Walker Is My Weakness

Every corner of the gardens seemed to hum with coastal splendour and new life. Cascades of purple and magenta bougainvillea spilled over the sun-warmed stone balustrades like living waterfalls, its paper-thin petals rustling softly in the wind. Emilia paused beneath a stone pergola where heavy, twisted vines of wisteria draped overhead, and admired the slow flurry of soft lilac petals that drifted downward to carpet the cream-coloured stone walkways. Her knee-length skirt brushed the plants bordering the path, causing wild rosemary and crushed lavender to release a sharp, aromatic burst of herbal scent, mingling effortlessly with the sweet, clean fragrance of the nearby citrus groves, where lemon and blood orange trees stood heavy with delicate white blossoms.

The soothing, steady hum of bumblebees navigating the gardens filled the air, accompanied by the sharp, cheerful chatter of swallows darting between the clay-tiled roofs. Beneath it all, the melodic, rhythmic splash of the stone fountains echoed through the courtyards, though during the quiet lulls, the faint, deep murmur of the tide breaking against the cliffs in the distance always filled the silence.

But it was the private orchards she was walking straight towards that held Emilia's gaze. There, rows of apple trees were waking from their slumber, their branches covered in a spectacular flush of pale pink and white petals. In just a few months, these blossoms would give way to the famous Cordonian Ruby apples—a varietal renowned for its deep, jewel-toned skin and crisp, tart flesh.

Reaching out, Emilia caught a falling blossom in her open palm, the petal soft and cool against her skin. As she looked down at the bloom, a sudden vivid memory of Drake flashed through her mind. She could still hear his voice, rough and earnest, outlining his brilliant idea for a Cordonian Ruby champagne cider. It was an ambitious project, one that Emilia had desperately hoped would finally make her father see Drake for who he truly was—a man of vision and capability, far more than the simple, disposable servant Constantine had deemed him to be.

A painful, dull ache flared in the centre of her chest at the memory, even as a small, bittersweet smile touched her lips at the phantom sound of Drake's laugh. But she couldn't afford to get lost in the past today. With a quiet, practised breath, Emilia forced herself to push the hurt down, tucking the memory back into its safe corner and refocusing her eyes on the present. For now she simply walked further into the orchard; the apple blossom petals surrounding her danced on the salt-kissed air, catching the bright, almost luminous afternoon light that bounced off the white and gold limestone palace walls.

It was a space designed entirely for show, and ordinarily Emilia would have seen straight through the pretentious façade. She would have looked past the blooms and branches, focusing instead on the high walls. A cage designed to keep others out, and her very much in. But recently there had been a change in her; she felt lighter, freer. Even in the palace, a place she had always considered more of a prison for her soul, today she felt… different. The memory of Drake was still safely tucked inside her heart—a permanent, quiet longing that would never truly leave her—but the agonising, sharp ache beneath her ribs didn't consume her quite as fiercely as it once had. The fragile thaw that had first sparked in her soul during the winter months had deepened, solidifying into a quiet, steady resilience with every day that passed.

As she walked through the apple blossoms, a flash of brilliant, iridescent colour caught Emilia's eye through the lower branches of the orchard, pulling her out of her thoughts. She slowed her steps, peering through the pink blossoms at a male peacock that had wandered out onto the emerald lawns. He moved with a slow, aristocratic grace, lifting his crested head before shifting his weight to let his trailing train catch the full glare of the spring sun. The feathers were a breathtaking, almost dizzying display of royal blues, deep teals, and emerald greens, each eye-shaped marking rimmed in a rich, metallic bronze that seemed to shift under the light.

Looking at the vivid, saturated hues, a phantom ache thrilled her fingers. Not so long ago, she would have reached instinctively for her sketchpad, her thumb tracing the familiar ridges of her watercolour pencils as she calculated exactly how to blend the deep indigo into the emerald green on textured paper.

Then, a sudden, cold realisation settled in her chest. She couldn't remember the last time she had held a pencil.

The thought made her breath hitch, because the answer arrived a second later, unbidden and sharp. It had been that sweltering afternoon down by the lake at Applewood. She could still feel the heavy humidity of that summer day, the smell of sun-baked grass and freshwater, and the scratch of her charcoal pencil against the paper as she quietly captured the sharp line of Drake’s jaw, the tousled mess of his hair, and the relaxed softness in his eyes while he sat beside her on the golden sand.

A profound, suffocating ache bloomed in her chest as the memory deepened, painting the afternoon sunlight in her mind’s eye. It had caught the edges of Drake's silhouette, turning him golden, making him look almost mythical just before he had turned to look at her. She could still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers sliding into her hair, pulling her close into the shaded sanctuary beneath the sweeping green canopy of the willow trees. The memory of that kiss—soft, desperate, and tasting of summer heat—hit her so hard she could practically feel his lips against hers, a visceral reminder of a love that had consumed her entire being. She had poured every ounce of her love into those sketched lines and that stolen moment. He was the last true thing she had drawn, he was the last true way she had lived, before the world had fractured.

A small, sad smile touched her lips, a fragile thing that barely reached her eyes, before she consciously forced her hand to drop back to her side, pushing the memory of the lake, her love, and the willow trees back down into the dark.

"What are you looking at, Your Highness?" The whispered voice, low and laced with a familiar, teasing warmth, sounded right beside her ear.

Emilia gasped, her shoulders jumping as she whirled around on the gravel path. Standing just inches away, a brilliant, sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his lips, was Liam.

The lingering shadow of the lakeside vanished from her face, replaced instantly by a genuine, bright smile that warmed her features. Over the last few months, the safe harbour of their initial friendship had quietly, steadily transformed into something deeper, something that made her chest tighten with an entirely different kind of affection. Liam had become her steady ground. And while his presence never snuffed out the fierce, eternal flame that still burned for Drake, he brought a warmth to her life that she hadn't thought she would ever feel again.

"You scared me," she laughed, one hand flying to her chest as she playfully swatted his shoulder with the other. "Do you make a habit of stalking women through the royal orchards, or am I a special exception?"

"Strictly a special exception, I assure you," Liam chuckled, bowing his head with a mock-seriousness that made his blue eyes dance. "The guard at the gate warned me you were wandering down here, and I couldn't resist the opportunity to catch you unawares. It's becoming my favourite pastime."

He stepped up beside her, tilting his upper body slightly as he offered her his arm, his elbow bent in an invitation that had become a comforting routine between them. Emilia didn't hesitate, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid, reassuring warmth of his crisp shirt beneath her fingers.

They turned together, setting off at a leisurely pace beneath the canopy of pink and white apple blossoms.

"So, what were you looking at so intently before I ruined your peace?" Liam asked, leaning in slightly as their shoulders brushed with each step.

"A peacock," Emilia said, nodding toward the edge of the emerald lawn where the bird was still lazily displaying its train. "I was just admiring the colours. They're almost unreal under this sun."

Liam followed her gaze, letting out a soft, dramatic sigh. "Ah, the palace peacocks. Pretentious little bastards, aren't they? Don't let him fool you, Emilia. They look magnificent, but they have the most atrocious, grating shrieks you've ever heard. Last week, one managed to get onto the balcony of my suite at dawn and screamed like a banshee. I nearly ordered the palace chef to turn him into a pie."

Emilia burst into a bright, clear laugh, the sound echoing lightly through the quiet orchard. "A peacock pie? I'm entirely sure that breaks at least three ancient laws of our kingdom, Liam. Besides, I think he matches the palace perfectly—designed entirely for show."

"Ouch," Liam teased, a brilliant grin cutting across his face as he looked down at her. "A direct hit to the monarchy. And here I thought I was being the perfect courtier today by helping you escape the heavy weight of your crown for an afternoon."

They kept walking, the gravel crunching rhythmically beneath their feet as Liam launched into a lighthearted story about a disastrous court meeting with a minor count from the previous afternoon. Emilia found her gaze drifting from the apple blossoms to the profile of his face. He was smiling warmly as he spoke, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine amusement under the bright spring sun. He was undeniably handsome, his neat blonde hair catching the light and his jaw clean-shaven, yet he entirely lacked the exhausting pretension and rigid posture of the other noblemen who frequented her father's court.

As his voice washed over her, Emilia found herself simply watching him, her mind wandering back over the landscape of the past few months. He had quietly woven himself into the fabric of her days, becoming an indispensable, vital presence in her life. She thought of the quiet, private dinners they had snuck away to on the rare evenings when no grand galas or political functions demanded their attendance. She thought of the playful games they had played in the gardens to escape the suffocating protocol of the palace—the breathless, laughing snowball fights during the bitter winter months, and the more recent games of croquet as the spring sun began to warm the earth. Liam had given her a sanctuary built on laughter, kindness and steady, comforting devotion.

As if sensing the weight of her gaze, Liam's story trailed off. He stopped walking, turning to her fully beneath the heavy, pink-drenched branches of a Cordonian Ruby tree. The easy, confident smile faded from his lips, replaced by a sudden, striking vulnerability. Reaching down, he gently untangled her hand from his elbow and took both of her hands in his, his fingers warm and slightly trembling as he looked deep into her eyes.

"Emilia," he began, his voice dropping an octave, losing its teasing lilt. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now."

"Oh?" she replied softly, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she looked up at him, already suspecting exactly where his heart was leading them. "What is it?"

Liam swallowed, looking visibly nervous in a way she had never seen before, his chest rising with a deep, bracing breath. "I know that since we met, we've become incredibly close. We've built this wonderful foundation, and we've become friends. But..."

"But?" she prompted gently, her smile widening just a fraction to give him courage.

Liam let out a small, sheepish laugh, a flush of colour rising on his cheekbones, but he didn't break eye contact. "But... I'm falling in love with you, Emilia. Hell, who am I kidding? I've already fallen in love with you. I am completely crazy about you. You are the most amazing woman I have ever met in my life. You're nothing like the other women in this court. You're funny, you're brilliant, you're beautiful, and I—"

Before he could offer another word of adoration, Emilia leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.

It was a soft, beautiful kiss, tasting of the fresh spring air and the quiet certainty of the sanctuary they had built together. When she slowly pulled back, Liam remained perfectly still for a beat, a breathless, radiant smile fixed on his face, his eyes still closed as if trying to memorise the feeling.

Leaning close, her breath warm against his skin, she whispered, "I love you too, Liam."

His eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, looking down at her as if he couldn't entirely believe his own fortune. "You do?"

Emilia smiled up at him, her heart swelling with the genuine affection she felt for the man holding her hands. "I do."

But even as the words left her lips, a sudden, unbidden image fractured the moment. Drake’s face flashed vividly in her mind's eye—rugged, intense, and etched with that fiercely protective devotion she knew she would never find anywhere else. A familiar pang echoed beneath her ribs, but she didn't let it pull her under. With a quiet internal breath, she pushed the phantom image away. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she would always love Drake; that fierce, eternal flame would never be extinguished. But she loved Liam, too. She loved them both, uniquely, in two entirely separate chambers of her heart.

Hearing her words, Liam's face transformed. A smile broke across his lips, wider and more radiant than any she had ever seen him wear before, completely erasing any trace of his former nervousness. His blue eyes shone with an absolute, breathless joy.

He didn't say a word—he didn't need to. Leaning in closer, he reached up, his hands gently framing her jawline as he tilted his head to capture her lips. Emilia met him halfway, her eyes closing as she slid her hands up to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, elated thud of his heart beneath her palms.

This time, the kiss changed. The initial hesitation of their first touch melted away, giving way to something much deeper, longer, and completely full of the honest, heavy love they had just confessed to one another. It was a kiss that belonged entirely to the spring—full of new beginnings, a shared future, and the fierce warmth of a man who looked at her as if she were the only person left in the world.

*****

Across the border, miles away from the manicured, pristine stone balustrades of the Cordonian palace, the arrival of spring carried an entirely different scent. There were no delicate perfumes of crushed lavender or sweet citrus groves here; instead, the afternoon air inside the stables of Château Lumière was thick with the honest, sharp aroma of fresh cedar shavings, sweet molasses feed, and the heavy musk of warm horses.

The spring sun didn't bounce off gold-trimmed limestone walls here. Instead, columns of bright afternoon light cut through the high, arched windows of the stable block, illuminating millions of dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, floating galaxies. The winter chill still clung stubbornly to the shadows of the stone floors, but where the sunlight hit, the air was warm, alive with the rhythmic, comforting sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional low whinny, and the steady, crunching sound of a broom clearing the central aisle.

Drake stood in the centre of the wash bay, the sleeves of his dark flannel shirt rolled tightly past his forearms, exposing the thick, corded muscles of his wrists. He was entirely in his element here. There was no pretension in a stable; a horse didn't care about a man's lineage, status, or title, only the steadiness of his hands and the calm authority in his voice.

Right now, those hands were working a heavy shedding blade down the flank of a massive bay stallion. With every long, practised stroke, clumps of thick, dull winter hair came away on the metal teeth, floating through the sunbeams before settling onto the damp floor. It was exhausting, repetitive work, but Drake welcomed the burn in his shoulders. It was a physical distraction from the thoughts that usually plagued him when his hands were idle.

He paused, lifting his arm to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his gaze drifting out the open barn doors. From here, he had a clear view of the rolling French countryside, where the meadows were just beginning to green and the wild clover was waking up under the April sun.

The quiet rhythm of the afternoon was abruptly shattered by a sudden commotion drifting through the open barn doors. Raised, angry voices echoed off the stone courtyard outside, the sharp words cutting right through the gentle sounds of the stables. Drake went still, the shedding blade resting against the stallion's flank as he listened. He recognised the voices immediately: André, and his son, Neville Vancoeur.

Drake hadn’t had much to do with Neville since arriving at Château Lumière; in fact, he had never truly spoken a word to him. But he had been around him once or twice. He remembered seeing Neville at the Royal Derby back in Cordonia, back when Emilia had been at his side and before King Constantine had banished him from the kingdom. He’d seen him on the odd occasion here at the chateau, too. Drake knew exactly what kind of man Neville was—the type who had absolutely no time for the staff, looking down on anyone he considered beneath his aristocratic station. He was entirely unlike his father.

Stepping forward slightly, Drake peered out of the stable doors just in time to see Neville turn on his heel, storming away across the courtyard with rigid, furious shoulders. André stood alone, looking utterly exasperated, his chest heaving with an angry sigh. As the Prime Minister ran a hand through his hair, his eyes lifted, catching Drake watching from the shadows of the barn.

Drake instantly pulled back into the wash bay, cursing himself silently. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, stepping back toward the stallion.

A moment later, the steady, heavy crunch of leather boots on the stone aisle signalled André’s approach. The older man walked into the wash bay, the sharp lines of tension still etched into his face.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Vancoeur," Drake said quickly, lifting his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear."

André let out a weary, gravelly chuckle, the anger fading from his eyes as he looked at Drake. "That is quite alright, Drake. I am entirely certain you would have heard us if you had been sitting on the moon. My apologies that you had to witness such an ugly display."

"No need for apologies, sir," Drake replied, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips. He leaned against the partition, wiping his brow. "I hope everything is alright?"

André sighed deeply, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to erase the fatigue. "Not exactly, no, to be honest. My son appears to have conducted himself in a rather unbecoming manner at one of the Cordonian royal court events. It seems he and one of the noble lords have acted rather appallingly."

Drake’s chest tightened, a cold spike of adrenaline hitting his stomach. “Oh,” he replied, his jaw clenching instinctively as a suffocating wave of worry washed over him. His mind raced across the border, straight to a pair of tropical blue eyes and a familiar, breathtaking smile. Please let this have nothing to do with Emilia, he thought. He wished more than anything that he was back there, standing between her and the viper’s nest of that court, where he could protect her from whatever mess Neville had caused. But he forced his expression to remain neutral, brushing the terrifying thought aside to let André continue.

"Yes," André went on, shaking his head. "Constantine contacted me personally about it. It happened a little while ago, and the Cordonian lord in question has already been stripped of his position and removed from the court for his actions. But as my son isn't technically an official part of their court, there is very little the King can do regarding an official punishment—other than declare that Neville is no longer welcome to attend functions at the palace, of course."

André leaned against the wooden frame of the stall, looking out at the sunlit fields. "Thankfully, Neville's behaviour doesn't seem to have caused any permanent damage to our political alliances with Cordonia, so that is something, at least. But honestly, Drake... I don't know where the boy gets it from. I suppose the blame lies with me. Perhaps I spoiled him too much, trying so hard to give him a better, easier upbringing than the one I had as a child."

Drake shook his head, his voice quiet but firm. "You shouldn't blame yourself, sir. Master Vancoeur is a grown man. He’s old enough to make his own decisions about right and wrong. You can't carry the weight of his choices."

André looked over at him, a soft, genuinely grateful smile breaking through his weary expression. He studied the young man standing before him—sweaty, hardworking, with calloused hands and an unwavering sense of integrity. André saw so much of his own youth in Drake. He recognised that same raw ambition, the fierce work ethic, and the deep, quiet passion Drake poured into the horses and his labour.

"Perhaps you are right, my boy," André said softly, clapping a heavy, warm hand onto Drake's shoulder. The gesture was full of a paternal affection that Drake hadn't realised he'd been missing. "Perhaps you are right."

André cleared his throat, deliberately shifting the heavy mood as he looked past Drake toward the bay stallion. "Now, tell me—how is this big brute getting on? Is he giving you as much trouble with his winter coat as he looks like he is?"

Drake grinned, the heavy knot of worry in his chest loosening just a fraction under André's jovial warmth. "He’s stubborn, sir, I won't lie. But we're figuring each other out..."

André looked over at him, his expression softening as he leaned his weight back against the sturdy wooden partition. "And what about you, Drake? How have you been settling into the château these past few months? I must apologise—I feel as though I haven't seen nearly enough of you since you arrived."

Drake shook his head, offering a respectful smile. "No need to apologise at all, sir. I know how busy you are."

"Too busy, if I am being entirely honest," André sighed, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "My duties require me to spend the vast majority of my time trapped in offices and meeting rooms in Paris. It can be quite suffocating. But that is exactly why every single spare moment I manage to steal, I spend right here at Château Lumière. The air is cleaner, the people are truer... everything just feels a little bit easier here in the countryside."

Drake looked out the open barn doors at the rolling green hills, a quiet sense of agreement settling into his chest. "I completely agree, sir. There's a lot less noise out here."

"Exactly," André smiled warmly, patting Drake's shoulder once more. "A man needs solid ground beneath his feet."

Before Drake could reply, the sharp, shrill ring of the telephone shattered the quiet warmth of the barn, echoing loudly from the small stable office just down the aisle.

Drake blinked, caught off guard by the sudden interruption, and looked toward the office door. He turned back to the Prime Minister with an apologetic nod. "Excuse me, Monsieur Vancoeur. I'd better go and answer that."

"Of course, go ahead," André smiled, waving a hand dismissively and stepping back to admire the stallion. "Duty calls, even in the stables."

Drake wiped his damp hands on a clean rag as he quickly crossed the stone floor, heading down the aisle toward the ringing phone. He stepped into the small, wood-panelled stable office, the shrill ring cutting off as he lifted the heavy receiver to his ear.

"Château Lumière stables," he said, his voice clipped but professional.

"Drake! It's me!"

Drake went rigid, recognising the voice instantly. "Leo? What's going on? Is everything alright?"

"I'm sorry, Drake. But no, it's not..." Leo’s voice broke, a ragged, breathless sound that was practically a sob. "It's your mum."

Drake's stomach dropped straight through his feet. A cold, suffocating wave of panic flared throughout his entire body, turning his blood to ice. The walls of the small stable office seemed to violently tilt, the air suddenly turning as thick and unbreathable as water. He gripped the receiver so hard the plastic groaned under his fingers, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white.

"What's wrong with her?" he managed to choke out, though the words felt like jagged glass scraping up his throat.

"She's getting worse, Drake," Leo sobbed openly now, the sound raw and desperate over the crackling line, though it felt miles away through the sudden, high-pitched ringing in Drake's ears. "We thought she was on the mend. She seemed to be doing so much better after spending Christmas with you, and in the weeks afterward, she seemed to be getting stronger. But she's... Drake, I don't think she has long left. You need to come home. Now."

The office spun violently, his vision narrowing down into a sharp, terrifying tunnel. Drake was panicking properly now, his chest heaving as he fought to drag oxygen into lungs that refused to expand. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal, a deafening, frantic thudding that drowned out the rest of the world.

