? Will you be charging your drinks and meal to your room today?"

Drake said, "Yes we will. Room 717."

"Ok then, I will have your drinks ready shortly."

Drake nodded, "Thank you, James."

While James busied himself behind the bar Drake and Kate look over the dinner menu.

"So Darling, what would tickle your tastebuds most this evening?"

Kate winked, "Considering how delicious you look in that suit? That's a very loaded question. Hana was right."

Drake chuckled, "You like it? She helped pick this out for me." He slowly looked her up from ankle all the way to the blush blooming in her cheeks. His voice dropped low as she dropped her lashes demurely, "But I doubt it's me everyone is staring at. I'm glad I picked that dress."

Kate slid the toe of her shoe up the side of Drake's calf. He jumped, almost dropping his menu.

"Wow, who are you? Where did this charming and handsome Drake come from?" She finally met his gaze, and a heat swept through her whole body in a rush. Even her toes tingled.

Drake was looking at her from behind his whiskey glass, the amber liquid reflected like fire in his dark eyes, "It must be the company I keep."

Kate hid behind her menu, looking for some way to break the magnetic pull of his gaze. Clearing her throat she changed the subject,

"Hmmm, let me see. The Rib-eye sounds fantastic. Juicy and beefy."

James had already slid her drink over, but Kate hadn't noticed. Drake took another sip of his whiskey, and then set down his glass.

Drake laid out his dinner menu out flat on the bar. "How about an appetizer first?"

Kate bit her lip, her eyes scanning the menu for a suggestion. "Two grilled Caesar salads perhaps?"

"Sounds good to me, not as fancy and weird as the other stuff, and then the Rib-eye?"

"Works for me too," she said and put her menu down.

Kate picked up her drink, enjoying the sweet tang of her Big Apple.

James passed their meal choices along to a waiting server.

"So Drake, now that we've ordered. I have some questions."

Leaning his elbows on the bar, he braced himself for the inevitable. "Ok, shoot."

"As charming a dinner date you might be, I need to know. Why are you really here?"

Drake winced, "So my gallant flight across the Atlantic to come to your rescue isn't convincing enough, huh?"

"You showing up here in a fancy suit, with flowers to take me out to dinner at a fancy hotel? Alone? It's too good to be true. I'm half expecting Maxwell and Hana to show up. Can you even afford this place?"

Drake looked down at his lap, his hands suddenly felt sweaty. He turned toward her and shoved his hands in his pockets, "Of course not. Like I said, Nicholas sent me. He's paying for all of this."

Kate looked away, leaning back in her seat, the pain she felt on Coronation night came rushing back and angry tears stung at her eyes and threatened to spill. "Of course he is. It was his security that dragged me away and now he feels guilty. He thinks sending you here to fetch me is going to fix things between us. The guards threw me into the back of an SUV with just the clothes on my back. My suitcase was already in the trunk. I had to change at the airport, and they stood watch so I couldn't escape. I felt like a criminal. He has the nerve to send you here as bait, like I'm a damn fish that got away. How much is he paying you?"

Drake felt her accusation like a punch in the gut, "Look, Kate. I'm sorry. They shouldn't have treated you like that. If it's any consolation, the whole idea to send you back to America was sent down by Constantine, not Nicholas."

Their salads arrive before Kate can say anything else. They dig into their appetizer, the crunch of crisp lettuce and croutons taking the place of conversation. James reappeared, asking how they would like their steaks prepared. Drake ordered his medium rare, so did Kate.

Halfway through her salad, Kate pushed it away. Something about what Drake had said struck her as odd. "Hold on a sec, you called me Kate."

Drake swallowed his mouthful of salad, and wiped his mouth on a napkin.."Yeah? I guess I did. Sorry, does that bother you?"

"No, of course not. I like hearing you say my name. But I'm still mad at Nicholas for sending you here. I thought that kiss we shared in the lobby meant something. Did he tell you to lay on the charm?"

Drake felt panic creeping in, and he needed to salvage this date right now before it totally crashed and burned. Kate was clearly pissed.

"Our reunion in the lobby felt pretty real to me. Nicholas isn't here, I am. Just ..me." Drake tapped on his chest for emphasis.

Kate could see the emotion welling up in his eyes. She had made him feel unwanted, and now she felt deeply regretful. She opened her mouth to say something, but he wasn't finished.

"Could I have afforded to fly here on my own? Sure. But my visit would have been a very short one. It may have been his idea to send me here to apologize on his behalf, but on Coronation night it was me that chased you to the airport. Not him."

"Y - you did? Why didn't you say something?"

"Didn't I?" Drake reached into his jacket pocket for his phone. "I thought my messages were pretty clear about how much I...I missed you." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat to cover it. He turned back toward the bar and set his phone down with a slap.

Kate reached over to cover his phone with her hand. "Don't.. you don't need to do that. I'm sorry, you're right. I do remember what you said."

Leaning closer she rested her hand on top of his clenched fist on top of the bar. "I let my anger at Nicholas blind me to what was right in front of me. You're the one I wanted to be with all along. And I'd be stupid now to push you away."

Drake put his phone back in his pocket, unclenching his fist and turned his hand over to gently grasp her fingers. Kate realized he'd accepted her apology, and with a gentle smile of relief she squeezed back. The warmth in this simple gesture sent tingles up Drake's arm that settled in his chest. He couldn't help but smile back.

"Would you believe that Nicholas gave us," He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. "His blessing, when I told him how I felt about you? He's actually willing to let you go."

Kate sat back in surprise, pulling her hand out of his. "Really? And you believed him?"

Drake shrugged, "I think I gave him a convincing enough argument to explain that you were free to make your own choices. And I might have eluded to him that you had already chosen me over him."