He thought about his banishment. He thought about the icy, mocking warnings the king's guards had given him as they violently dumped him across the border like trash, detailing exactly what would happen to him if he ever set foot on Cordonian soil again. He could still see the heavy, dark steel of the guns hanging from their hips. And he didn't even have his passport—the guards had stolen his papers, his legal right to exist anywhere, leaving him completely exposed. Sneaking across a heavily patrolled border without identification meant if he got caught, he wouldn't just be arrested. He would be target practice.

But as the image of his mother's pale, frail face filled his mind, the paralysing terror gave way to a fierce, blinding desperation. A raw, primal instinct took over. None of it mattered. The guards, the guns, the prison cells, the king—let them kill him. He needed to be with his mother. Nothing else in the world mattered.

"I'm on my way," he blurted into the phone. He didn't wait for a response, his trembling hand slamming the receiver back onto its cradle with a fractured clatter.

He whirled around and sprinted back out into the main aisle of the stable, his heavy boots slamming chaotically against the hard stone. He felt completely detached from his own limbs, moving on pure adrenaline. André, who was still standing by the wash bay, turned with a startled look as Drake burst out of the office, his face entirely drained of colour and his hands shaking so violently he could barely control them.

"Drake? What is it?" André asked, his brow furrowing with instant, deep concern as he saw the sheer horror etched into the young man's eyes.

Words spilled out of Drake in a hurried, breathless, fractured rush. He couldn't even form full sentences—just jagged pieces of panic about his mother, the sudden decline, the absolute, undeniable necessity that he leave right this second. Before he could completely spiral into the suffocating weight of the attack, André stepped forward, his expression dead serious, and grabbed him firmly by both shoulders. The older man's grip was incredibly solid, a grounding anchor in the middle of Drake's internal storm.

"Don't worry about anything here, Drake. Go," André said, his deep voice carrying a calm, fierce authority that managed to cut right through the screaming static in Drake's head. "Your job will be waiting for you, if you still want it, upon your return. Some things in life are far more important than work. Go to your family."

"Thank you, sir," Drake choked out, a profound, aching flash of gratitude hitting his chest before he tore himself away.

He lunged for a wooden hook near the door, his shaking fingers ripping his heavy leather jacket from it in one fluid, desperate motion, and rushed out into the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. The heat hit him like a physical blow, but he didn't slow down. He sprinted across the gravel to where his motorcycle sat parked beneath the shade of an overhanging tree.

Throwing his leg over the saddle, he kicked the engine to life. The loud, aggressive roar of the exhaust exploded through the courtyard, echoing off the château's stone walls like gunfire.

He didn't look back. Twisting the throttle hard, he tore out of the estate, his vision blurred at the edges as the tyres kicked up a wild cloud of dust. He sped down the winding roads back toward the Theron farm, his knuckles locked tight around the handlebars. He needed to pack a bag and get moving. He had no papers, no safety net, and no idea how he was going to get across that border alive and unseen—but one way or another, he was going home.

*****

As Drake sped along the winding roads in France, back in the pristine confines of the Cordonian palace, the afternoon had dissolved into the quiet, sun-drenched sanctuary of Emilia’s private suite. She sat on the balcony, the white limestone still radiating the soft warmth of the sun's rays, flanked by Olivia and Hana. The three of them had their legs tucked beneath them on the plush outdoor cushions, tea cooling on the low glass table between them.

Emilia had just finished recounting what had happened in the orchard, her voice small but certain as she confessed that she and Liam had finally spoken the words out loud. They loved each other.

Hana’s eyes shone with immediate, gentle warmth, and Olivia offered a rare, soft smile, both of them whispering genuine murmurs of happiness for her. But as the initial excitement quieted, a lingering, heavy silence settled over the balcony. Olivia looked down at her teacup, swirling the liquid before she looked back up, her sharp eyes softening. Gently, hesitantly, she broke the silence, broaching the name that they all knew still lived in the quiet corners of Emilia's heart.

Drake.

Emilia didn't flinch at the sound of his name. Instead, a quiet, melancholic understanding washed over her features. Mechanically, her fingers traced the high neckline of her spring dress, slipping beneath the fabric to catch the delicate silver chain. She pulled it free, revealing Drake’s ring catching the bright afternoon light as it dangled against her chest. She began to play with the cool metal, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger as she spoke.

"I still love him," Emilia whispered, her gaze drifting out toward the shimmering horizon where the sea met the sky. "I always will. My love for Drake... it was… no. It is fire, passion, freedom. It was all-consuming and incredibly beautiful. I will never forget that summer we spent falling in love, and I will forever hold him in the deepest part of my heart. If I am being entirely honest with myself, I think I will always consider him the love of my life."

She paused, taking a slow, steady breath that no longer shivered with the raw grief of winter. "But the months of silence from him... the months of crying myself to sleep until my throat was raw, the pure, physical exhaustion of carrying that grief... it has all culminated in a strange sense of... peace."

She looked at Hana, then at Olivia, her eyes clear. "Whilst I wish with everything inside of me that he had written to me, that he had sent even a single word, I have to understand and accept reality. The brutal beating he received at the hands of my father, the violent banishment from his home, his family, his country... It was deeply traumatic. If Drake has decided to build a life for himself in France, away from the toxic, suffocating world of the nobility, the crown... and away from me... then I need to accept that. All I want for him now is to find peace. I just want him to be happy, and if that happiness isn't with me... well, that makes me sad, but I know I need to let him go."

Her fingers let go of the ring, letting it drop back against her collarbone as she smiled softly, her thoughts shifting back to the man in the orchard. "And then... there's Liam. Liam arrived into my life expecting absolutely nothing from me. He is so remarkably kind, he's funny, and the love we share is gentle and grounding. Liam put the broken pieces of my shattered heart back together, and I will forever be grateful to him for showing me that I could survive everything that has happened, even when I thought I wasn't strong enough. He gave me a lifeline when I was drowning. Our love is steady, safe, and warm. I love them both, uniquely. Differently, separately, and wonderfully."

Hana reached across the table, placing her hand over Emilia’s with a tender squeeze, while Olivia nodded, a look of profound respect in her eyes.

"We're just happy to see you looking like yourself again, Emilia," Hana said softly, a brilliant smile gracing her sweet features. "Even if that self is a little different than the before."

"Thanks," Emilia replied, a genuine, unburdened smile breaking across her face. She shook her head lightly, wanting to shake off the heavy, emotional air, and leaned forward with a playful glint in her eyes. "Right, enough about me. What about your love lives? Do either of you have your eye on anyone special for this social season?"

Olivia scoffed loudly, leaning back against her cushions with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Not likely. In all honesty, Emilia, the only guy in this entire court worth actually taking an interest in, has already been snapped up… by you. The rest are completely insufferable."

Emilia burst into a bright, clear laugh, the sound echoing lightly over the balcony.

"But in all seriousness," Olivia continued, her expression shifting into something proud and determined, "I’ve been back in Lythikos for the last few weeks. It won't be long until I turn twenty-one, and the duchy officially becomes mine to rule. It turns out I have a massive amount left to learn, but I am entirely up to the challenge."

"I know you are," Emilia said truly, admiring her friend’s fierce spirit. "You're going to be a phenomenal Duchess, Liv."

They turned in unison to look at Hana, who had suddenly gone remarkably quiet, her eyes fixed entirely on her own lap. "What about you, Hana? Met anyone?" Emilia teased.

Instantly, a deep, telltale blush rushed up Hana’s neck, colouring her cheeks a brilliant pink.

Emilia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god, you have! You’ve met someone!"

"Actually," Hana stammered, her blush deepening as she nervously tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, "there is someone I have met recently... someone I have taken quite a liking to."

"Well, don't leave us hanging! Tell us!" Emilia leaned over the table eagerly. "Who is he?"

Hana’s eyes danced between her two friends, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. "Actually... I'd rather not say right now. I'm still not entirely sure how serious it's going to become. It might end up being absolutely nothing, and I would honestly rather not jinx it before it even begins."

Olivia scoffed good-naturedly, tossing a crumpled napkin across the table at her. "Oh, come on, Hana, don't be such a bore. Give us a hint!"

Emilia just smiled, reaching out to take both of Hana's hands in hers, stopping Olivia's teasing. "Well, whoever he is, Hana, I just hope he makes you very happy."

Hana smiled back, though her fingers remained slightly tense in Emilia's grasp. "I'm sure they will," she murmured softly.

For a fleeting second, a small, unreadable shadow crossed Hana's delicate features, a flicker of heavy anxiety clouding her eyes. But the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived, and neither Emilia nor Olivia noticed the sudden shift, their laughter rising once more into the warm spring afternoon.

*****

The violent roar of the motorcycle engine shattered the quiet afternoon of the Theron farm before Drake had even cleared the gates. He tore into the farmyard, the tyres skidding aggressively against the loose gravel as he brought the bike to a harsh, chaotic halt. He didn't care about putting it away; he didn't care about the kickstand scraping violently into the dirt. He killed the engine, threw his leg over the saddle, and was running before the exhaust had even begun to cool.

He slammed through the door, the wooden screen rattling against its frame, and bolted down the short, narrow hallway towards his bedroom. His boots pounded against the floorboards like a frantic drumbeat, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

Zeke was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand, when the whirlwind hit. He went rigid at the sound of the door clattering open, turning just in time to see a blur of dark flannel and sheer panic tear past the kitchen archway. Drake didn't even glance his way. The absolute blindness of his friend’s flight struck a chord of instant alarm in Zeke’s chest.

"Drake?" Zeke called out, his voice sharp with immediate concern.

There was no answer, just the frantic sound of drawers being ripped open from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Zeke set his mug down with a muted thud and followed the noise, his brow furrowing. When he stepped into the doorway of the small bedroom, the scene before him made his stomach tighten.

Drake was a frenzied blur of motion. He was shrugging his heavy leather jacket onto the bed while simultaneously clutching a worn canvas duffel bag, shoving clothes into it with trembling, clumsy hands. A small stack of crumpled notes, an old watch, and a few loose belongings were tossed in haphazardly, rolling around the bottom of the bag. His movements weren't just fast; they were frantic, driven by a wild, unhinged desperation. But it was his face that stopped Zeke in his tracks. Drake’s skin was entirely devoid of colour, his chest heaving as if he were running out of air, and his eyes held a raw, feral panic that Zeke had never seen in him before. This wasn't the steady, guarded man who handled massive stallions with a whisper. This was someone breaking apart.

"Drake?" Zeke stepped further into the room, his voice dropping, trying to inject some calm into the suffocating atmosphere. "What’s going on? Are you okay?"

Drake flinched violently, only just noticing Zeke standing there. He froze, a crumpled shirt clutched in his white-knuckled fist. For a second, he just stared, his jaw working as he fought to drag air into his lungs. Then, the dam broke.

"No," he sobbed.

The sound was wretched, tearing out of him like a physical wound.

"It's my mum. She’s sick, Zeke. Real sick. Leo doesn't think..." He broke off, the words dissolving into a harsh, strangled gasp. He dropped the shirt, his hands flying up to cover his face as his shoulders instantly hunched forward, shuddering violently under the weight of a sudden, brutal wave of grief.

"Doesn't think what?" Zeke moved forward instantly, his own heart hammering against his ribs as he closed the distance between them. He reached out, placing a firm, grounding hand on Drake's trembling shoulder.

"He thinks she doesn't have long left," Drake choked out, dropping his hands from his face.

The look of total devastation on Drake’s face almost knocked Zeke backward. Drake’s eyes were bloodshot and heavily rimmed in red, tears spilling over his lashes and tracking freely through the dust and sweat on his cheeks. His hair was a dishevelled, wind-blown mess from the frantic ride from the château, and he looked utterly, entirely exhausted—broken in a way that defied his broad, muscular frame.

Without a word, Zeke stepped in and pulled him into a heavy, grounding hug. Drake didn't pull away. He collapsed into the embrace, his forehead sinking heavily into Zeke’s shoulder as his entire body racked with deep, breathless sobs. The raw vulnerability of the moment filled the quiet bedroom, the heavy fabric of their shirts damp with the tears Drake had been trying to outrun since the stable office.

After a long, agonising moment, Drake pulled back, wiping his nose with the back of his trembling hand, his eyes wide with a manic necessity. "I need to go to her," he said, his voice cracked and desperate. "I need to get back to Cordonia. To Ramada."

Zeke blinked, his practical mind trying to catch up with the sheer speed of Drake’s panic. "Of course. Of course you do. But... I thought you weren't welcome there. I know Emilia's father didn't want you anywhere near that place."

"I don't care," Drake growled, a flash of fierce, protective anger cutting through the grief, though his voice still trembled. "This is too important. I don't care about him. I need to be there for my mum."

"I know you do," Zeke said firmly, his hands remaining on Drake’s arms to keep him steady. "Which is why I'm taking you. You’re in no fit state to ride your bike, Drake. Look at your hands. One loss of concentration on those winding roads and you'll end up in a ditch before you even see the border."

Drake hesitated, his breath hitching. He looked down at his fingers, which were shaking so violently he could barely clasp the zipper of his bag. Zeke was right. His mind was spinning so fast he could barely see straight; it was a miracle he had made it back from Château Lumière in one piece. But as the reality of what he was planning settled in, a cold dread replaced the heat of his panic. Zeke didn't know. He didn't know the full extent of Drake's banishment, or what kind of monsters guarded that line.

"No," Drake said, shaking his head firmly, trying to pull away. "Thank you, Zeke. For the offer. But I can't let you do that. It's too dangerous. If you're seen helping me... you could be arrested. Or worse."

Zeke let out a short, incredulous breath, his brow knitting together in deep confusion. "Dangerous? Arrested? What are you talking about? I know Emilia's father is wealthy, Drake, and clearly a bastard, but exactly how much power can one man have? He made it clear you're not welcome, he threatened you and had his goons beat you, but it's not like he can actually have you killed or thrown in a dungeon if—"

Zeke broke off, the words dying in his throat as he caught the sudden, dark expression in Drake's eyes. It was a look of terrifying, absolute gravity. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

"Drake?" Zeke whispered, his voice losing its certainty. "Who is Emilia's father, exactly?"

Drake swallowed hard, his throat tight, the truth tasting like ash on his tongue.

"...He’s the King."

Zeke’s eyes went wide, his jaw dropping slightly as his brain completely stalled. The silence in the room suddenly felt deafening. "What?" he breathed.

"Emilia... she’s the love of my life, Zeke," Drake said, the words pouring out of him now in a quiet, breathless confession, his voice thick with a profound, aching reverence. "But she’s also... she’s the Princess. Her father is King Constantine."

Zeke stood totally gobsmacked, completely without words. The modest, hard-working guy who had been sleeping in his spare room and shovelling manure in the Prime Minister's stables for months was talking about royalty. The world seemed to shift slightly on its axis, the sheer absurdity of it colliding with the absolute sincerity in Drake's eyes.

"I know how I sound," Drake muttered, a bitter, self-deprecating shadow passing over his face. "It's nuts, right? What would a Princess see in a guy like me? But she did see me, Zeke. We fell in love while she was staying at her family’s country home for the summer. I thought she was part of the estate staff at first. But she wasn't. She’s royalty. And she loves me. And I love her. I always will." He took a sharp, bracing breath, his chest expanding. "But that's why I can't let you risk yourself. This isn't just an angry father who doesn't like his daughter's choice of prom date. This is a ruthless King who doesn't approve of the Princess’s choice of suitor. If he finds out I crossed over the border... if he finds out you helped me... I don't know what he'll do. I can't let you risk your life for my mess."

Zeke looked at him. He watched the way Drake’s jaw set, the way he was trying so hard to protect him even while his own world was actively burning to the ground. Slowly, the initial shock in Zeke’s chest began to recede, replaced by a deep, immovable loyalty.

In the months Drake had spent living at the Theron farm, he had become far more than just a tenant or a reliable hand in the barns. He had become the brother Zeke had never had. Zeke knew what it felt like to stand in an empty house; his own parents had passed away a few years ago, and the agonising memory of that loss was a permanent shadow in his heart. He couldn't imagine the horror of being forced to stay away, of letting a mother take her last breaths alone because of a crown and a border.

A fierce, iron resolve hardened Zeke’s features. The confusion vanished, replaced by an absolute certainty.

"I'm taking you," Zeke said, his voice dropping into a low, unyielding tone. "If you try to cross the border on your motorcycle, you'll draw too much attention. Even if you park it in the woods and try to cross on foot, it's miles to Ramada, Drake. It'll take you days you don't have. We'll take my truck."

Drake opened his mouth to protest, but Zeke cut him off, stepping forward and placing both hands squarely on Drake’s shoulders. The pressure was intense, deliberate—a physical anchor forcing Drake to stop spinning.

"I cross that border all the time to go to the livestock markets," Zeke continued, his eyes locked onto Drake’s with fierce determination. "The guards know my face. No one will think anything of it. You can hide in the truck bed, under the heavy canvas tarpaulin and the feed sacks. No one will suspect a thing."

"No, Zeke—"

"Yes." Zeke squeezed his shoulders, refusing to let him pull away. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Drake. You're my brother, and we're getting you home. Now come on, we don't have a single minute to lose."

Drake nodded, the frantic tightness in his chest easing just a fraction under the weight of his friend's fierce resolve. Reaching down, he snagged the strap of his canvas duffel bag and his leather jacket from the mattress. The two men moved in unison, their heavy boots throwing up a hurried rhythm against the floorboards as they headed down the narrow hallway and pushed through the wooden screen door into the bright, dust-moted air of the yard. The sheer, blinding panic that had gripped Drake at the château had solidified into a quiet, focused adrenaline.

In the center of the yard, his motorcycle still stood haphazardly, the engine ticking quietly as it cooled.

"I'll move my bike out of the way," Drake said, his voice clipped but steady as he gestured toward the machine.

Zeke gave a firm nod. "Right. I'll go round the side and bring the truck around. Be ready."

Zeke turned on his heel, his boots crunching loudly against the stones as he walked around the corner of the farmhouse toward the shaded overhang where his old farm truck was parked. The scent of damp earth and diesel hung in the shadow of the building. But as he neared the vehicle, the gate to the chicken coops creaked open, and Kiara stepped into the path. She was carrying a woven wicker basket, the fragile, pastel-coloured shells of freshly gathered eggs resting against a bed of straw.

She stopped short, her sharp eyes darting from Zeke’s tense expression to the keys clutched tightly in his fist.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, her voice carrying a sharp, probing edge.

"I'm taking Drake back across the border," Zeke said bluntly, not slowing his stride as he reached for the truck's driver-side handle. "I'm taking him to Cordonia."

Kiara gasped, the basket trembling in her hands as the colour rapidly drained from her face. "What? No, you can't!"

"I have to, Ki," Zeke replied, his voice strained as he unlocked the door. "His mum is sick. She's dying."

"No, she was doing better!" Kiara snapped, her voice rising an octave, a defensive, frantic edge cutting through her tone. "The last we heard from Leo, she was on the mend. She was fine!"

"Well, it looks like she's taken a massive turn for the worse," Zeke said, his patience thinning under the ticking pressure of the clock he could hear in his mind. "Leo doesn't think she has much time left. Drake needs to be there, and I am taking him. Now."

Zeke pulled the heavy metal door open, but before he could climb into the cab, Kiara lunged forward. With a sharp, violent motion, she forcibly slammed the truck door shut, the heavy metal clanging loudly through the quiet yard. She stood mere inches from him, her chest heaving, looking up at her brother with eyes full of pure venom and an unhinged, possessive anger.

"This isn't about Bianca at all, is it?" she hissed, her fingers clawing tightly around the handle of the wicker basket. "That's just an excuse. A ruse. This is about her."

Zeke stared at his sister, utterly bewildered. "Who?"

"Emilia!" Kiara shrieked, the name tearing from her throat like an accusation. "He's going back to see Emilia, isn't he?! Well, I won't let you! I won't let you take him away from me! He's mine! That spoiled bitch doesn't deserve him!"

A wave of pure, white-hot fury crashed through Zeke’s chest. The sheer, blinding selfishness of her words made his blood run hot. "Would you listen to yourself?!" he roared, stepping into her space, his voice echoing off the barn walls. "This has absolutely nothing to do with Emilia! This is about his mother! She is dying, Kiara! He needs to be there for her, he needs to see her while she is still breathing!"

"No!" Kiara screamed back, tears of bitter rage spilling over her lashes as she shook her head frantically. "If you take him back to Cordonia, he might never come back here! I won't let you take him from me! He's mine, Zeke! I can make him happy if he just stays!"

"He is not yours, Kiara!" Zeke’s voice dropped into a low, fierce snarl, his eyes blazing with a disgust he had never felt toward his own blood before. "I know you have feelings for him. I know you wish to God he would look at you the way you look at him, but he doesn't! He loves Emilia! His heart belongs to her! But this isn't even about that! This is about his mother! Do you remember what it was like when Mum and Dad passed away? Do you remember the absolute devastation of that empty house?"

Kiara flinched, but her jaw remained locked in a stubborn, ugly line.

"Drake needs to be there for his family, and I will help him any way I can," Zeke growled, his knuckles tense as he gripped the door handle once more. "And I will not allow your sick jealousy and obsession with him to stop me from doing what is right!"

"He's mine, Zeke!" she sobbed, completely blind to anything but her own desperate possessiveness.

"Listen to yourself! Could you be any more utterly selfish?!" Zeke wrenched the truck door open, the hinges groaning loudly. He turned back to her one last time, his face set in stone. "You need to let him go, Kiara. You need to stop living in this pathetic fantasy world and you need to face the facts. He loves someone else, he needs to go home to be with his dying mother, and I am taking him. I suggest you stay right here and think about how you've been acting. Because this obsession you have... it's turning you into someone I don't even recognise."

Without waiting for her reply, Zeke climbed into the high cab and slammed the door behind him. He turned the key, the truck’s heavy diesel engine roaring to life with a loud, smoky rumble that completely drowned out his sister's protests. He threw the vehicle into gear and pulled sharply out from the side of the house, leaving Kiara standing frozen in the dirt.

He drove around to the main yard, bringing the truck to a stop just as Drake finished rolling his motorcycle into the safety of the equipment shed. Drake hurried over, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and climbed quickly into the passenger side of the cab.

"We'll keep you in the front for now to get some distance," Zeke muttered, his voice tight with lingering anger as he shifted gears. "We'll pull over into the treeline and get you under the canvas before we hit the border patrol."

Drake nodded, completely unaware of the storm that had just occurred on the other side of the house. "Let's go," he whispered.

Zeke hit the accelerator, and the truck tore out of the Theron farmyard, kicking up a massive, swirling cloud of pale dust that drifted lazily in the afternoon sun.

From the shadow of the house, Kiara watched the truck speed away until it disappeared over the crest of the winding road. A suffocating bitterness settled deep into her throat. She hated the fact that the truck hadn't stopped. She hated the fact that Drake hadn't even looked back through the rear window to see her standing there.

But as she squeezed the wicker basket so hard that the fragile white eggshells finally cracked beneath her fingers, oozing thick, ruined yolk over her hands, the hatred she felt completely shifted. It narrowed, sharpening into a lethal, pinpoint focus. The rage wasn't directed at Drake. It was entirely, completely focused on Emilia.

A woman she had never met, but a woman she now hated with a savage, burning fire unlike anything she had ever felt in her life.

Drake sat up, the thick wool blankets sliding against his chest and pooling around his waist as he stretched, his muscles loosening with a satisfying ache. He listened to the house—the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the distant, muffled crackle of logs still settling in the grate, and the whistle of the wind as it whispered through the eaves. It was Christmas morning, and the crushing weight which had been a constant pressure in his chest for so long had shifted with a sharp, complicated ache. He was desperate for the arrival of his family, yearning to bury himself in their warmth, yet the agonizing silence from across the border felt louder than ever on a day like today.

He swung his legs out of bed, his feet finding the warm, polished grain of the floorboards, and walked to the window to pull back the curtains. The sight that met him stole his breath.

Outside, the world had been transformed into a pristine, crystalline white. A heavy, undisturbed blanket of snow clung to every branch and fence post, glistening like crushed diamonds under the soft, pre-dawn light. It was breathtakingly beautiful—a silent, icy sanctuary. It pulled a smile from his lips, tethering his heart to his roots with a sudden, visceral ache of nostalgia. He could practically see himself as a child, racing through snow just like this with Leo when they were barely tall enough to reach the fence line, their mittens soaked through, their boots leaving chaotic, sprawling tracks through the slush as they engaged in breathless snowball wars. He could almost feel the phantom sting of cold on his nose and the weight of the lumpy, uneven snowmen they’d built—the ones with pebble eyes and wonky carrot noses that always seemed to slide askew. Then the memories shifted with the passage of years as he recalled the teenage winters where Max had joined them, the three of them sledging down the steep, treacherous slopes of Duchy Ramada until the stars came out, or the exhilarating, dangerous speed of skating across the frozen lake, the ice ringing like a bell beneath their blades.

And today, the past would reach out and touch the present. Leo and Max were crossing the border to spend Christmas with their friend, their brother in every way that mattered, and they were bringing Bianca.

Drake’s smile tightened, a sliver of icy worry cutting through the warmth of the room and tempering his excitement. It had been weeks since he’d seen his mother. The phone calls from the stable office at the château had become the highlight and the bane of his existence. She was always "better," always "getting there," but he couldn't un-hear that rasping edge to her breath or the way her cough hitched, sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. Just let her be okay, he thought, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned pale. Let her be strong enough for the journey. He needed to see her with his own eyes, to see the colour back in her cheeks, to know she wasn't just weathering the storm, but surviving it.

He exhaled a long, shaky breath, intending to head straight down to the kitchen. But as his gaze drifted across the room, it locked onto the scarred wooden desk in the corner. The soft orange glow of the bedside lamp seemed to pull him toward it, entirely dismantling the mental barrier he had tried to build against his heartbreak. He couldn't do it. Before the rest of the world stirred, before his family arrived to occupy his time, he had to reach across the distance. He had to write to the only woman who had ever, and would ever, own his heart.

Defeated by his own desperate longing, he sat down, the wood cool and solid beneath his hands, and pulled a fresh sheet of crisp white paper toward him.

He didn't hesitate—he never did—and the ink flowed with the practiced determination of a man who spoke with his heart and soul. My dearest Emilia, he began.

The frantic desperation of the early days of his banishment, and the fire of his later anger, had burned itself out weeks ago, leaving behind a vast, hollow ache—a quiet, persistent sorrow that defined his days. He traced the words, imagining her sitting in the palace, perhaps holding one of these letters, perhaps reading them before setting them aside. He didn't know what she was doing. He didn't know if she was even alive in her heart, or if she had buried the memory of him deep enough to stop it from hurting. But he didn't write to blame her or to demand answers for why she had never replied to him; he wrote because she was the only anchor he had left in a world that felt increasingly uncertain. He wrote to keep her memory vivid, to keep the dream of them alive, even when the silence from the other side of the border felt like a door slamming shut.

I miss you, he wrote, the pen lingering on the page. I miss the way you look at the stars, the way you laugh when you think no one is watching, the way your skin feels against mine. I miss the passion you have for music and sketching, and the way your smile makes me feel like the most important man in the world.

He loved her with a terrifying, absolute certainty. It was the marrow of his bones, the blood in his veins. He was convinced, with a stubbornness that defied logic and distance, that they were two halves of a whole, and that the universe wouldn't be cruel enough to keep them apart forever. He had to believe it; it was the only thing that kept him going.

He finished the letter, his hand steady even as his heart stuttered and tears welled in his eyes. He sealed the envelope, watching as the white paper disappeared into the slot—a tiny, paper coffin for a declaration of love that might never be answered.

He didn't know if she would ever write back. He didn't know if she even wanted to. For all Drake knew, Emilia had chosen her duty—her crown and her title—over the man she had spent the most magical summer falling in love with amongst the roses. But for today—on this quiet, frost-bitten Christmas morning—and for every day until he saw her again, he would keep writing. He would send his soul and his love to her across the border, piece by piece. He would keep waiting, he would keep hoping, and he would keep breathing in the silence of this farmhouse, until the day he finally saw her again.

Drake quieted his mind, pulled on his jeans and a heavy wool jumper, and placed the letter securely in his pocket before walking down the long, dim hallway toward the kitchen. The deep, comforting warmth of the house grew thicker with every step, accompanied now by the rich, roasted aroma of chicory coffee and the sharp, festive scent of cinnamon and cloves.

When he pushed open the kitchen door, however, the domestic scene that met him was not the one he expected.

Kiara was standing by the heavy cast-iron stove, but she wasn’t wearing her usual practical woollens or a stained cotton apron. She was framed by the soft morning light in a dress of deep, devouring burgundy velvet. It was an exceptionally fine dress, tailored beautifully to nip sharply at her waist before clinging directly to the curve of her hips, the portrait neckline exposing the smooth line of her collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts.

Kiara’s pulse had quickened at the sound of his boots on the floorboards. She had spent hours altering the seams by the dim light of her bedside lamp, pricking her fingers just to ensure the velvet hugged her body like a second skin. She had saved for months for the fabric, scrimping on everything else, all for this exact moment. She knew he would have written one of his letters of love and devotion this morning, just as he always did. She knew he had been thinking of her. Emilia.

Let the ghost across the border try to compete with this, Kiara thought, her jaw tightening as she maintained a bright, effortless smile. Let a piece of paper and a memory compete with flesh and blood.

"Good morning, mon cœur," she purred, turning away from the stove. Her voice was a warm, inviting melody that cut through the quiet hum of the kitchen. "And Joyeux Noël."

"Merry Christmas, Ki," Drake replied, not reacting to the use of the pet name. He offered a friendly smile to the woman he thought of as his friend and saviour. "You look... very festive. That's a beautiful dress."

A rush of genuine, intoxicating warmth flooded Kiara’s chest. He had noticed. The irritation she usually carried at his perceived lack of interest in her melted away, replaced by a fierce, triumphant delight. He had called her beautiful, and she relished the words, letting them settle over her like a victory.

"Do you really think so?" she asked softly, stepping into his personal space. The heavy velvet of her skirt rustled softly against his jeans, a rich, sliding sound in the quiet room. "I wanted today to feel special. It's our first Christmas together, after all."

Drake looked at her, his smile widening slightly with genuine appreciation. "It is. Thank you again for offering to host my mum, Leo, and Max."

"It's my pleasure, Drake," she replied, her voice softening as she looked up at him. "You’re important to me, and therefore so are they."

Drake just smiled, a quiet warmth in his eyes, and tried to step around her toward the counter. But before he could take a full step back, she reached up, her expression shifting into one of tender, domestic care.

"Hold still a moment," she whispered. Her fingers were warm and delicate against the rough wool as she brushed a stray piece of lint from the neckline of his jumper. She let the tips of her fingers linger against the skin of his throat for a second too long, before slowing and deliberately moving her hand downward, tracing the hard lines of his chest through the heavy knit before slowly drawing her hand back. "There. Can't have a handsome man like yourself looking untidy on Christmas morning."

Drake merely offered a nod of gratitude, completely blind to the heavy, loaded nature of the touch. He stepped past her toward the counter, his mind already shifting to the day's logistics. "Thank you. Is the coffee ready? I wanted to get a hot cup into me before I head down to the barn to check the cattle’s water troughs."

"It’s just settling," Kiara said, watching the broad line of his back as he moved. She picked up a heavy ceramic mug, pouring the dark, steaming chicory coffee. "You shouldn't work too hard today, Drake. You already work so many hours at the château. Besides, Zeke has already headed down to the barn. Sit, enjoy the warmth."

She handed him the mug, ensuring her fingers slid slowly across his knuckles as the ceramic changed hands. Drake took a prescriptive sip, the dark liquid chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

"Are you sure?" he asked, glancing toward the window.

"Of course."

"OK. Well, in that case, I'll head into the village after this coffee," he added casually, leaning against the wooden counter. "I want to mail my letter before my mum and the guys arrive. I can pick up any last-minute things we might need for dinner whilst I’m there."

Kiara turned fully toward him, her entire body subtly stiffening. A cold, sharp blade of resentment pierced straight through her earlier joy. The letter. Even today, on Christmas morning, with her standing right in front of him in a dress that had cost her months of sacrifice, he was still planning his morning around that woman. She carefully set down the cloth she was holding, swallowing the sudden, bitter tightness in her throat. He didn't notice the sharp intake of her breath or the way her jaw set before she forced her expression into one of gentle concern.

Instead of turning back to the stove, she stepped across the small space between them. She reached out, her hands soft but firm as she took the warm ceramic mug from his grip and placed it on the counter behind him.

"Drake," she murmured, taking his hands in hers. They were still cool from him standing by his bedroom window, and she began to rub them gently between her own palms, bringing them close to the plush, heavy velvet across her breasts. "It’s Christmas morning. Look outside—the roads are going to be treacherous."

She looked up into his eyes, her gaze full of a soft, pitying affection that masked her deep frustration and longing. "You work yourself to the bone at the château, and I know you're sick with worry about your mother. Yet the very first thing you think to do today is walk through the freezing cold to drop a piece of paper that you know won’t be answered into an empty box?"

Drake frowned slightly, opening his mouth to reply, but she squeezed his hands, stepping closer until the heat of her body practically radiated against his jeans.

"You have been carrying the burden of a broken heart around with you for so long," she whispered, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register as she brought her hand up to caress his cheek. "And for what? For a daily dose of disappointment when you hear nothing back. Let the village wait today. Let the border wait. The people who truly care about you—the ones who are actually crossing borders to see you, the ones who are here right now—we are the ones who really matter. We are the ones who really care about you. Don't exhaust yourself for a memory before your mother even gets here. Let yourself have a break."

Drake didn't pull away from her touch, but a shadow crossed his face, his broad shoulders dropping as the brutal truth of her words settled into his chest. He looked away, his voice raw and thick with months of exhaustion. "I don't know how to stop, Ki. It’s all I have left of her."

Kiara’s thumb swept gently across his cheekbone, her eyes shining with a deeply calculated pity. "I know, mon cœur. But how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? I care about you, Drake. So much. I hate seeing you break your own heart over a woman who can't even be bothered to reply to you—not when you have so much love inside you. Love that deserves to be returned."

Before the dangerous weight of her words could fully register in his mind, before he could question exactly what she meant by it, she closed the remaining distance and moved completely into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

To Drake, it was a perfectly natural gesture—a continuation of the deep, familiar comfort they had shared when she had nursed him back to health in his darkest hours. He didn't think twice about the embrace; he simply let out a long, weary sigh and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in return, grateful for the support of the woman he considered his saviour.

But as he rested his chin on the top of her head, completely lost in his anxieties about his mother's health and his unanswered letters, Kiara held him a little tighter. She pressed her face into the rough wool of his jumper, letting her hands slide flat against his back, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his breathing. Emilia was nothing but a fading echo across a distant border, but Kiara was here, rooted in his life. And as long as he stayed in this house, she knew it was only a matter of time before he would forget all about Emilia entirely and become hers.

*****

The sharp, metallic click of the back door latch suddenly severed the heavy silence of the kitchen. It was followed immediately by a blast of winter air that cut through the room's cloistered heat, and the familiar, heavy thud of boots stamping thick crusts of snow onto the hallway doormat.

Kiara didn't release Drake right away. She remained frozen for a fraction of a second, her fingers clenching into the wool of his jumper, desperately anchoring him to her chest as she inhaled the delicious, intoxicating scent of his bay rum aftershave. She wanted to stay exactly like this, in his arms, sheltered from the world, but to her sharp disappointment, Drake’s posture instantly shifted. The comforting illusion shattered as he stepped back, a polite clearing of his throat breaking the intimate spell. He turned toward the hall doorway, a genuine, easy smile wiping the vulnerability from his face.

"Merry Christmas," Zeke said, stepping out of the shadows of the porch. A crisp, icy gust seemed to follow him, clinging to the heavy wool of his dark coat. He pulled off his thick leather mittens, slapping them together, his dark skin flushed a deep, warm crimson from the biting valley wind. He looked between the two of them, his perceptive gaze lingering just a moment too long on his sister's tense, flushed face before he offered a warm, easy smile.

"Merry Christmas, mate," Drake replied, his voice returning to its normal, grounding register. He felt a sudden surge of relief at the sight of his friend. "I was just about to come down to the barn to give you a hand with the water troughs, but Kiara said you had the morning shift completely sorted."

"Yeah, it's all put to bed, don't you worry," Zeke said. He hung his coat on a wooden peg by the door, unhooking a clean ceramic mug from the tree on the counter. He walked over to the stove, pouring himself a stream of the steaming, pitch-black chicory coffee. Leaning back against the worn timber counter, he cradled the hot mug in both hands and looked at Drake with a deep, quiet affection. "Besides, I figured you’d have a hell of a lot on your mind today. I know how much you’ve been pacing the floors over your mother."

Drake’s expression softened, the brief reprieve of the morning dissolving as that persistent shadow of anxiety re-established itself in his eyes. He stared down at his own hands. "Yeah. I just hope when they get here and I see her with my own eyes, I’ll finally feel a bit better. She hasn't sounded herself on the phone the last few weeks. It’s like... a frailty I’ve never heard in her before."

Zeke crossed the small space between them, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, and clapped a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Drake’s shoulder. "I'm sure she’s going to be just fine, mate. She’s a fighter, same as you. But no matter what happens today, or any other day, we’re here for you. We’ve got your back. Right, Ki?"

"Always," Kiara chimed in. The word was smooth, but it lacked the easy warmth it usually carried; her jaw had set into a hard line the exact second Drake had stepped out of her embrace. She moved to Drake’s side, her burgundy velvet skirt rustling like dry autumn leaves against his jeans. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and intense, filled with a desperate, heavy meaning that she practically willed him to decipher. "You're our family now, Drake. You don't have to carry anything alone."

Drake simply smiled, entirely oblivious to the possessive undercurrent of her words. To him, it was just the profound kindness of the people who had saved his life. "Thanks, guys."

Zeke took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting downward. His eyes locked onto the sharp, distinct rectangular crease straining against the denim of Drake’s jeans pocket. "To be honest, mate, I expected you to already be gone by the time I came up from the barn. Knowing you, I figured you’d be itching to get out to the village mailbox before the snow got any deeper."

Kiara shot her brother a look of pure, unadulterated venom. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her fingers tightening around the handle of the copper coffee pot until the rich brown skin over her knuckles stretched taut, her hand trembling slightly with the force of her grip. Zeke, focused entirely on Drake, didn't notice the silent threat radiating across the stove.

"Actually, we were just talking about that very thing, weren't we, mon cœur?" Kiara said. Her voice dropped into a sweet, artificial purr, a honeyed tone that made Zeke’s eyes instantly snap toward her. His brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he caught the jarringly intimate pet name. Kiara ignored her brother, forcing a tight, paper-thin smile as she looked back at Drake. "I was just telling him he needs to let it go today. It’s Christmas morning. He shouldn't be wasting the holiday chasing after ghosts at an empty post box."

Drake shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his thumb nervously tracing the glazed rim of his coffee mug. The internal war raged in his eyes—the desperate compulsion to send his soul and love across the border clashing with the brutal reality of the weather and the silence from Emilia. "I don't know... It... it just feels wrong not mailing it. Like I’m breaking a promise. I think I might try the walk anyway."

"Drake, I told you, the drifts in the lanes are treacherous," Kiara countered quickly, her voice rising slightly, pitched with a sharp undercurrent of panic. She couldn't let him leave this house; she couldn't let him prove, yet again, that the ghost across the border held more power over him than she did. "It’ll take you hours to walk through the snow, and you can't exactly ride your motorcycle in this weather. It’s too dangerous."

Drake looked out the frost-rimmed window at the heavy white landscape, his chest heaving with a long, defeated sigh. His shoulders sagged, the sheer physical impossibility of the journey crushing the fragile hope he had spent the morning nursing. "Oh... right."

"You could take the truck," Zeke offered casually, setting his mug down on the counter with a soft clink. "The winter tyres have plenty of tread left on them, and the bed is weighted down. It drives pretty well in the snow."

Kiara’s head snapped toward her brother, a silent, murderous fury flashing through her eyes. She wanted to scream at him, to choke the words right out of his throat, but Zeke completely refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes locked onto Drake, watching the instant transformation in his friend.