Kate shook her head, "Wow, and he still sent you here? He's not mad at you?

"He seems to be resigned to accept his political marriage to Madeleine. He said that he cared enough about our happiness to let you go. Just having you in Cordonia as part of his royal court, and as his friend would be enough for him. He feels bad that the scheming of his own father sent you away. He wants to be able to apologize in person."

Kate bit her lip, "I'm still not convinced he's not a little jealous."

"I honestly don't care if he is," Drake smirked.

Drake reached across to gently take her hand again. "When he offered to send me here, I jumped at the chance to see you again. Heck, I was willing to swim the Atlantic to get here. But that might have just been the whiskey making me crazy. I'm not exactly shark proof."

Kate giggled, and moved to interlace their fingers. "There's that Walker humor that I've been missing. I'm crazy about you too."

Drake looked down at their joined hands, there was something so right about how well her hand fit into his, "I told Nicholas that we'd been more than friends for a while, but out of respect for him I wouldn't let things go too far. But you don't know how many times I was tempted to break that promise."

Kate felt that heat prickle under her skin again. It was like his words were whiskey thrown on a campfire. They threatened to burn her alive. The look in his eyes drew her in, he was magnetic. She leaned in, placing her hand on his thigh, "Like that night in Olivia's wine cellar?"

Drake nodded, "Uh huh, I think that's where it all began."

Kate's hand slid further up his thigh. Drake swallowed, trying to focus on the words as they fell from her lips. "And then there was that fateful night at..."

"Applewood," he finished. Kate was leaning in so close now he could smell her hair. Her other hand was now making its way up his arm.

She was dangerously close to ending up in his lap, and he slipped his arm around her waist to pull her the rest of the way. She reached up behind his neck and slid her fingers up into his hair as their lips met. He cradled the back of her head to add more pressure to the kiss. The whimper she made against his mouth made him feel light headed and weak in the knees. There was no doubt what direction his blood flow was headed.

Drake shifted her on his lap, and the movement made her gasp. She broke the kiss, with an audible pop.

"Oh.." she blushed, feeling embarrassed.

The look on his face was priceless too, and she grinned as she swiped her thumb across his bottom lip. He was wearing a lot more of her lipstick now than she was.

"You've got a little .....there. That's better. Fuchsia isn't really your color."

Over Kate's shoulder, Drake can see the server coming over with their steaks.

"Our dinner's arriving. I need to get you back to your own barstool.."

"..carefully," he added as he helped her slide down to the floor.

Kate straightened her dress and then climbed up on the barstool again, she smoothed her messed hair back over her shoulder. She tried to hide her grin as Drake pulled his napkin off the bar to cover his lap.

He frowned at her, grumbling self consciously and clearing his throat. "Ahem, eyes on your plate, please."

Drake turned to lean his elbows on the bar, hoping that his jacket would hide some of his lap. As the server left, he mumbled to Kate.

"See what your kisses do to me?"

Kate crossed her legs and arranged her skirt to expose as much leg as possible to give him an eyeful. "Oh, just my kisses? What about when I do this?" She stroked her hand up the outside of her thigh. "Better keep your eyes on your own plate, Mr. Walker. I don't want to distract you or anything."

Drake laughed, "You know I only have eyes for you. Now eat your steak. It wasn't cheap."

He had to admit the steak was excellent. The meat was nice and warm, and perfectly seasoned. Definitely worth the wait. Drake watched Kate delicately cut small pieces of steak like she was planning on making it last forever.

The salad, being mostly water, had barely made a dent in Drake's appetite. He hadn't had a decent meal for hours. He hastily cut a big bite of his steak and enjoyed the rich flavour of the bearnaise sauce as he chewed. The steak was heavenly, but sitting so close to Kate and watching her bring the fork up to her sensual mouth with each morsel was pure Hell.

Whenever she glanced his way, he tried to avoid her gaze by focusing on the food on his plate. She paused to take a sip of her drink, her tongue flicking out to lick the sugared rim of the glass.

Drake cursed, nearly choking on his bite of steak. Pulling his attention away to cough into his fist. He had to find something to talk about to distract him from watching her eat.

"So D.., I mean, Kate. Do you like baseball?"

She set her glass down and then went back to her plate, nodding. "Sure. I'm a New Yorker, and die hard Yankees fan."

"I have two tickets for tomorrow's game. Do you wanna go with me?"

Kate dropped her fork, her hands flying to her mouth, "Oh my goodness, yes! I haven't been to a game in years. Who are they playing?"

Drake took out his phone, checking the digital receipt that was in his email. "Uh, Toronto."

Kate wrinkled up her nose a little, leaning her elbows on the bar. To Drake her expression made her look even more adorable. "Please tell me you'll be cheering for the Yanks."

"Sorry, but I'm not a fan. My family is from Texas, we've always rooted for The Rangers. At least Toronto wears blue, so I'll be cheering for them.

Kate shrugged, giving him a sly grin as she went back to cutting up her steak, "Not that it'll matter. Toronto is gonna lose."

Drake hated to back down from a challenge. He looked over at the sparkly little purse she had brought with her and the flowers he had given her. He speared a morsel of steak and gestured with it before popping it into his mouth, "I don't suppose that purse of yours is hiding enough supplies for an overnight stay. "

Kate pretended to be shocked by his suggestion, giving him a flutter of her eyelashes.. "Why Mr. Walker. What are you implying?"

Drake's eyes raked across her body boldly as he chewed and swallowed, "I was thinking those flowers I bought you could use some water. And they'd look nice in the vase next to my bed."

Kate gave him a wink of her own, and then picked up her drink to finish it. "You're right. I bet they're really thirsty. And I bet the beds in this hotel are very comfortable."