Drake’s face lit up, a sudden, brilliant spark of hope cutting through the exhaustion that had weighed him down just moments ago. It was as if Zeke had handed him a lifeline in the middle of a storm. "Are you sure, mate? I don't want to risk your engine if the roads are that bad."

"Absolutely certain. It needs a run anyway to keep the battery from freezing." Zeke reached into his pocket, his fingers jingling against metal, and pulled out the heavy brass key ring. With an easy, practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed them across the kitchen.

Drake caught them out of the air, the brass cold against his palm, and a genuine, breathtaking smile broke across his handsome features. "Thanks, Zeke. I owe you one. I’ll go right now so I'm back in plenty of time before the guys and my mum arrive."

He hastily downed the last of his lukewarm coffee and grabbed his heavy leather jacket from the wooden hooks near the door, shoving his arms into the sleeves with a renewed, frantic energy. The letter in his pocket seemed to burn against his skin, urging him forward. Before he stepped out into the cold, he paused with his hand on the iron latch, looking back at the siblings. "Do we need anything last minute from the bakery or the dry goods shop while I'm out near the village square?"

"No, we’re all good here," Zeke said quickly, intentionally cutting in with a loud, firm voice before Kiara could invent some imaginary household emergency to drag Drake back into the room.

"See you soon, then. Merry Christmas."

The door clicked shut, and a heartbeat later, the heavy, metallic rumble of the truck’s diesel engine roared to life in the snowy farmyard. The sound vibrated through the kitchen floorboards, a slow, steady pulse that gradually faded into a distant hum as the truck navigated the long, snow-packed driveway, eventually disappearing into the suffocating silence of the winter morning.

The stillness that settled over the kitchen was immediate, thick, and utterly suffocating. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed to grow deafeningly loud.

Zeke slowly turned his head, his easy going demeanour vanishing as he levelled a hard, uncompromising stare at his sister. "What the hell is going on with you, Ki?"

"Nothing," Kiara huffed. She spun around on her heel, turning her back to him so he couldn't see the raw anger contorting her features. She violently snatched up a cotton kitchen towel and began scrubbing at a clean spot on the cast-iron stove, her movements erratic and tense. "I just don't think we should be encouraging his delusions, that’s all. We shouldn't be helping him chase after a woman who discarded him like a piece of trash."

"Kiara," Zeke sighed. The sound was heavy, filled with a deep, protective older-brother exhaustion that had carried the weight of her moods for years. He walked over, grabbing the towel from her hand and forcing her to stop the frantic, useless scrubbing. "Look at me."

"What?" she snapped, spinning around to face him. Her jaw was set, her chest heaving beneath the tight burgundy velvet, her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides.

Zeke looked down at her, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register. "Do you have feelings for him?"

Kiara lifted her chin, her expression instantly hardening into a defensive, stubborn mask that she had used since childhood whenever she was cornered. She gave a sharp, careless shrug of her shoulders, though her eyes remained fiercely alight. "And what if I do? That’s not really any of your business, is it, Zeke?"

"Kiara, look at him," Zeke said softly, his voice a mixture of profound pity and absolute, brutal honesty. "He is in love with another woman. It isn't a crush, and it isn't something he’s just going to wake up and shake off."

"So?" Kiara stepped closer to him, her heels clicking sharply on the stone, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, calculating intensity that made her look entirely unrecognizable. "She’s not here, is she? She’s miles away in a completely different country. I am here. He’s breaking out, Zeke, and I am the one who is actually standing in this house to pick up the pieces. I’m the one who nursed him back from the dead. In time, he will see that I'm the one he’s supposed to be with. Flesh and blood always wins over a memory."

"And what if he doesn't see it?" Zeke asked, his voice steady but laced with a growing sense of dread. "What if he never looks at you that way?"

"He will, Zeke!" she insisted, her voice cracking in a sharp, defensive burst that echoed off the cold kitchen walls. "At some point, he has to face the hard, cold facts. Emilia is not coming back for him. She doesn't love him—if she loved him even a fraction of the amount he loves her; she would be standing in this kitchen right now! She would have replied to at least one of those damn letters! She chose her family's money, her luxury, and her father's approval. She let him be beaten and cast out, and he’s killing himself for nothing."

Zeke looked at his sister, a profound wave of sadness and worry washing over his rugged features. He shook his head slowly, reaching out to touch her arm, but she flinched away from him.

"Kiara, I’m sorry, but you are blind if you think you can just rewrite what’s inside him," Zeke said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. "That man is completely, utterly consumed by her. It’s in the way he breathes; it’s in the way he looks at the stars. He loves Emilia with every single thing he has left in his soul. You need to realise right now, before you drown yourself in this, that he might never be able to love anyone else the way he loves her. He literally calls her the love of his life, Ki. You can't compete with that."

"For now, maybe," Kiara whispered. Her voice lost its frantic edge, sinking into a quiet, chilling register that made Zeke's blood run cold. She looked past her brother's shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the empty doorway where Drake had stood just moments before. The raw, manipulative certainty in her eyes was terrifyingly absolute. "But passions fade when they're met with silence. I can make him forget her, Zeke. I know I can. I just have to be patient."

Zeke let out a long, defeated breath, staring at her with a heavy heart. "Kiara, please. I don't want to see you get hurt when this completely blows up in your face. If she ever comes back—"

"She won't," Kiara interrupted, her voice steady and her lips curving into a cold, unwavering smile as she smoothed down the rich, heavy velvet of her dress. "I know exactly what I'm doing, Zeke. Drake will be mine, one way or another. Now drop it. We have a dinner to prepare."

*****

The heavy silence that had settled over the kitchen in Drake’s absence didn't truly dissipate when he returned; it simply reshaped itself. He had walked back into the farmhouse a different man than the one who had left it an hour ago. The denim of his right thigh no longer bore the sharp, rigid outline of the envelope, and its absence left him feeling strangely weightless, almost hollowed out. Yet, beneath that raw vulnerability, a fragile, stubborn spark of hope still refused to be dimmed. He had dropped his soul into that cold metal box in the village square, and on a morning as miraculous as Christmas, he couldn't stop the quiet, desperate prayer echoing in his mind—that across the border, in a palace he could only see in his dreams, Emilia might finally break the silence.

For now, he forced that longing deep into his chest, anchoring himself to the reality of the present. There was no more time for ghosts. Today was for his family.

The kitchen was a battlefield covered in a pristine white tablecloth. The rich, deep aroma of roasting meat and caramelised winter vegetables filled the air, mingling with the festive sharpness of cinnamon and cloves from the stove. On the surface, everything was perfect. But beneath the domestic warmth, the tension between Zeke and Kiara was palpable—a fragile veneer of Christmas hospitality stretched so thin it practically vibrated.

Kiara moved around the space with a rigid, graceful efficiency, her burgundy velvet dress swishing with a sharp, defensive snap every time she passed her brother. Zeke remained leaning against the counter, his large hands cradled around a fresh mug of coffee, his quiet, watchful eyes tracking her movements with a heavy, protective sorrow. Whenever Drake looked their way, Kiara would instantly flash a bright, effortless smile, her voice dropping into that sweet, honeyed register as she asked him to check the carving knife or stoke the grate. But it wasn't just her voice that claimed him. Every time she crossed the kitchen, her hand would press firmly against his shoulder, her fingers lingering as they slowly traced the strong, broad lines of his back. She was incapable of passing him without making physical contact, deliberately marking her territory before his family arrived. Each touch was an aggressive, tactile design to claim him as her own—a desperate attempt to print herself onto his skin and crowd out the lingering memory of Emilia.

And then, the silence was shattered.

The distant, unmistakable rattle of a diesel engine echoed down the long, snow-packed driveway. Drake froze, a wooden spoon hovering over a bubbling pot of gravy, his ears straining as the heavy, rhythmic thrum grew louder, bouncing off the stone walls of the barn before finally dying down into a low, rumbling idle right in the middle of the farmyard.

"They're here," Drake breathed.

He didn't just walk to the door; he moved with a sudden, frantic urgency, abandoning the kitchen and sprinting into the dim hallway. His heart hammered against his ribs, a fierce, desperate joy completely obliterating the anxiety that had clouded his morning. He reached the door just as the floorboards in the hall groaned behind him, Zeke and Kiara following at a more measured pace.

Drake grabbed the iron latch and yanked the door inward.

A violent swirl of winter air and powdery white snow swept into the hallway, but Drake didn't feel the chill. Before he could even step onto the porch, the doorway was completely filled by two large, snow-dusted figures.

"Merry Christmas, mate!" Max’s boisterous voice boomed through the quiet house, completely shattering the suffocating solemnity of the morning.

Before Drake could even open his mouth to reply, Max lunged forward. He didn't just hug Drake; he practically tackled him, his heavy, snow-damp woollen coat slamming into Drake's chest. Max’s hands thudded violently against Drake's back in a series of fierce, bruising slaps, burying his face into Drake’s shoulder with a rough, breathless laugh.

"God, it's good to see you," Max muffled into Drake’s jumper, his grip tightening until Drake’s ribs creaked beneath the pressure.

"Okay Max, don't hog the man!" Leo’s voice cut in, smoother and carrying an undeniable, trembling warmth.

Max finished releasing Drake, stepping back with a wide, wolfish grin, only for Leo to instantly step into the space. Leo didn't say another word. He just reached out and pulled Drake into an embrace that was entirely different from Max's chaotic assault. It was deep, grounding, and fiercely protective. Leo locked his arms around Drake’s shoulders, squeezing him with a silent, desperate strength that spoke of every single boundary, border, and mile they had crossed just to be here. He held him like a man making sure a missing piece of his own soul was actually real, his hand coming up to firmly grip the back of Drake's neck.

Drake closed his eyes, burying his face against Leo’s shoulder, his hands gripping the fabric of his friend's coat as a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion threatened to crack his throat wide open. This was his history. This was his blood.

"Missed you, brother," Leo whispered, his voice thick as he gave the back of Drake's neck one final, reassuring squeeze before pulling away.

Max immediately shoved his way back between them, throwing a heavy arm around Drake’s neck. "Alright, enough of the soft stuff, Leo. Come on, Walker, show us where the fire is. We're freezing our bollocks off out here."

Drake laughed—a genuine, booming sound that felt like it was clearing out months of stagnant, lonely air from his lungs. He stepped back with a breathtaking smile, his eyes shining with absolute devotion as he looked at the two of them. "It's so good to see you both. I can't believe you actually made it through the drifts."

The warmth of the moment lingered for a heartbeat, his smile remaining bright as he looked between his two best friends. But as he glanced from Max’s grin to Leo’s quiet eyes, the joyful commotion suddenly felt incomplete. The farmyard behind them was quiet, save for the steady low of the cattle.

The playful edge instantly dropped from his face, his gaze cutting past his friends' broad shoulders to track back out toward Leo’s truck. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice tightening with an immediate, baseline anxiety. "Where's Mum?"

"She's coming, mate. We just made her stay in the cab while we checked the porch wasn't too slippery," Leo said softly, stepping aside.

Max walked back, opening the passenger side door of the truck, and offered a steadying hand. When Bianca stepped down into the thick snow, a sharp, visceral shock slammed into Drake’s chest, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

She was noticeably, undeniably thinner. The heavy winter coat he had bought her for her birthday last year—the one that used to fit her perfectly—now hung loosely from her frame, the fabric bunching awkwardly around her shoulders as if she were drowning inside it. The vibrant, indomitable posture he had known his entire life had vanished, replaced by a delicate, slightly rounded stoop. As she walked toward the porch, her steps lacked their usual rhythmic, confident snap. She looked small against the vastness of the snowy farmyard.

Drake’s eyes instantly darted to Leo.

Standing on the threshold, the two lifelong friends locked eyes, and an entire, heavy conversation passed between them in absolute silence. It was a look between men who carried a shared burden—an unspoken admission from Leo that said, We’ve been watching over her for you. We’ve tried our absolute best, Drake, but she’s slipping. He gave a slow, barely perceptible shake of his head, a shadow of profound sorrow crossing his face, his jaw tight set with a grim, apologetic helplessness. He and Max had protected Drake's mother as surrogate sons in his absence, but they couldn't protect her from whatever had been ravaging her from the inside out.

The guilt that flooded Drake’s veins was nearly suffocating, a toxic heat that made his stomach turn. This is because of me, he thought brutally. My exile is doing this to her.

Before the panic could completely seize his throat, Max helped Bianca step up onto the porch and cross the threshold into the hallway. The dim light fell across her face, revealing a hollow sharpness to her cheekbones and a deep, grey exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes. When she lifted her hands to pull off her knitted gloves, they trembled—a fine, persistent shaking that Drake immediately tried to rationalise as nothing more than the biting effect of the winter wind.

But before he could even open his mouth to voice the terrifying questions screaming in his mind, Bianca looked up.

She caught the stark, naked fear freezing his features, and in an instant, her maternal instincts kicked right in. The frail, exhausted woman vanished, buried beneath a fierce, protective shield. She broke into a brilliant, genuinely radiant smile—the same warm, unconditional smile that had kept the dark at bay throughout his entire childhood.

"Look at you," she breathed, her voice carrying that familiar, melodic warmth, completely ignoring her own state as she reached for him. "My beautiful boy."

She lunged forward, pulling him down into her arms. Drake collapsed into her embrace, burying his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the comforting, unchanged scent of her familiar lavender soap. But as his arms wrapped around her back, the dread returned tenfold. She felt lighter, more fragile, as though her bones were made of nothing but balsa wood and glass.

Yet, despite her terrifying physical lack of weight, her hug was fierce. She locked her arms around his broad shoulders with a desperate, unyielding strength, holding onto her son as if she were anchoring them both to the earth.

When she finally let him go, her hands lingered on his arms for a split second, anchoring her balance before she let him guide her down the hallway and into the warmth of the kitchen.

The transition into the bright, sensory-rich room brought her frailty into even sharper focus. As she unbuttoned her loose coat, the light from the hearth caught the hollowed contours of her throat and the translucent, fragile quality of her skin. Max took her coat with a quiet, practiced gentleness, while Leo smoothly pulled out the sturdiest armchair, positioning it right beside the roaring fire.

"There you go, Bee," Leo murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, affectionate register. He and Drake, and later Max, had spent their entire childhood running through her home and taking her sharp, loving scolds whenever they tracked mud across her floors. To him and Max, she was a second mother. They had done everything they could to care for her across the border, but as Bianca sank heavily into the cushions, her eyes never once strayed from her son.

Drake stepped closer, kneeling down by the side of her chair so he was at eye level with her. He reached out, his large hands carefully covering her smaller, trembling ones.

"Mum," he said softly, his voice thick with a desperate, mounting panic. "You’ve lost so much weight. You look... you look completely exhausted. What’s going on?"

Bianca let out a soft, scoffing laugh, a weak wave of her hand trying to dismiss his terror as if it were nothing more than silly drama. "Oh, don't you start, Drake. I’ve had these two clucking over me like a pair of old hens the entire drive. I’m fine."

"You're not fine," Drake insisted, his thumb gently tracing the prominent, fragile bones of her wrist. "Don't lie to me. Please."

She sighed, a small, weary smile touching her lips as she leaned her head back against the chair, absorbing the heavy heat of the flames. "I’ve had a nasty chest infection, that's all. But I’ve been to see the doctor in the village, Drake. Leo took me himself. He ran some tests, checked me all over, and gave me some medication."

Drake’s chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And? What did he say? Is the medicine working?"

"I'm on the mend, sweetheart, I promise," Bianca reassured him softly, her fingers gently threading through Drake’s hair. "The doctor thinks the infection only took such a fierce hold because my system was so run down. He concluded it's basically stress—brought on by the shock and the heartbreak of..."

She hesitated, her eyes flicking past Drake's shoulder to where Zeke and Kiara stood listening in the warmth of the kitchen. Bianca knew her son had never told them the full, terrifying truth of his exile. They knew he had fled across the border because Emilia's father had threatened his life, but they had no idea his banishment had actually been ordered by none other than the King himself.

Steeling her expression, Bianca brought her gaze right back to her son, continuing smoothly. "...of you having to leave. He said the worry just weakened my body's defences."

The words hit Drake like a physical blow to the sternum. The air left his lungs in a sharp, silent gasp, and a cold, suffocating wave of guilt flooded his veins, heavy as lead.

This is my fault. The thought was brutal, a jagged blade turning in his chest. I did this to her. It wasn't just a random winter bug; he had caused the vulnerability. His choices, his exile across the border, had stripped away her strength and left her body defenceless against the sickness. He was killing her just by existing in this forced silence. He looked down at her hands, unable to meet her gaze, the sheer weight of the self-reproach threatening to crush him right there on the floor.

Seeing the sudden, agonising slump of his shoulders, Bianca knew instantly where his mind had gone. Her maternal shield flared back to life.

She reached down, her warm, trembling hands cupping his jaw, forcing him to lift his head and look at her. "Look at me, Drake Walker."

When his tear-bright eyes met hers, her expression was fierce, blazing with an absolute, unconditional devotion.

"None of this is your fault, okay?" she whispered, a brilliant, radiant smile breaking across her face. "And seeing you today, holding you, knowing we are spending Christmas together under the same roof... that's the best medicine I could ask for. It makes me feel like a new woman, Drake. Leo and Max have been wonderful, absolute saints to me, but you are my heart. Being here with you is the only medicine I actually need to get better."

Drake stared at her, his jaw tight as he fought to keep his breathing steady. He could see the exhaustion still lingering deep in her eyes, could feel the slight tremor in the fingers pressing against his cheeks. But looking at her radiant smile, he chose to believe her. He slammed the door on his panic and clung to her words like a drowning man gasping for air. He desperately needed to believe that his presence could cure the damage his banishment had caused.

"Then we're not wasting a single second of today," he breathed, managing a fragile, fierce smile of his own as he held onto her hands. "I'm so glad you're here, Mum.”

*****

The afternoon dissolved into the golden, heavy warmth of a perfect Christmas. With Drake, Leo, and Max all under the same roof, the quiet, melancholic corners of the Theron farmhouse were utterly conquered. Zeke stepped over to the corner of the room, switching on the heavy wooden wireless set, and soon the warm, crackling hum of the valves filled the home, casting a comforting, familiar shield of festive music against the cold winter howling outside.

When they finally sat down at the kitchen table, the feast was a triumph of sensory distraction. The rich, savoury steam of the roast, the gleam of the white tablecloth under the amber glow of the candles, and the constant clatter of cutlery created a lively, safe haven.

Bianca sat at the head of the table, watching her son and his friends with a look of absolute, radiant pride. The grey exhaustion in her face seemed to recede under the magic of the afternoon, her eyes shining as she looked at Drake. Max was in rare form, boisterously recounting a disastrous gardening job he, Drake, and Leo had bungled back home as teenagers for his mother's neighbour, his loud, rolling laughter filling the room. Leo sat steady beside him, anchoring the conversation, chiming in with dry, perfectly timed corrections that had Drake laughing so hard his chest ached.

"Honestly, Bee, Max took a pair of rusty shears to the hydrangeas and left them looking like plucked chickens," Leo said, shaking his head.

"They grew back thicker the next spring, didn't they?" Max fired back defensively, pointing his fork at Leo. "That's standard pruning, mate. Tell him, Zeke. You know about land."

Zeke offered a slow, amused grin from his side of the table, leaning back slightly. "Sounds to me like you're lucky she didn't set the dogs on you, Max."

As the laughter rippled around the table, Kiara smoothly reached over, pouring a fresh measure of wine into Drake’s glass before resting her hand firmly over his. "Well, thank goodness Drake doesn't have to worry about any of that anymore," she said, her voice dropping into a sweet, honeyed register that hummed with a quiet possessiveness. "Between his long shifts down at the château stables and everything we do together when he gets back to the farm, he barely has time to think about gardening. I make sure he's looked after, don't I, mon cœur?"

Drake offered her a distracted, friendly smile, completely missing the loaded weight of her words as he gently pulled his hand away to gesture toward Max. "Don't listen to her, Max. I can still out-dig you any day of the week."

A flash of tight frustration rippled across Kiara’s features before she quickly masked it with another elegant sip of her wine. She kept her eyes locked on him, watching the animated line of his jaw and the brightness in his eyes, wishing with absolutely everything in her that he would finally just look at her. That he would love her, claim her, and forget all about his precious Emilia.

For a couple of hours, Bianca was right there in the middle of the joy, smiling and listening to the banter, though Drake noticed she was mostly picking at her food. When Max offered her a second helping of potatoes, she waved it away with a soft, weary laugh.

"I’m fine, thank you," she murmured, leaning back into her chair with a small sigh. "It’s absolutely wonderful, but I can’t seem to eat very much nowadays. I think the long drive this morning tired me out."

"Yeah, Leo’s driving would ruin anyone's appetite," Max chimed in with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, smoothly keeping the mood light. "You take it easy. We’ll finish off the heavy lifting."

Leo offered her a warm smile, reaching over to pour her a fresh glass of water. "Just sit back and enjoy the music, Bee. You've earned a rest."

"I've left some extra blankets by the hearth for you, too," Zeke added quietly, his eyes tracking Bianca with a respectful, protective consideration. "Whenever you’re ready to move away from the table, the fire is stoked."

Drake let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, a relaxed smile settling on his face as he looked at his mother. It made perfect sense, after all. She was recovering from a fierce chest infection and had just endured an exhausting trip across the border. Of course, she was completely spent and not quite ready for a heavy meal. He placed his hand over hers on the table, choosing to focus on the vibrant warmth of the room and the fact that she was here, safe and smiling.

Before long, the meal was finished, the dishes cleared, and the dark, uncertain shadow of his exile was completely locked outside in the snow. For a few beautiful hours, Drake was just a man surrounded by the people who loved him most. Across the room, Leo and Max were arguing in low, affectionate murmurs over who had to do the washing up, their familiar bickering a comforting soundtrack against the crackle of the hearth.

Moving away from the table, Drake crossed to the sofa where Bianca had settled to watch the flickering flames, looking warmer and more content than she had in months. He sat down beside her, smoothly lifting his arm to wrap it securely around her frail shoulders, and she sighed, resting her head against him with a peaceful familiarity.

As the heavy heat of the fire and the warmth of the afternoon washed over them, an overwhelming, monumental sense of peace settled deep into Drake’s chest—a feeling so vast and pure it felt almost holy. For the first time since his exile, the crushing weight he had felt completely lifted from his shoulders, leaving him lighter than he had ever thought possible. He had his friends by his side, their quiet laughter anchoring him to the room, and his mother was safe in his arms, her steady breathing proof that she was on the mend, cured by the simple medicine of being together.

Holding her close, he allowed his mind to drift across the border to the other half of his soul—Emilia, the woman who held his heart in her hands. He thought of her now, wondering what she was doing right in this exact moment, wrapping himself in her memory so vividly she almost felt close enough to touch. A soft, beautifully genuine smile touched his lips, a quiet prayer of pure hope echoing in his mind as he leaned his head gently against his mother's.

He closed his eyes and just breathed her in, holding her tightly against him, completely, tragically unaware of the unforgiving clock ticking down over Bianca’s life.

I love the visuals you produce.

Of course she's not wearing her usual clothes. Trying just a little, too hard, aren't we, honey? She is so very delusional.

Thank goodness for Zeke, the rational of the two. Hopefully he can talk some more sense into Kiara.

Drake had been in jail for two weeks.  

He’d had an altercation with a couple of assholes who claimed they’d fucked his new wife, Riley, on several occasions.  Drake didn’t care if it was before they’d been married; sure, they’d only known each other barely three weeks before running off and getting hitched; but she’d made him feel alive.  They’d kept taunting him, telling him all the things she liked them to do to her.  He didn’t like hearing anyone talk about her with such vulgarity, so he’d beaten both of them badly enough to land them in the hospital and he’d ended up behind bars to ‘seriously think about his actions’ - that’s what the magistrate had said anyway.

Now he was out, but before he went home to Riley, he was desperate for some whiskey.  He stopped at The Crooked Crown and saw Liam sitting at the bar having a scotch.  “Hey Drake, they finally let you out, huh?”  

“Yeah, I really need some whiskey,” he sighed.

“Make it a double.  I have something to tell you, and it'll probably piss you off,” Liam told him with apprehension.

Drake furrowed his brow.  “What?  Why?”

Liam hesitated again momentarily then let out a heavy sigh.  “Look, you know you're my best friend, right?”  

Drake swallowed his drink and nodded.  

“Well…” Liam almost had second thoughts about telling him.  

“Spit it out, Li,” Drake was getting irritated.

“Okay, okay!  When you go home, Riley probably won't be there,” he admitted matter-of-factly.  “Since you’ve been in jail she’s been fucking Maxwell Beaumont.”

Liam could see the anger fill Drake’s eyes and his grip tighten on the glass of whiskey in his hand.  

“Calm down, Drake, before you break that glass,” Liam said.  He took in a shaky breath and looked at Drake.  “And I need to tell you, I…I’ve also been with Riley.”  

Just as her name left his mouth, he felt Drake’s fist connect with his jaw and he landed on the floor.  

“What the fuck, Liam?!  I thought we were friends!  I guess not,” Drake seethed and stomped out of the bar.

Liam got back on his barstool and rubbed his jaw.  I guess I deserved that.  He finished his scotch and decided to head home.  As he walked home he began to think - he had a feeling that Drake wouldn’t forgive him for sleeping with Riley, but he still felt the need to be honest with his friend. 

Once home he took a shower, then sat down to watch TV.  He knew he’d probably lost Drake’s friendship and that bothered him.  Drake was like a brother to him.  He decided he would try to make amends after Drake calmed down.  But if Riley was still cheating on Drake, he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to pull himself together.

In the meantime at Drake’s cabin…

Drake threw the door open when he got home, ready to tear into Riley about her screwing around.  “Brooks!! We need to talk! NOW!!!”  

He waited for her to answer, but there was only silence.

He stormed through the cabin searching for her.  “Brooks!” Drake called out to her again, but there was still no answer.  “RILEY!!!!” he bellowed, “GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE NOW!!!”

But she was nowhere to be found.  He noticed her purse and phone were gone, along with some of her clothes.

“Well, FUCK!!” 

He threw a vase across the room and charged down the hall to the study, knocking pictures off the walls as he went.  When he got there he opened the small safe that was hidden behind a large portrait of the Walker family, taken just months before his father’s death.  Inside the safe was his father’s Beretta M9 that he’d inherited after Jackson’s death, along with his father’s medal, the pocket watch Jackson received for saving his boss’ life, and Jackson’s will outlining the inheritance disbursements for he and Savannah.

He put the M9 in the waistband of his jeans, covered it with his shirt and strode out the door through the woods behind the cabin.

Meanwhile, back at Liam’s place…

Liam had dozed off while watching TV and got up to get himself another drink.  As he was leaving the kitchen, he noticed that his back door was ajar.  He started to close it, but instead walked toward the living room where he heard something shuffle and went to check on the noise. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide with fear when he saw the gun pointed at him.  He put his hands up defensively, “You?!?!  What are you doing here??  Wh–why are you doing this??”  Liam had never been afraid in his life, until this moment.  

“You know why. You were sleeping with her!!”  

“Please, don’t do this,” he pleaded.  “It was one time.  It won’t ever happen again!”

“You’re so right about that.”

Liam saw his assailant’s finger start to pull the trigger.  

“NO!! PL—-”  

But before he could finish his plea, two shots were fired.

.

.

.

.

.

Drake was still fuming as he hiked through the woods towards Liam’s place.  

The sun was beginning to set, leaving the woods bathed in low light.  He had to sidestep a fallen branch, and it was only then that he noticed another set of tracks on the ground heading in the same direction.  

Those can’t be Liam’s, they’re too small.  

His anger began to subside the closer he got to Liam’s, and he could see that the tracks led up the steps to the back porch; that’s when he noticed the back door was slightly open.

He slowly crept up the steps and looked through the door.  

“Li! Come out here!”  

He paused.  

“LIAM!!” he shouted again.  

He stepped a little closer and moved to open the door wider when he saw the blood.  His heart started beating wildly in his chest. 

No, no, no!!!  FUCK!!  

He opened the door all the way and saw Liam lying on the floor with two gunshots to his chest. 

Oh fuck!  Oh Fuck!  OH FUCK!! 

He backed out the door and ran around the front of the house to the street.  Darkness had begun to fall and he could see a patrol car making its way up the road.  He pulled the M9 from his back and fired a shot into the air to get its attention.  Lights and sirens immediately came on as the car sped to Liam’s driveway where Drake was waiting.

The sheriff jumped out of the car, gun drawn and pointed at Drake.  “Put the gun down, son!”

Drake laid the gun down and put his hands up.  

The officer walked up to Drake cautiously and picked up the gun where he dropped it.  

“Please!  My friend needs an ambulance! Come with me!” Drake pleaded with him.  

The sheriff followed Drake inside the house and stopped when he saw Liam’s body lying on the floor.  

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the officer grumbled.  He clicked a button on the radio attached to his vest.  “Unit 25D here, Sheriff Lykel speaking.  We’ve got a 10-39 at my location.  We’re gonna need an ambulance.”

Drake was staring at Liam’s body, not wanting to believe he was gone.  

Before he had a chance to process what was happening, he felt his hands being forcefully wrenched behind his back and the cold metal of cuffs being secured on his wrists. 

“Why’d you do it, son?” Bastien demanded as he began to lead him out the door.

“I - I didn’t!  I came here to…” Drake paused.  What did I come here to do?  Was I really planning on killing my friend?  Maybe I just wanted to scare him a bit, make him back off Riley?  “I just wanted to talk to him. I found him like this I swear!  Someone else was here!  I saw their footprints as I was coming here,” he pleaded with the sheriff.

Drake began to struggle against his restraints but Bastien held him firm.  “Don’t resist son, you’re in enough trouble as it is,” he warned, walking him to his patrol car.  He put a hand on Drake’s head and settled him into the backseat.  

“I DIDN’T DO THIS!!  PLEASE! Check the trail behind the house!” Drake shouted at him but he shut the door in his face. 

Once the ambulance arrived, and had Liam’s body loaded into the vehicle Bastien got in the car and drove to the station.  The entire ride there Drake kept shouting his innocence, even as Bastien shoved him into a cell and uncuffed him.  Then he sat at his desk and picked up the phone.  

“Yeah, get me Judge Neville Vancoeur right away,” he told his assistant.

~*~

The next morning Drake was presented before Judge Vancoeur in a small office set up like a courtroom, still pleading his innocence.  “I’M TELLING YOU I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE!!” 

“You best quiet yourself RIGHT NOW, Walker,” Neville warned him.  He looked at the arrest notice and an evil smile spread across his face when he saw the charge.  “It says here you’ve been charged with the murder of Mr. Liam Alexander Rys.  How do you plead?”

“Not guilty!!  I’ve been trying to tell you people that for the last two hours!” he pleaded.

“According to Sheriff Bastien’s report the deceased took two gunshot wounds to the chest and he found you on the property holding a gun.  Sounds like you killed him to me,” Neville stated flatly.

Drake was dumbfounded.  “What?!  You can’t seriously put this on me without evidence!  The bullets need to be tested!  Someone else was there before me! I saw their footprints on the way!  I DIDN’T KILL HIM!”

Neville narrowed his eyes at Drake.  “No bail!  Take him away!”

Bastien watched with reservation as another officer led a still protesting Drake back to the station jail.  “Judge Vancoeur, shouldn’t we test - "  

He was interrupted as Neville clapped his shoulder and shook his hand.  “Thank you so much for your help.  I have dinner guests waiting at home.”  Neville hurried out the door, relieved that his secret wouldn’t be revealed.

~*~

Three days later Drake was executed on Judge Neville’s orders, despite Sheriff Lykel’s protests.  

Forty-five years later

Seventy-year-old Savannah sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace at Drake’s cabin.  She gestured to the younger man to take the seat across from her.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she told him.

“You said you had something to tell us regarding a missing person’s case?  A Ms. Riley Brooks-Walker?” the young sheriff questioned.

“That’s right,” she explained.  “And I also need to set the record straight on the Liam Rys murder.”

The young sheriff raised an eyebrow at her.  “Ma’am, that case has been closed for forty-five years.  Why should we reopen it now?” he asked warily.

Savannah sighed, then furrowed her brows.  “That sniveling weasel of a judge, Neville Vancoeur, made sure it would stay closed, even though he knew the truth,” she spat.  “He’d always hated my brother; even slept with his trashy wife to spite him.  He’d threatened me with serious retribution if I dared speak out against him.  But now that Neville’s finally dead I want to set the record straight.  My brother, Drake Walker, was innocent.  He never killed Liam Rys.  I did.  I confessed to Neville before Drake was executed, but he wasn’t having any of it.  He said Drake was guilty and the case was closed.”  

She folded her hands in her lap and looked at the young sheriff, his eyes wide with shock.

“You killed Liam Rys?  But why??” he asked incredulously.

“Liam Rys was my fiancé.  I found out he’d slept with that bitch Riley while my brother was in jail on a previous charge,” she replied, with no emotion.

The young sheriff just stared at her, hand to his mouth, rubbing his stubble in thought.

“And what of Riley? She never claimed any of your brother’s estate.”

“Well, she couldn’t have, Sheriff.  She would’ve had to have been alive to claim it,” Savannah stated coolly.  “I killed her for betraying my brother, and for sleeping with his best friend - my fiancé, and for sleeping with Neville and everyone else.  She got what she deserved.  I hired some thugs to dispose of her body.”

Savannah closed her eyes and sighed, the weight of what she’d done finally being lifted after forty-five years.  She looked at the young sheriff expectantly and put her wrists out to him.

“Ms. Walker, I’m so sorry,” he slightly hesitated.  He didn’t want to put an old woman in jail, but he knew he had to take her in.  He gently cuffed her and led her out the door.

“It’s alright, Sheriff,” she assured him.  “I’m an old woman, and I’m tired.  I can sleep tonight knowing that someone else knows my brother was innocent.”

The sheriff reopened Liam’s case and presented Savannah’s confession to the new judge appointed after Neville’s death.  Drake was posthumously pardoned and Savannah’s trial was set for the following week.  

Her trial never happened, however, as Savannah died in her sleep the day before she was set to appear.

Drake tried desperately to keep from speeding all the way home after leaving the airport.  He had been in Athens for just over two weeks working on several deals to bring three more horses back to Cordonia; one horse for his own stables and two more champion horses for the palace stables now that Marabelle’s Dream and Twilight Dash had been retired after Liam’s social season.  Two weeks...shit, that’s too fucking long, he thought to himself, I need to feel her so bad.  He was supposed to be in Athens another week, but he’d worked hard to finish ahead of schedule so that he could get home early and surprise Evelyn, his Evie - his love.  

Two weeks, two days, fourteen hours, twenty-eight minutes, and forty-six seconds.

Evelyn couldn't believe she was actually counting down to the second how long it had been since Drake left on his latest business venture. His last message to Evelyn promised that he would be home in another week, longing to show her just how much he missed her. That was a little over three days ago.  Normally, she would be going out of her mind with worry at not hearing from him in so long, but something deep within her heart assured her that he was alright.

She looked at the clock once again and closed her eyes. "Stop it," she chided herself. "Looking at the clock won't bring him home any faster."  She rose from the couch and strolled into their bedroom to change. Standing in the closet she let her fingers slide across the neatly hung clothes and paused at one item in particular. "God, I miss him so much," she sighed and pulled a black and purple babydoll nightie from its padded hanger.

Smiling, Evelyn recalled the day he left for Athens - when Drake presented the silver box to her with a promise to put it to good use when he returned. Upon opening it she found a stunning piece of lingerie. It was the most beautiful babydoll nightie she had ever seen. The bust was adorned with a sexy purple ruffle detail; the thin ribbon straps tied at the shoulder, making for easy removal. The rest of the nightie was black and very sheer, with a purple hem. There was also a pair of matching sheer string-tie panties.  She couldn’t wait to wear it for him, but he’d had to leave right away.

"Why not?" she said to herself, and put the nightie on.  Pulling her hair up in a ponytail she walked back into the living room and turned on the stereo. She grinned as she checked which discs were loaded in the CD player and found the one she was looking for. Pressing PLAY, she grabbed the remote, turned the volume up, and sauntered back to the couch as the pulsating music began. Leaning back with her head resting on the back of the couch, she closed her eyes and thought of Drake as the song played. Damn, this song is definitely about him, she thought to herself.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

You make me feel like a sticky pistil leaning into her stamen.

You make me feel like Mr. Sunshine himself.

You make me feel like splendor in the grass where we're rolling, damn skippy baby!

You make me feel like the Amazon's running between my thighs.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

At this last line, Evelyn let out a soft "Mmmmmm" and began to slowly caress her thighs. She spread her legs apart and slowly rubbed her hands over the tops of her thighs, then inward and back up, teasing herself slightly as her thumbs brushed softly against the thin panties. Eyes still closed, she bit her lower lip and thought, God, I want him so bad.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.

You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.

Love, love, love, love, love.

Love, love, love.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

Drake pulled up to the cabin and couldn’t get out of his truck fast enough.  He sprinted towards the door but abruptly stopped at the porch steps when he heard the sultry song playing.  He grinned when he recognized the song, remembering his birthday present from Evelyn.  He walked up the porch steps, ready to open the door and surprise her when his breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of her through the window.  She was wearing the nightie he gave to her before he left and she was lying on the couch masturbating to the song.

Drake couldn’t stop staring at her, mesmerized by her moaning and writhing.  His heart began to race and he could feel his cock growing harder the longer he watched her.  “Γαμώτο” (Gamóto [holy shit]), he whispered to himself.  He backed off the porch and went around to sneak in the back door of the cabin.  Making sure Evelyn didn’t hear him, Drake crept up the stairs to their bedroom; he found several candles and arranged them around the room.  He undressed down to his boxers and went back downstairs to watch Evelyn some more before letting her know he was home.  Unable to wait any longer, Drake stripped off his boxers and slowly, quietly crawled to the couch and settled himself between Evelyn’s legs without alerting her to his presence.

The music continued its pulsating rhythm and Evelyn filled her mind with images of Drake and herself engaged in the most sinful of acts. She continued her slow caress and moved one hand up to her abdomen while she slid the other one under her nightie and grabbed her breast, sliding her thumb back and forth across her nipple. She slid a finger under her panties and gently caressed the aching nub, imagining him standing over her in all his beautiful nakedness, ready to devour her like a hungry predator.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

You make me feel like a candy apple, all red and horny.

You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde, in a centerfold, the girl next door.

And I would open the door and I'd be all wet with my tits soaking thru this tiny little T-shirt that I'm wearing,

And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

Evelyn rubbed her fingers against her swollen clit as she writhed in time with the music. Moaning, she pinched a nipple and imagined his soft, velvety tongue swirling circles over it. She envisioned him kissing her down her body, pausing at her navel to flick his tongue over it a few times. He continued kissing her, kneeling between her legs and kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other, slowly making his way to her center. She could feel his calloused hands slide over the barely-there panties and his hot breath just over her swollen nub. Mon Dieu, c'est si réel! (My God, it feels so real!) she moaned to herself.

“Starting without me, κούκλα μωρού (koúkla moroú [baby doll])?” 

His voice penetrated her mind like a bright ray of sunshine invading a sound slumber, as she felt the soft, hot kisses on her center.  She opened her eyes to see him staring into hers. Evelyn drew in a sharp breath, startled to see him actually there, planted between her legs.  Her heart pounded with excitement.

"I...you...what are you doing here?? I thought you were gonna be in Athens for another week?"

"I missed the fuck outta you.  I finished early and wanted to surprise you, but this," Drake eyed her hungrily, “this is so much better.” 

"I...uh..." she blushed momentarily before flashing him her best what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it grin and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him to her.

He grabbed the stereo remote and pressed the REPEAT button so that the song would play in a continuous loop. He rose and stood above her, just as she imagined, in all his naked glory. Directly in front of her his glorious cock pointed and bobbed at her, letting her know just how much he missed her. Licking her lips, she sat up and moved toward him...eager to taste the bit of pre-cum that glistened at the head. He moved back before she could taste him and she pouted slightly. He undid her ponytail, letting her hair flow around her shoulders, and holding up a black silk sash, gave her a wicked grin.

"I believe that last line said something about me tying you up to the bed."

Evelyn wrapped the sash around her wrist and took his hand as he led her upstairs to the bedroom. "But I'm not wearing a tiny little T-shirt for my wet tits to soak through," she reminded him, smirking.

"It doesn't matter, baby doll...soon you won't be wearing anything at all,” Drake winked at her and her heart fluttered.

Once inside their bedroom she paused, taking in the candles that were lit throughout the room. Before she could ask him how he managed to do them so quickly, he kissed her softly and passionately. Gently squeezing her bound hand, he released her wrist and pulled her close to him.

"I've been away too long, Evie.  I don't ever want to be without you," he whispered in her ear with immense passion and love.  At these words, Evelyn’s knees turned to jelly and Drake caught her before she fell and swept her into his strong arms. She looked into his gorgeous chocolate eyes and ran her fingers through his silky brown mane, longer now since he'd been away. She had no doubt in her mind that he meant every word.

Drake carried Evelyn to the bed and gently laid her down. He propped a pillow under her for comfort, before he slowly took her right hand in his. He placed a gentle kiss on her palm, then slowly tied her wrist to the headboard with one end of the sash. Taking her left hand, he did the same...kissing her palm before tying both wrists to the headboard.

He hovered over her, his eyes never leaving hers.  Slowly he pulled at the ties on her straps and they fell away from her shoulders. As Drake gently traced the bustline of the nightie back and forth across her sensitive skin, Evelyn shuddered at the sensation, goosebumps rising all over her body. With each back and forth sweep of his finger, he lowered the nightie until her breasts were bared to him. 

"Christ, Evie, you’re so fucking beautiful.  Η δική μου Ελληνίδα Θεά (I dikí mou Ellinída Theá [my own Greek goddess])," he whispered as he cupped her right breast before taking the nipple in his mouth. He nipped and suckled her, while he pinched and caressed her other breast. Evelyn arched her back into him and he suckled harder, giving each breast equal treatment.

"Ohhh, fuck yesssssss...Draaaaake," she moaned. He slid the nightie down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. Evelyn lifted her hips and he slid her panties and nightie off her body.   Positioning himself between her legs, he gently placed them over his shoulders. Turning his head slightly, he planted a kiss on her inner thigh while his fingers lightly traced their way up her center.

Drake shifted his body slightly and Evelyn gasped as she felt a soft, hot kiss at her core. She let out a soft moan, and he responded by gently flicking his tongue over her now-throbbing clit. He glided his tongue in tiny little circles, his hot breath driving her mad with ecstasy. Soon he began to gently suckle her swollen nub and Evelyn strained against her binds, wanting desperately to run her hands through his hair.

Drake pulled his mouth away and before Evelyn could protest, he slid a finger inside, then another. "Amazon indeed, θεά μου (theá mou [my goddess])," he smirked. He slowly began to piston his fingers, curling them to caress her g-spot, while he rubbed circles over her clit with his thumb. In and out, faster and faster, he would bring her just close enough to orgasm but wouldn’t let her fall over the edge.

Whimpering, Evelyn begged for him to be inside her, "It's been so long, please, Drake..."

Crawling up the bed until he was positioned directly over her, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Patience, κούκλα μωρού (koúkla moroú [baby doll]), you’ll have me. But first, I want you to taste..."

Drake slid his fingers in her mouth. The taste of Evelyn’s own juices drove her into a wanton frenzy. She sucked his fingers hard and he let out a feral growl. He pulled his fingers from her mouth and she flashed an evil grin. "Wanna taste?" she teased as she stuck out her tongue.

Fire burned in his eyes as he descended upon her mouth and began to suck the essence from her tongue. Their tongues danced around each other madly before they settled into a long, passionate kiss. Using her bindings as leverage, Evelyn raised her hips to find his cock...desperately wanting to feel him fill every inch of her.

Taking her cue, Drake positioned his cock at her opening, coating the tip with her flowing juices. In one deft move he released her bindings and buried himself deep within her. Evelyn tightly wrapped her legs around his waist and held him to her. He enveloped her in his arms completely and they just lay there for a moment, feeling each other breathe...not ever wanting to let go. With a tender kiss to her neck Drake rose up on his elbows and gazed lovingly into her green eyes.  Never breaking eye contact he began a slow, steady rhythm...sliding in and out of her, rotating his hips so that he hit her sweet spot with every thrust.

"So...wet..." he rasped as his breathing became ragged. Evelyn knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself much longer.  Lightly scraping her fingernails down his back, she cupped his sac in her hand and lovingly began to fondle him. With her other hand she gave his firm ass a gentle smack, which caused him to growl and  slam his hips into hers, harder and faster. With each thrust he rubbed against her throbbing clit and he could feel her body tense as she reached her climax.  “Draaaaake!!  I’m so close….s'il...te...plait...mon...amour (please, my love)....I….need…to…..” she gasped between breaths.  

“Yes, Evie, come….for…..me……έλα...για...μένα...μωρό...μου.... (éla gia ména moró mou [come for me baby])” Drake rasped.  With one final, hard thrust Drake and Evelyn climaxed together, simultaneously calling each other's name.

They collapsed in each other's arms, breathing heavily. He wiped a sweat-soaked lock of hair from her forehead and kissed her.  "I've missed you so much, Evie, I love you forever," he whispered. "This was the best welcome home."

"Je t'aime tellement, ma guimauve (I love you so much, my marshmallow)," she whispered as she held the man she loved.  “You are my dream come true.”  Drake’s heart fluttered at her declaration.  They held each other close as they drifted to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Not quite, but similar nightie:

Series: The Rotten Apple 🍎

Chapter: 17: Finale Part 4: The Wedding

The Pairings: Eleanor X Nico (Eleanor X M!OC / Liam X Riley)

“Her Mother and Her Father.”  He whispered the word “Look.”  to Ellie.  

Elle blinked rapidly in confusion, as she turned to the audience.  

Riley was standing right behind her.  

“Mother…”  

Riley said the first thing that popped into her mind.  

“I didn’t RSVP. I know that’s absolutely horrible etiquette for a wedding. I'm sorry..”  

“It’s okay….”

“You look…. Happy.”  

“I am happy Mother.”  She pulled Nico by his hand closer to her.

“Queen Riley.”  Nico nodded to her.

“Nico, I told you then, you still cared for her. I could see it all over your face."

“And you were right.”  

“You look so beautiful Ellie. I'm glad you decided to wear the necklace."

Elle surprisingly glanced down at herself,  gently touching the necklace.

"It was your idea?"

Her mother nodded, and spoke in a matter of fact way.

"Yes, It looks beautiful on you, I knew it would."

“Thank you Mother……And thank you for coming."

Riley turned to walk away. Nico gently squeezed her hand again, whispering to Elle..

"She's extending an olive branch…."

She glanced at Nico, then Ana, her fearless little girl, at that moment smiled at her, giving her courage.

“Mother?”  

“Yes?”

“May I hug you?” 

Riley nodded.  Both looked awkward as they closed in the distance  to each other, neither making taking the lead to begin the embrace… Until  one sweet little girl walked up to the two of them, wrapping an arm around each of them, pulling them closer to embrace.

Tears welled in Liam’s eyes seeing the three generations of the family finally come together as one.  After a few moments, they pulled away from each other, Elle affectionately caressed Ana’s face.  

Next up:

Spice Spice Baby

Part 3 of a Pretty Woman parody

The Pairings: Liam X Bebe (Liam X F!OC)

If you're interested in the previous parts Click here:

Part 1: Cinnamon Spice

Part 2: And Everything Nice

“That’s noble, you know.  You believed in yourself enough to want more for yourself, to get away from a life you didn't want.” 

“Still waiting on the more part.”

“Have you thought about college?  Something you want to do with your life?” 

“I mean I can think about college all I want, that doesn’t manifest enough money for me to go. Then, if I get there, what the hell would I even want to go to school for?  Besides, I've never had an idea.  It’s hard to dream, when the place you grew up in was nothing but nightmare fuel. Definitely not conducive to warm and fuzzy dreams. Just trying to survive from day to day. You know?”

She glanced around Liam's vast apartment and all of its splendor.

“You wouldn't, would you Ritchie Rich?” She commented with a smirk.

“You are right in that aspect.  I’ve never had to worry about money or had any food insecurities of where my next meal was coming from.  But I do understand getting away from a place where you felt you would never be able to realize your own potential, or be in the shadow of someone and never be able to learn who you really are.  So we are similar in that aspect.”

Bebe yawned.   

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”  

“You’re right, we have our first big event tomorrow.”  

When I woke up the next morning Liam had already left for work.

There was a little note on the night stand.  

“Bebe I tried my best not to wake you, but apparently you didn’t hear me over your snoring :) .    I’m joking.  I promise. I’ll be home around 5:30 and we can get ready for the gala tonight, the car will pick us up around 7.  Plan accordingly.  I left my card, the salon downstairs is available for you whenever you decide to show up. Please use any amenities that you would like.

Yours,  Richie Rich :)   

P.S. I’d love it if you wore that silver dress and heels tonight.  

“Okay Richie Bet.  But first..  Room service.”

As the dance ended, she turned from Neville with a sharp, rigid movement that felt like a physical tearing of her own muscles. Her feet moved across the marble, but she felt as though she were wading through deep, suffocating water. The air in the ballroom—previously a mixture of expensive perfume and floral elegance—now tasted metallic, like blood in her throat. Every beat of the orchestra, every trill of the violins, sounded like a mockery, a soundtrack to her own undoing.

She didn't dare look back at the dance floor. If she looked at Neville, or anyone else for that matter, they would see her broken heart written all over her face. She knew the mask would fracture. She knew the tears that were stinging behind her eyes, hot and insistent, would spill over, and she would stand exposed in the middle of this vault of hollow splendour for the entire court to witness. Instead, she focused on a point in the distance—a heavy set of glass paned double doors leading to the terrace—and forced one foot in front of the other, each step a battle to keep her knees from buckling.

Behind her, Neville Vancouer stood unmoved, a jagged silhouette in the swirling crowd. He didn't follow her; not yet. Instead, he took a slow, calculated sip from a champagne flute he had plucked from a passing server, the crystal rim clinking softly against his teeth. A smirk, thin and bloodless, touched his lips as he watched the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she held her head with a defiance that was rapidly losing its foundation.

He felt a hum of triumph in his chest—a cold, oily satisfaction. He had seen the exact moment his words had punctured her, the split second where her eyes had gone vacant and then dark with a misery so profound it almost made his skin prickle with excitement.

He didn't care about the truth. The fact that Drake Walker spent his days working himself to exhaustion at the Château, his nights in a farmhouse likely pining away for her in silence, didn't matter. His words about the chambermaids were a blunt instrument, and he had wielded it perfectly. He took pleasure in the dissonance of it—that he could conjure such devastation in a royal princess within a few sentences, woven like poison into a dance.

Stable filth, he thought, his eyes tracking her retreat. He despised the very idea that she had ever looked at a servant with longing, let alone loved one. It was an insult to the station he coveted, to the royal bloodline he was determined to entwine with his own. But if she was truly in love with Drake Walker, if the man was a distraction to the princess, then Neville would simply have to be a greater one.

He adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and feline, as he watched her reach the edge of the dance floor. She disappeared into the press of moving bodies, and he felt his heartbeat steady, rhythmic and predatory. She was wounded now. And Neville knew a wounded animal was always easier to track, easier to corner, and infinitely easier to catch. He wouldn't rush. He had the entire evening, the entire season. He had the leverage of her own heart.

He allowed himself a slow, lingering look at the space where she had been, savouring the scent of her perfume that still hung in the air—a ghost of her presence. Then, he turned back to the crowd, his face settling into a mask of polite, aristocratic boredom, biding his time until he would follow her.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Neville didn't flinch; he simply shifted his gaze, his expression smoothing into a practiced, easy charm.

"What was all that about?" The voice asked, dripping with the same bored, callous curiosity that Neville himself cultivated. Neville turned, his smile broadening into something genuine for the first time that evening.

"Lord Tariq," Neville said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial register. "It’s been a long time, my friend."

The two men shook hands, a firm, calculated grip. Neville leaned in, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of sharing his new, delicious secret.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he whispered, his smirk deepening. “I have so much to tell you."

*****

The gilded double doors of the ballroom loomed ahead like a mirage, but the distance between them felt infinite. Emilia’s chest heaved, her breathing shallow and frantic as she tried to navigate the sea of spinning silk and hollow laughter. Neville’s words echoed in her mind, a relentless, oily loop: making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids... the help should stick with the help.

It explained everything. The empty mail tray. The months of agonizing silence. While she had been rotting in her gilded cage, crying herself to sleep, Drake had simply moved on. He was smiling at other women. Touching them.

The heat of the room was suddenly volcanic, choking her. Tears blurred her vision, turning the massive crystal chandeliers into dizzying streaks of blinding light. Blinded by the moisture sting in her eyes, she stumbled forward, her heavy skirts twisting around her ankles.

She braced for a fall, but instead, she collided with a solid chest and arms which instantly caught her by the shoulders, steadying her.

"Em?"

Emilia gasped, looking up through a watery veil into the warm, familiar eyes of Bertrand. He looked immaculate in his House Beaumont dress suit, but his expression was creased with instant, genuine worry.

"Em, what's wrong? Has something happened?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, protective murmur.

"I... I can't..." Emilia’s voice cracked. A hot tear finally spilled over, tracking down her carefully painted cheek. She cast a panicked, desperate look around the crowded foyer, terrified that some gossiping noble or her father’s watchful eyes would see her mask crumble.

Bertrand didn't hesitate. His grip on her arm tightened gently. "Come on," he whispered.

He guided her swiftly through the heavy gilded doors and out onto the sprawling stone terrace. The moment the heavy doors shut behind them, muffling the discordant swell of the orchestra, the biting autumn air hit Emilia’s skin. She shivered, but it was an immense relief against the suffocating, perfume-choked heat of the ballroom.

Bertrand led her to a shadowed alcove near the limestone balustrade, away from the glass doors. He turned to her, his face soft with concern. "Tell me what’s happened, Em."

The dam broke. Emilia buried her face in Bertrand’s shoulder, her frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs as he wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back in a slow, soothing rhythm.

"It’s Drake," she choked out, her words muffled against his suit. "I still haven't heard from him, Bert. Not a single word. And Neville... Neville just told me that Drake has been popular with the chambermaids at Château Lumière. He's been seeing other women. I... I love him so much, Bertrand, and it’s killing me."

Bertrand let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't pull away; he just kept his hand steady on her back, absorbing her grief. "Em... look at me."

Emilia pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, utterly uncaring of what it did to her taupe eyeshadow. She looked up at him, her chest still hitching.

"Drake loves you," Bertrand said, his voice quiet but incredibly firm. "I’m sure of it. Neville Vancouer is cruel, and he is highly calculating. I do not believe for a single second that what he told you is the truth."

"Then why would he say it?" she whispered, her voice raw. "How could he even know to make up such a specific lie?"

"Because he wants you, Em," Bertrand explained, a shadow of disgust crossing his features. "You know he’s been trying to win your hand, to secure the Vancouer line’s claim to the Crown, for years. And I am certain this is just his sick way of getting under your skin, of making you feel weak and isolated."

"But he doesn't know about Drake and me," Emilia protested, shaking her head. 

Bertrand offered a small, sad smile. "I wouldn't be so sure, Em. He was at the Derby, wasn't he? I’m sure he saw you and Drake together there. He would have seen the way you looked at each other. A blind man could have seen how you felt." He paused, his eyes softening with memory. "I saw it myself that very night, the night I met him. When I took him into the stable office at Applewood to speak with him... do you know what he told me?"

Emilia blinked back fresh tears. "What?"

"He told me that he would give his life for you to be happy," Bertrand said softly. "He was willing to have his own life utterly destroyed if it meant you could thrive. He didn't care about the consequences to himself, only to you."

"I would be happy if he were just with me," she sobbed, her fingers gripping Bertrand’s sleeve.

"I know, Em. I know." Bertrand squeezed her shoulder. "He loves you. But... you must understand something. While Drake loves you with everything he has, he might be keeping his distance for you. He might be realizing that your relationship... that it could destroy the Crown, and destroy you in the process. Maybe he is trying to do what he thinks is the honourable thing. Letting you go, no matter how much he destroys his own heart to do it. But that does not mean he doesn't love you."

"No, no..." Emilia shook her head, a desperate, stubborn fire flaring in her chest. "I don't want him to let go. I don't care about the Crown. I want him!"

"Shh, I know, Em," Bertrand whispered, pulling her back into a brief, comforting embrace. He looked out over the dark gardens, his own eyes suddenly turning vacant and heavy. "God, I wish things were different. I wish we could both be with whoever we want. That we could love whoever we want without consequence."

Emilia pulled back, her breath catching as she caught the profound, aching sadness reflected in her cousin's eyes. It was a mirror of her own grief, but with a different, quieter shape.

"Have... have you met someone, Bert?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Bertrand looked away, running a hand down his face as a deep, tired sigh escaped him. "I have," he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly under the moonlight. "He works for Ramsford, as part of our public relations team. He’s wonderful, Emilia. He’s handsome, and funny, and... well, he likes me."

Bertrand let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "We’ve been working closely together for the last few weeks, pulling together the communications that will come out of House Beaumont during the course of the social season. He stayed late one night, about a week ago... just to help me with some last-minute minor details for my speech tonight. And... he kissed me."

A genuine, beautiful smile broke through Emilia’s tear-stained face. "Oh, Bert," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze his hands. "I'm so happy for you."

"I didn't want to tell you right away," Bertrand said, looking down at their joined hands. "Not after everything you’ve been through. It felt selfish."

"No, Bert. I’m so glad you did," she insisted, hugging him tightly. "You deserve happiness more than anyone."

"Thanks, Em," he whispered into her hair. "But... I know nothing can ever come of it. I am the heir to House Beaumont. I must marry a woman of equal standing, produce heirs... the scandal if anyone found out about us, about two men together..."

"So, you’re stopping it?” Emilia asked, her brows furrowing with worry. “Before it goes any further?"

"No," Bertrand said, his jaw tightening with a rare, quiet defiance. "I like him, Emilia. I’ve never felt like this before. I don't want to lose him. But the path ahead is..."

"Bert, we will work this out together, okay?" Emilia cut in, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength. "You and your...?”

“Daniel,” Bertrand replied, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Dan.”

“Dan,” Emilia nodded. “If it is meant to be, we will find a way. You cannot lose hope."

Bertrand looked at her, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Then promise me, Em. Promise me you will do the same. I know it hurts now, but you’ll be alright. Okay?"

Emilia offered a small, watery smile. "Thank you, Bert. I can always rely on you."

"Always, Em. Shall we head back inside?"

"Give me a few minutes," Emilia said, gesturing to her face. "I need to compose myself, and I want to be alone for just a little while."

Bertrand nodded understandingly, giving her hands one last supportive squeeze before slipping back through the heavy doors, leaving her in the quiet sanctuary of the night.

Emilia leaned her weight against the cold limestone balustrade, gulping in the crisp autumn air. The freezing wind peppered her bare shoulders with goosebumps, but the physical chill was a welcome shock to her system, dulling the frantic, suffocating heat of the ballroom.

She looked up at the pale crescent moon, Bertrand’s words swirling in her mind. A small, fragile spark of hope began to rebuild itself in her chest, fighting against the black poison of Neville's lies.

"I love you, Drake," she whispered into the empty night, fresh, silent tears spilling over her lashes. "I'm so sorry. Please don't destroy what we had for the Crown. It was worth so much more than that..."

A sob broke from her throat, and her hand instinctively flew to her neck, her fingers reaching for the familiar, comforting weight of Drake's ring.

But her fingers grasped empty air.

Her breath hitched in sudden, violent panic. Her hand scrambled frantically against her bare skin, searching, clawing at her collarbone.

Nothing.

The realization hit her like an icy plunge into frozen water. The ring is gone.

In her blind, hysterical fury in the bedroom, she had ripped the silver chain from her neck. She had stood on her balcony and flung it—the only physical piece of Drake she had left, the token of the greatest, most honest summer of her life—into the pitch-black darkness of the gardens below.

A wave of sheer terror washed over her. What have I done?

She had to find it. She couldn't lose it forever. If Drake never came back to her, if she had to live the rest of her life as a puppet princess in a silent cage, she still needed that ring. It was her anchor. It was proof that she had once been loved by the most incredible man she had ever met.

She spun around, her mind racing. She would have to rush back through the crowded ballroom, slip past her father’s guards, run out the front doors, and search the dark, frosty garden beds beneath her balcony with her bare hands. She didn't care how undignified it was. She didn't care if the whole court saw her on her knees in the dirt.

She took a frantic step toward the terrace doors.

But before she could reach them, the heavy glass door creaked open and a tall silhouette stepped out into the moonlight, cutting off her only path of escape.

"Good evening, Your Highness," a smooth, oily voice drawled, dripping with mock-reverence. "You look as lovely as ever."

"Lord Tariq." The name left Emilia’s throat as a frozen puff of air, her voice cracking under the sudden weight of her shock.

She stood frozen as his silhouette stepped fully into the silver pool of moonlight. The handsome, symmetrical features that the Cordonian court so highly praised were twisted into a look of mocking amusement. It was a face she had hoped to never look upon again. The memory of Applewood—of his heavy weight pressing her against the door of her suite, the stinging slap she had delivered to his cheek, and the white-hot rage with which she had threatened to ruin him as she defended Drake—flashed behind her eyes.

But here he stood, his posture dripping with an intolerable, preening arrogance that proved his pride had completely swallowed whatever shame her threats had once caused him.

Tariq took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his polished leather shoes crunching softly against the frost-dusted stone of the terrace. "I saw you leave the ballroom, Princess," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, oily register that made her skin crawl. "You seemed... distressed."

Emilia instinctively tilted her chin upward, her spine snapping straight as she forced her shoulders back. She could feel the dampness of her tears cooling on her cheeks, and she was acutely aware that her carefully applied makeup was likely ruined, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. She would not let this vulture see her bleed.

"I am perfectly fine, thank you, Lord Tariq," she replied, her voice cold and sharp as a shard of glass. "I merely required some fresh air."

"Oh?" Tariq let out a soft, mocking chuckle, stepping closer until the cloying scent of his heavy clove cologne and expensive brandy invaded her senses, choking out the clean autumn breeze. "Silly me. Here I was, thinking that your sudden flight was because your beloved stable hand had left you all alone."

Emilia’s heart did not just leap; it hammered violently against her ribs, the sudden shock of his words stealing the breath from her lungs. "Excuse me?"

"I had a most illuminating conversation with Neville Vancouer this evening," Tariq sneered, his eyes gleaming with a malicious, vindictive pleasure. "He and I go way back, you know. We first met at one of these very balls, in fact. He was quite forthcoming about how your precious gutter rat is currently shovelling manure at his family’s Château in France."

He stepped closer still, crowding her personal space, his gaze dropping to the bare skin of her neckline with a predatory familiarity. "I warned you at Applewood, Princess. That degenerate Walker is not good enough for the likes of you and me. Tell me, did Daddy finally find out about your dirty little secret? Did the King not like that stable filth daring to touch what isn't his?"

A white-hot spark of rage flared through the ice of Emilia's grief, temporarily drowning out her sorrow. "How dare you speak to me like that," she hissed, her eyes flashing with a fierce, dangerous light. "Drake Walker is a far better man than you will ever be, Tariq. He has more honour in his little finger than your entire family line possesses."

Tariq’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as the insult hit home, his bruised ego from their Applewood encounter rearing its ugly head. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I very much doubt that, Your Highness. A peasant who smells of sweat and dung? You threw away your dignity for a servant and look where it got you. Alone, crying in the dark."

Disgusted and suffocated by his presence, Emilia took a sharp step forward, intending to shoulder past him. "Get out of my way."

But before she could bypass him, the heavy glass door of the terrace creaked open once more.

A second silhouette stepped out, cutting off her angle of escape. Neville Vancouer stood in the doorway, a champagne flute held loosely in his fingers, his eyes gleaming with a quiet, feline satisfaction.

"Everything alright, Princess?" Neville asked, his tone dripping with a mock concern that was entirely hollow.

"No," Emilia said, her voice rising as a cold dread began to settle in her stomach. She was trapped between the two of them, the freezing stone balustrade of the terrace pressing against her lower back. "I’m not feeling well. I need to return to my suite immediately. Let me past, please, Monsieur Vancouer."

Neville didn't move. He took a slow sip of his champagne, his smirk widening as he exchanged a dark, knowing look with Tariq. "Oh? You do look dreadfully pale, Emilia. Perhaps you need an escort? The palace halls can be so terribly dark and lonely at night."

"I do not need your escort," Emilia said, her breathing growing shallow and frantic as she tried to find a gap between them. "I wish to be alone."

Instead of stepping aside, the two men began to close the distance. They moved in unison, their bodies blocking the golden light pouring from the ballroom doors, casting long, suffocating shadows over her. Tariq’s smirk was venomous, fuelled by the memory of her rejection, while Neville’s expression was one of predatory hunger.

"There's no need to be so hostile, Your Highness," Tariq murmured, his voice low and threatening as he stepped closer, forcing her to lean back against the freezing limestone. "We only want to help you. We can be your shoulder to cry on. Your... comfort."

"Indeed," Neville chimed in, his tone smooth and predatory. "You don't need that servant, Emilia. He was a distraction. A temporary amusement. But now that he's gone, you must think of your future. We can show you what a real gentleman can provide."

The physical proximity of the two men was overwhelming. The smell of their cologne, the heat of their breath in the cold air, and the realization that they were actively, physically trapping her made Emilia’s head spin. Her hand instinctively twitched toward her collarbone, a desperate, phantom search for the ring that was no longer there.

Trapped, her back pressing hard against the freezing limestone of the balustrade, Emilia slowly slid her free hand behind her along the rough, frosty stone. Her fingers frantically clawed at the masonry, searching in vain for a loose decorative piece, a heavy stone planter, or anything she could use to defend herself in the dark.

But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving edge of the parapet.

Faced with her own helplessness, a fierce, primal instinct flared to life beneath her terror. She pulled her hands back, tucking them close to her chest and tight into hard, trembling fists. If they tried to touch her, she would fight. She would claw at their faces, scream until her lungs burst, and strike out with every ounce of strength left in her body. She would not go down quietly.

They were practically toe-to-toe with her now, the heat of their bodies suffocatingly close. Tariq reached a hand out toward her shoulder, his eyes gleaming, and Emilia tightened her posture, bracing herself to swing.

"What is going on here?"

A voice cut through the damp terrace air like a razor. It was deep, calm, and carrying a quiet, unmistakable authority that made both men freeze instantly.

Tariq and Neville snapped their heads around, clearly startled that their private, predatory corner had been breached. Standing in the soft golden wash of the ballroom doors was a young man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in an impeccably tailored dark dress coat that seemed to absorb the moonlight.

Tariq responded first, his lips curling into a sneer of aristocratic annoyance as he stepped back slightly from Emilia, though he still blocked her escape. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, my Lord," Tariq drawled, dripping with condescension. "We were simply having a private, friendly conversation with the Princess."

The young lord didn't look at Tariq. His piercing blue eyes bypassed both men entirely, landing squarely on Emilia.

He took in the ruined trails of her makeup, the frantic rise and fall of her chest, and the way she stood trembling in her midnight silk—trembling from far more than just the biting autumn wind. Her eyes were wide, dilated, and glittering with a mixture of raw panic and defiance, like a deer caught in the blinding headlights of an oncoming car.

The stranger’s jaw tightened, a hard, dangerous line settling over his features. He stepped fully into the dim terrace light, his boots crunching softly on the frost.

"From where I am standing," the Lord said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that sent a shiver down Emilia’s spine, "I am not at all convinced Her Highness is interested in your company. I suggest you leave. Immediately."

Neville let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping forward to flank Tariq. "And who are you to suggest anything? Do you think you can just wander out here and claim her for yourself? I think not. Who are you anyway?"

The young lord didn't offer a name. His expression remained a mask of cool, unyielding stone. "That is of no concern to you. Leave. Now."

"Or you'll do what?" Tariq spat.

Ego and brandy fuelling his aggression, Tariq took a stride forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the stranger. With a snarl of disgust, Tariq brought his hand up and pushed the lord’s shoulder angrily, trying to shove him back.

The young lord didn't even sway. He simply looked down at the hand on his coat, then up into Tariq's eyes. "Do that again," he murmured, his voice deadly quiet, "and you will find out."

Neville and Tariq exchanged a brief, mocking sneer, entirely misjudging the man before them. They turned fully away from Emilia, setting their sights on this lone interloper. Before Emilia could even scream a warning, the space between the three men vanished.

"How dare you?" Neville sneered, stepping up beside his friend. "Do you have any idea who I—"

Tariq didn't wait. He drew back his arm and threw a wild, heavy punch straight at the stranger's face.

The young lord moved with a fluid, terrifying speed.

With a practiced ease, he brought his forearm up, effortlessly deflecting Tariq’s strike outward. Before Tariq could recover his balance, the Lord pivoted, swinging his leg out in a swift, sweeping kick that caught Tariq cleanly behind the knees.

With a breathless grunt, Tariq’s legs gave out. He crashed heavily onto the stone terrace, his elegant suit scraping against the frost-bitten stone as he groaned in sudden pain.

Neville’s eyes went wide. Panicking, he lunged forward, raising his hands to strike. But the young lord was already moving. He grabbed Neville by the neck of his tailored jacket, utilizing Neville's own momentum to spin him around and slam him hard against the limestone wall of the alcove.

The thud of Neville's chest hitting the stone echoed in the quiet night. Before he could draw a breath, the Lord pinned him there, catching his right arm and wrenching it firmly up behind his back.

"It is entirely clear to me," the Lord hissed, his face inches from Neville’s ear, "that the men in this court lack the basic decency they were bred to possess."

He applied a sharp pressure to the arm lock, forcing Neville to gasp in pain, his aristocratic posture completely breaking.

"Princess Emilia clearly does not want your company," the Lord continued, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal fury. "You will leave this terrace now. And if you ever crowd her, speak to her, or so much as look in her direction again... I will make you deeply regret it."

Neville’s face went white, his breath hitching as the pain in his shoulder flared. "Okay! Okay, let go!" he whimpered, his arrogance vanishing in an instant. "You've made your point! Let me go!"

The young lord released his grip with a contemptuous shove. Neville stumbled, clutching his arm, his eyes darting frantically toward the terrace doors.

On the floor, Tariq was already scrambling back to his feet, nursing his bruised ego and looking at the stranger with a mixture of shock and sheer terror. Realizing they were utterly outmatched, both noblemen offered one last, hollow glare before turning on their heels. They scrambled past the stranger, practically running as they threw open the heavy doors and disappeared back into the protective, crowded warmth of the ballroom.

The doors creaked shut behind them, leaving the terrace in a sudden, ringing silence.

Emilia stood frozen against the balustrade, her hands still balled into fists, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as she stared at her rescuer.

The young lord turned back to her. In the biting night air, his breath was a quick, pale mist rising from his lips, catching the soft gold light spilling from the ballroom. His posture had completely relaxed, his broad shoulders dropping as the violent energy of the fight drained away.

Emilia’s eyes remained wide. She didn't move a muscle, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn't recognize this man. She had spent her entire life navigating the Cordonian court, and she had thought she knew every face, every title, and every lineage. Yet, he was completely foreign to her.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice a deep, steady baritone that carried none of the mocking cadence of Neville or Tariq.

"Y... yes," Emilia managed to whisper, her throat tight.

The lord offered a small, reassuring smile. He took a single step toward her, but as he did, Emilia instinctively flinched, her shoulders tensing as she braced for another threat.

He stopped instantly. Sensing her lingering panic, he raised his hands in a gentle, placating gesture, showing her his open palms to prove he meant no harm. "It’s alright, Princess Emilia. I’m not going to hurt you."

To prove his words, he deliberately walked away from her, crossing the stone terrace to lean his weight comfortably against the frosty balustrade several feet away. He gave her space—physical, unpressured space that let her breathe.

Emilia let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension slowly draining from her limbs. Her fingers uncurled, her trembling hands dropping back to her sides. "Thank you. Lord...?"

"Rhys. Liam Rhys," he said, his smile widening slightly in the moonlight.

"Thank you, Lord Rhys."

"Please, just Liam is fine," he said softly, looking over at her.

Emilia looked at him, her gaze lingering on his features. He was undeniably handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, with neat blonde hair that gleamed like spun gold under the crescent moon, and eyes of a striking, icy blue. But what struck her most wasn't his appearance; it was his demeanour. He wasn't polished to the extreme, hollow perfection of the other noblemen. He stood with a casual, easy grace, and his eyes held a genuine, clear warmth.

"Just Liam?" Emilia let out a small, breathless laugh, her lips curving for the first time in hours. "Forgive me, but it is rather unusual for anyone from the nobility to forgo their title. Most lords here carry theirs like a shield."

Liam chuckled, a warm, rich sound that seemed to banish the lingering chill of the terrace. "I know. But personally, I’ve always felt that a title is something that should be earned, not just inherited. And besides... Liam suits me much better."

Emilia felt the last of her defences crumble. "Well, thank you, Liam."

"You are very welcome, Your Highness," he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Please, call me Emilia," she corrected gently, warming to his easy manner.

"You're welcome, Emilia," he amended, his voice soft. "I'm just glad I came out for some fresh air when I did. Are you absolutely sure you’re okay? Those two..."

"I am fine. Thanks to you," she said, taking a cautious step closer to him, though she still kept a respectful distance. "Really. If you hadn't stepped out when you did..."

"It was nothing," Liam dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Decency demands that much, at least. Though I have to say, your fists were looking rather formidable. I think you might have given them a run for their money even without me."

Emilia laughed, a genuine, light sound that made the heavy weight in her chest feel a fraction lighter. "Me too. I was fully prepared to swing." She paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. "I’m sorry, but I don't believe we’ve ever met. And I am fairly certain I know everyone in the Cordonian court, and most of the foreign ones, too."

Liam let out a self-deprecating laugh, shifting his weight against the stone. "Yeah. I’ve been... away."

"Away?"

"I’ve been in Italy for the past few years," he explained, looking out over the dark, frosty gardens. "Studying, mostly. Working a bit, too."

"Oh?"

"I wanted to do something for myself," Liam said, his voice turning reflective. "To learn about the world outside of this sheltered, gilded life we’re expected to live. Sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful for our privilege..."

"Not at all," Emilia cut in, her voice hushed and sincere. "I find myself wishing I could do the exact same thing. Every single day."

Liam’s blue eyes locked onto hers, filled with a deep, silent understanding. "I returned only recently. My mother requested—or rather, strongly insisted—that I come back for the social season, now that my studies are officially over, and I’ve learned a bit more about politics and business outside of Cordonia."

"And how are you finding being back?" Emilia asked, leaning her own lower back against the balustrade, mirroring his relaxed posture.

Liam huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. "It is exactly as I expected."

"In what way?"

"Pretentious," he said flatly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Exhausting. That’s why I needed to slip out here for a breather. I just needed a little bit of freedom for a moment, you know?"

"Oh, I know. Believe me, I know," Emilia sighed, her gaze drifting down to her satin shoes. "That is exactly why I was out here when Tariq and Neville..."

"Yeah. They shouldn’t bother you again," Liam said, his tone turning momentarily firm, a shadow of the fierce protector crossing his features. "But if they do, you let me know. Immediately."

"I will," Emilia promised, touched by the protective instinct. "So... where did you learn to fight like that? That leg sweep was rather impressive."

"I took some self-defence classes while I was in Rome," Liam explained, a boyish grin gracing his lips. "The statesman I worked with, Signor Francesco, was a firm believer that one should always be able to protect oneself, regardless of status. So, I took some classes. To be honest, that is the very first time I’ve actually had to use any of it. I’m just glad my muscle memory kicked in."

"Me too," Emilia laughed softly.

Liam looked at her in the pale moonlight, his gaze softening. Despite the faint, ruined trails of makeup on her cheeks and the wind-blown strands of her perfect curls, she was beautiful. More beautiful than his mother had described, and far more captivating than the pristine, empty-headed debutantes currently spinning on the dance floor inside.

"So," Liam said gently, his voice dropping to a quieter register. "What was it you were trying to escape tonight, Emilia? Forgive me for asking, but you look like you’ve been through a lot more than just those two idiots." He gestured vaguely behind him toward the ballroom doors.

Emilia’s smile faltered, the cold reality of her heartache rushing back to fill the silence. "Oh. Well... it’s..."

Seeing her face fall, Liam immediately held up a hand. "I apologize. It is entirely none of my business. Please, don't feel pressured to explain."

"No, it's fine," Emilia said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She looked out over the dark gardens, her voice barely louder than the autumn wind. "I... I’ve been going through some very difficult things recently. It’s been hard for me the last few months, and I just... I needed to get out of that ballroom. I felt like I couldn't breathe in there."

"I understand," Liam said simply. There was no pity in his voice, no cloying sympathy, just a quiet, validating acceptance of her pain.

"I was actually just about to go back inside when Tariq and Neville showed up," Emilia continued, her fingers tightening around the cold stone of the balustrade. "I lost something earlier. A… a necklace of sorts... a very important necklace. I dropped it from my balcony before the ball started, and I was going to go down into the gardens to try and find it."

Liam looked out over the pitch-black lawns, the frosty hedges illuminated only by the faint silver of the crescent moon. "I'm not sure you'll have much luck in this light, Emilia. It’s freezing, and the shadows are incredibly long."

"No, perhaps not," she admitted, a heavy sadness settling over her features as she thought of Drake's ring lying lost in the cold dirt.

"Well," Liam said, turning his body fully toward her. "If you'd like, I could help you search for it tomorrow. There is a much better chance of finding something small in the daylight, and two sets of eyes are always better than one."

Emilia blinked in surprise. "Oh, I couldn't possibly ask you to do that. You hardly know me."

"You didn't ask. I offered," Liam pointed out, his blue eyes sparkling. "I would be happy to help you. Truly."

Emilia looked at his kind, open face, and felt a tiny, fragile blossom of comfort. Lord Liam Rhys was kind, and she desperately needed a friend right now. She loved Bertrand, but he was returning to Ramsford tomorrow. Olivia, Hana, and Rose loved her, but lately, they had a painful tendency to look at her with fragile pity, as if she were made of glass and might shatter at any moment.

Liam knew nothing of her broken heart. He didn't know about Drake, or his banishment, or her grief. He was just a kind stranger who offered help without expectation. It would be incredibly nice to have a friend who didn't look at her like she was broken.

"Okay," Emilia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that reached her eyes. "I would really appreciate the help. As long as you're sure you don't mind."

"Not at all," Liam smiled back, stepping closer and offering his elbow. "Now, shall we head back inside? It is getting rather freezing out here, and they will be starting those incredibly long, boring homecoming speeches soon. Personally, I would be deeply grateful to stand next to someone who hates them just as much as I do."

Emilia let out a bright laugh, the sound clear and lovely against the quiet night. She wiped her eyes quickly, trying to rescue what remained of her makeup, then reached out, her fingers resting lightly on the fine, dark wool of his sleeve. The warmth of his arm was a comforting, grounding contrast to the freezing limestone.

"That sounds wonderful," she said.

Together, they turned toward the heavy glass doors, ready to face the court side-by-side.

This idiot...he needs to be dealt with.

Bertrand looked at her, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Then promise me, Em. Promise me you will do the same. I know it hurts now, but you’ll be alright. Okay?" Emilia offered a small, watery smile. "Thank you, Bert. I can always rely on you."

Thank goodness for Bertrand. But I feel for him, too. At least he got Emilia's head back where it needs to be concerning Drake.

And Liam makes his appearance...just in time for Emilia's sake, but he needs to leave her to Drake now.

I need the next chapter, STAT!!!

Tag List: @chemist-ana @burnsoslow @walkerdrakewalker @kingliam2019 @gkittylove99 @twinkleallnight @txemrn @princessleac1 @lovingchoices14 @twinkle-320 @bebepac @axwalker @ao719 @sfb123 @angelasreblogs @whiskeyinlythikos @lunaseasblog @karahalloway @peonierose @thegreentwin @iaminlovewithtrr @emersyn-in-cordonia @katedrakeohd @bascmve01 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @tessa-liam @harleybeaumont @alyshak92 @3pawandme @deb-1106 @annabellewynter @alj4890 @secretaryunpaid @queen-arabella-of-cordonia @indiacater

During the weeks following his friends’ first visit to the farm, Drake’s world had felt ripe with a lingering hope, a world still full of the possibility that one of his letters to Emilia —the ones he filled with love and devotion—would finally be answered. But as the weeks bled into months, the vibrant emerald of the oaks began to fade into shades of bruised ochre and brittle, dying gold, mimicking Drake’s waning spirit.

The atmosphere at the Château Lumière stables had shifted with the changing season also. The sweet, dusty scent of sun-warmed hay was gradually being replaced by the sharp, metallic bite of encroaching frost and the smell of damp leather. Drake found himself grateful for the gruelling labour—the ache in his arms at least gave him a reason for the exhaustion that plagued his soul, the work provided a small distraction that masked the hollow throbbing in his chest. André was a fair man, treating his staff with a friendly, earned respect that Drake knew came from the man’s own humble beginnings. He was paid a wage that made his earnings at Applewood look like copper scraps, providing him with the means to pay Zeke and Kiara for his keep—home cooked meals each night, a warm bed at the Theron farm and the continued support offered by both siblings, especially Kiara—but despite the work and home life he had carved out for himself, none of it could totally silence the screaming absence of her.

Every morning, in the grey hour before the sun dared to crest the horizon, Drake sat at the small wooden desk in his room at the farmhouse. The wood was cold under his wrists as he wrote, a sharp contrast to the burning desperation which was beginning to take a hold around his heart. He told Emilia about the horses—the spirited bay mare whose fire reminded him of her own, the way the valley mist clung to the trees like a funeral shroud. He promised her, over and over, that he was waiting for her. Waiting for the day they could finally be together again. He sent the letters through the village post, watching them disappear into the mailbox with a desperate hope that felt more like a slow-acting poison in his veins.

Still there had been no reply. Still not a single word.

His mind often drifted back to a day nearly two months ago, shortly after he’d arrived at the Château. He had been pitchforking old straw when the head groom had approached, announcing that the Prime Minister was returning from a gala at the Cordonian royal palace and to prepare the horses should their master wish to ride. Drake’s heart had leaped into his throat; he silently nodded before dropping his tool and moving to the edge of the stable doors to watch. From a distance, he saw the sleek, black silhouette of the Vancouer family’s car sweeping up the long, gravel drive toward the main doors.

The sun had glinted off the polished chrome, bright and opulent, a blinding reminder of the world Emilia belonged to, and of a future he had dared to dream could be his before it was cruelly snatched away. He had watched from the shadows of the barn as André stepped out, looking every bit the aristocrat in his tailored suit. The urge to sprint across the manicured lawn, to grab the Prime Minister by the lapels and demand news of Emilia, had burned like lye in his throat. Did you see her? Is she safe? Did she ask about me?

But the questions had remained locked behind his teeth. André was a good man, but he was Constantine’s ally. To ask would be to pull a thread that could unravel the fragile refuge he had found here. If André mentioned Drake’s inquiries to the King, even in passing, the consequences could be swift and merciless. Constantine could see it as Drake trying to claw his way back, and Drake couldn't lead the King’s guard to the Château, or worse the Theron’s door. He couldn't risk making Emilia’s life even more of a prison than it already was. He couldn’t risk himself being silenced for good. Instead, he stepped back in to the shadows of the stables, vowing to keep his head down, to work hard, and to never give up on the love he knew still existed between himself and the princess.

Back in the present, Drake sighed— trying to keep his mind busy, to focus on the task in hand—whilst in the corner of the Château Lumière stable block, a battered, grease-stained radio sat atop a stack of crates, its speaker crackling with music and static. Suddenly the fuzz shifted, then stopped altogether, giving way to a slow, bluesy melody that caused Drake’s breath to catch in his lungs. He recognised the song immediately—the low, melancholic hum of the guitar and soft roll of the drums—it was the last song he and Emilia had danced to at the Starlight Swing in the village square. His hands faltered against the sleek, warm coat of a black mare. He froze, his fingers hovering just inches above the horse’s flank, as his heart began to pound against his ribs. He closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the shadowy rafters, and remembered for a moment how it had felt to hold her. For a heartbeat, the music and the phantom echo of her melodic laugh seemed to dance in the dust motes all around him, so real he almost called her name. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body pressed against his own. But then the spell broke, the memory of her presence evaporated and the rafters became silent, home only to the spiders and the low, lonely whistle of the wind through the eaves.

*****

By early October, the transformation of the land was complete. The bright and beautiful love of their shared summer, which had blossomed into something more spectacular than Drake could have dreamed, was now a ghost; replaced by a skeletal reality.

He stepped to the stable door, wiping a mixture of sweat and grime from his forehead with a trembling hand. Outside, the sky was the colour of a leaden weight, pressing down on the rolling hills. The wind picked up, whistling through the rafters and swirling a handful of dead, brittle leaves across the cobblestones. Then, the rain began—not a cleansing storm, but a cold, dreary drizzle that turned the vibrant autumn gold into a muddy, sodden grey.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the crisp edge of the letter he had written that morning. It felt anchor-heavy, like a stone he was forced to carry. As the rain intensified, blurring the line between the earth and the sky, Drake leaned his head against the cold, unforgiving stone of the doorframe.

The seasons had turned, the world had died to prepare for winter, and a darker thought, one he had tried to outrun for months, finally caught him in the damp shadows of the barn. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps their worlds were too different. Perhaps the glittering pull of the Crown—the weight of Emilia’s duty and the sheer, exhausting scale of her world—had finally eclipsed the memory of a stable boy in a summer garden. He wondered, with a heart-stopping pang of resentment, if she had simply looked at the gold of her palace and decided it was brighter than the gold of their shared sun, just the way Eleanor had when she had turned her back on his father.

*****

The transition at the Royal Palace was less an agonizing surrender and more a calculated, cold transformation. From the height of her private balcony, Emilia watched as the lush, vibrant tapestries of the gardens began to fray. The towering oaks that lined the grand promenade were no longer the deep, sheltering green of her summer at Applewood; they were turning a sharp, brittle bronze, their leaves rattling in the wind like old parchment.

Below her, the gardeners were already at work, ruthlessly uprooting the last of the summer roses. In their place, they planted rows of stiff, frost-hardy chrysanthemums—flowers that lived without the need for the sun’s warmth, much like the life she was expected to lead.

Emilia leaned against the cold limestone balustrade, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings with a restless, frantic energy. Two months. Two months since she had been torn from Drake’s arms, and every single morning had begun with the same crushing ritual. She would wait by her door, listening for the soft footfalls of Rose, only to find her silver mail tray empty of anything but formal invitations and dry diplomatic briefings.

In the beginning, the silence had been a wound that bled fresh every day. She had cried until her eyes were parched, whispering his name into her pillow, clutching the memory of his touch like a lifeline. But as the autumn air grew thinner and sharper, the raw grief in her chest was beginning to calcify. The hope that had once flickered was dying along with the summer blooms.

The sadness was being replaced by a low, simmering heat. Why haven't you written? The question echoed in the hollows of her mind, no longer a plea, but a demand. Had the distance been too much? Had he simply looked at the impossibility of their lives and decided she wasn't worth the struggle? The thought that he might have forgotten her, or worse, that he had never cared with the same soul-consuming intensity that she did, felt like a betrayal more cutting than any of her father’s commands.

A flash of light caught her eye. Over the crest of the distant hill, the first line of sleek, dark cars appeared, their headlights cutting through the deepening violet of the dusk.

The vultures were returning.

Tonight was the Homecoming Ball, the first glittering, suffocating event of the social season. During the height of the summer, the great halls of the palace had been eerily quiet as the Cordonian nobility retreated to their sprawling country estates to escape the heat and the rigid eyes of the court. Even the King’s ministers took their leave, trading their sashes and medals for the lighter burdens of family and sport. But by late September, the migration reversed. The heads of the Great Houses—Vescovi, Amaranth, and the rest—began returning to the capital, bringing with them the gossip, the schemes, and the relentless pressure of expectation.

Emilia had always dreaded this ball. In years past, it had merely symbolised the end of her summer freedom, the moment the heavy velvet curtains of court life were drawn shut. But tonight, it felt like the final nail in a coffin. The arrival of the nobility meant the palace would be a fortress of eyes and ears. Any hope of a clandestine letter, any chance of a secret word from the outside world, was being extinguished by the sheer weight of protocol.

She watched the cars sweep up the drive, a procession of polished steel and hidden agendas. Her summer of love was not just over; it was being buried under the silk and lace of a world that didn't care for stable boys or summer gardens.

Emilia straightened her back, her jaw setting into a hard, regal line. If the world expected a princess, she would give them one. But as she turned away from the fading light of the gardens to face the mirror, the fire in her eyes wasn't born of loyalty to the Crown—it was the bitter, burning heat of a heart that was tired of waiting for a ghost.

She turned to the bed where Rose had laid out her gown—a structured, heavy silk that felt more like armour than clothing. She reached for the garment, the fabric cool and unyielding against her fingertips. Stepping into the voluminous skirts, she felt the sudden, suffocating weight of the Cordonian court settle over her. She reached behind her; her fingers fumbling with the intricate line of hooks and stays. She had told Rose she wanted to be alone to get dressed, but without a maid's assistance, the task was a struggle, a physical battle against the very threads that sought to bind her. She pulled the laces tight, the structured bodice forcing her shoulders back and her breath into shallow, disciplined sips. By the time the last clasp was secured, she felt encased in a cage of midnight silk.

With steady, clinical movements, she began to apply her makeup. Gone was the playful winged eyeliner and the defiant red lipstick that had defined her summer; in its place, she applied muted, neutral tones—shades of taupe and dusty rose that looked elegant, expensive, and entirely hollow. She brushed her hair until it shone with a cold lustre, pinning it back into the perfect, shoulder-length curls expected of a Cordonian royal. The volumized, messy styles she had admired in the Hollywood magazines and had worn all summer, felt like a dream she had woken up from.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.

"Enter," Emilia said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears—clipped and precise.

The door groaned open, and Olivia and Hana stepped inside. They looked like strangers, draped in similar court silks and rigid bodices that seemed to hold their very souls in place. The light, airy summer dresses of Applewood were gone, replaced by the heavy, opulent fabrics of the capital.

"How are you feeling about tonight, Emilia?" Hana asked softly, her voice laced with a caution that grated on Emilia’s nerves. "We know this isn't exactly your favourite event of the year."

"You’re right about that," Emilia scoffed, the sound sharp and ugly in the quiet room.

Olivia and Hana exchanged a fleeting, worried look. They had watched the transformation in their friend—the way the fire of her initial defiance had cooled into something sharper and more dangerous. For weeks, Emilia had been a ghost of herself, devastated by Drake’s banishment. But as the empty weeks had turned into months, that sadness had evolved. She wasn't just grieving anymore; she was festering. She was angry at her father, yes, but increasingly, that heat was directed at the silence from France.

"Have you still not heard anything from him?" Hana asked, stepping closer.

"No. He’s clearly forgotten me." Emilia’s voice didn't tremble; it was flat. "Clearly he thinks what we had wasn't worth the trouble."

"Don’t say that, Em," Olivia whispered.

"Why not? It’s true, isn't it!" Emilia snapped, spinning around from the mirror. The anger flared in her eyes, hot and bright, before she saw the genuine concern on her friends' faces and her shoulders slumped slightly. "I’m sorry, Liv. Hana. I… I’m not myself. I haven't been for a while."

"We know, Em," Olivia said, her voice softening. "It’s okay."

They moved to her side, and for a moment, the three of them sat on the edge of the bed, a small island of shared history in the middle of the cold palace. Emilia reached into the neckline of her dress, pulling out the ring Drake had given her. It hung on a delicate silver chain, a secret weight she carried every day. She rolled the cold metal between her thumb and forefinger, looking down at it with a mixture of love and loathing.

"I just honestly thought I’d hear from him, you know?" she whispered.

"So did we," Olivia agreed. "Have you tried writing to him? At the Prime Minister’s estate?"

"Yes. After André told me Drake was working for him at Château Lumière, I wrote." Emilia’s grip on the ring tightened. "I told him I loved him. I told him I hadn't forgotten. I asked him—I begged him—to write back. But I’ve heard nothing. Not a single word."

Hana and Olivia sighed in unison, a heavy, synchronized sound. "I'm sorry, Em," Hana said, taking Emilia’s hand.

"Thanks," Emilia managed a small, jagged smile. "I’m sorry too. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own broken heart... I’ve been so selfish. I haven't even asked how you two are doing. It must be hard for you both as well. You haven't heard anything from Leo or Max either, have you?"

Olivia and Hana looked at each other again, a long, silent communication passing between them that made the hair on the back of Emilia’s neck stand up.

"What?" Emilia asked, her eyes darting between them. "Have you heard something?"

"No, Em," Hana said gently. "But it’s... it’s different for us."

"What do you mean?"

Olivia took a breath, her gaze steady. "We knew that it would be over with them when we left Applewood."

Emilia felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. "What? Why?"

"Because, Em... they live in Ramada. We live here." Olivia’s voice was practical, and that practicality felt like a serrated blade. "We’re from different worlds. We knew it would never work. That it would only ever be a summer romance. It was beautiful and magical, but we knew it wouldn't last."

Emilia stared at them, her mind reeling. "Did Leo and Max know this?"

"Of course," Hana said softly. "We told them, and they agreed. Like Liv says... it was wonderful, but it wasn't love."

Silence crashed over the room. For a heartbeat, Emilia could hear the distant sound of car doors slamming and the faint, regal music starting in the ballroom below. Then, she stood abruptly. The fire in her eyes was no longer simmering; it was ice-cold and furious.

"So that’s all I was to Drake as well?" her voice was a hiss.

"No! Of course not, Emilia," Hana cried, standing quickly. "What you and Drake have, it’s different!"

"If it’s so different, Hana, then why hasn't he written to me?!" Emilia shouted, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.

"Em—" Olivia started.

"Is that all I was to him? Just a naïve, pathetic princess desperate for freedom who he could fuck then forget about? Just a summer fling he could boast about with his friends?"

"No, Emilia, I'm sure it’s not like—"

"You know what? If I meant nothing to him... if every word of love and devotion he said to me was a lie, then fine." Emilia’s face was a mask of cold fury. "He can go to hell!"

With a violent, sudden motion, she reached up and grabbed the silver chain around her neck. She pulled with everything she had. The metal bit into the skin of her nape for a fraction of a second before the link snapped with a sharp, sickening ping.

She didn't look at it. She marched out onto the balcony, the night air hitting her face like a slap. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the ring and the broken chain into the darkness. She didn't wait to hear it hit the ground. She didn't want to know where it landed among the frost-hardy chrysanthemums.

Emilia strode back into the room, past her stunned friends, her head held higher than it had ever been.

"Come on," she said, her voice as sharp as a diamond. "We have a ball to attend."

She flung the double doors of her suite open, the heavy wood thudding against the walls. As she marched down the long, gilded hallway toward the grand staircase, her heels clicked rhythmically against the marble—a steady, heartless beat that masked the fact that her heart had finally shattered into dust.

*****

The ballroom of the Royal Palace was a cathedral of excess. Huge chandeliers, dripping with thousands of hand-cut crystals, cast a blinding, artificial light over the room, turning the gold-leafed columns into pillars of fire. The air was thick with a cloying mixture of expensive French perfumes, the sharp scent of lilies, and the heavy, metallic musk of the Cordonian nobility.

Emilia took her place at the head of the grand staircase, flanked by King Constantine and Queen Eleanor. Her father looked every bit the formidable monarch, his chest a tapestry of medals that caught the light with every breath. Her mother, ever the picture of regal poise, wore a gown of shimmering silver that made her look like a statue carved from ice.

"Smile, Emilia," Constantine murmured, his voice low and devoid of warmth. "The people have missed their princess."

"They’ve missed the symbol, not the person " Emilia replied, her voice a razor-edged whisper, before she forced her lips into the practiced, hollow smile she had perfected since she was six years old. As the nobility began to file into the room, she stood beside her mother, offering polite pleasantries and graceful nods. Every "Wonderful to see you, Your Highness," and "You look radiant tonight, Princess," made her blood simmer. Each polite word felt like a physical weight, another stone added to the wall being built around her.

She hated this place. She hated the way the marble floors felt too cold, the way the music sounded too rehearsed, and most of all, she hated the people bowing before her. The young lords of the royal court, and sallow-faced counts from the northern provinces—all looked at her with the same hungry, predatory focus, their eyes lingering on her curves like appraisers, making her feel more like property than a person. They competed for her attention, offering pretentious compliments that felt scripted and hollow. Not one of them had an ounce of genuine personality; they were a sea of identical sashes, polished shoes, and practiced charms, each one blending into the next in a blur of privilege.

She stood there, playing the part of the dutiful princess, her mind a fortress against the thoughts of Drake. I hate him, she told herself as she nodded to a young Duke who was droning on about his family’s new vineyards. I hate him for the silence. I hate him for making me believe that our love was real. But as the words echoed in her mind, they tasted like ash. She didn't hate him; she loved him with a terrifying, soul-consuming intensity, and that love was the poison currently rotting her from the inside out.

Finally, the endless line of guests subsided, and the court moved into the banquet hall for dinner. The room was a shimmering expanse of white linen and silver candelabras. Emilia sat between her mother and a minor royal from a neighbouring kingdom, but her mind refused to engage. The entire meal became a disorienting blur of polite conversation, forced laughter, and the rhythmic clink of silver against porcelain.

The only reprieve was the wine. It flowed freely, a deep, blood-red vintage that felt heavy on her tongue. She drank thirstily, welcoming the way the alcohol began to dull the sharp edges of her anger. With every glass, the room softened. The bright lights became a warm glow, and the pretentious voices of the court receded into a manageable hum. She hoped, with a desperate fervour, that if she drank enough, the alcohol would finally soften the emotional turmoil in her chest—that it would make her forget the smell of summer grass and the feeling of Drake’s heart beating against hers, if only for one evening.

*****

The dinner ended not with a conclusion, but with a command. As King Constantine rose, the scraping of hundreds of chair legs against the marble sounded like a collective, jagged intake of breath. Emilia felt the wine—heavy and warm—settling in her limbs as she was swept along with the tide of silk and sashes toward the ballroom. The transition was a blur of golden light and the sharp, discordant screech of the orchestra tuning their instruments, a sound that grated against her raw nerves.

Then, the music swelled, a frantic, swirling waltz that felt more like a centrifuge than a celebration. Emilia was passed from one set of hands to the next, a doll in a midnight silk cage. The hands on her waist were too smooth, the skin too soft—nurtured by centuries of inherited ease.

She hated the way they moved, with a practiced, clinical perfection that left her cold. Every time a new nobleman leaned in, his breath a cloying cloud of peppermint and expensive brandy, she had to fight the urge to gag.

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, seeking a sanctuary that didn't exist in this room. In the darkness of her mind, she felt the ghosts of his hands—the rough, hard-won callouses that had once grazed her skin, sending jolts of electricity through her. She missed the scent of him—not this heavy, floral rot, but the clean, sharp bite of Bay Rum and the honest musk of the stables. She remembered the way his stubble had felt against her cheek, a delicious friction that made her feel alive, grounded, and seen.

The song ended with a flourish of violins. Emilia curtsied, her movements liquid and precise, a mask of royal grace. "Thank you, Lord Bingley," she murmured, her voice a hollow chime.

She turned to flee the floor, desperate for the balcony’s biting air, when a shadow stepped into her path.

"Good evening, Princess."

Neville Vancouer stood before her, his tailored suit fitting him with a predatory sharpness. His eyes didn't meet hers; they raked up and down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips and the rise of her chest as if he were mentally calculating her value. "You look ravishing tonight. Truly a jewel in a room of common glass."

Emilia felt a familiar prickle of revulsion, like a cold wind on her spine. She straightened her back, her chin tilting upward. "Thank you, Mr. Vancouer," she replied, her smile small and brittle. It was a royal shield; one she hoped he couldn't see through.

"May I have this dance?" He offered his hand, his fingers devoid of warmth.

Emilia’s skin crawled. She wanted to scream, to shove past him and run until the palace was a distant, ugly memory. But she could feel her father’s gaze from the dais—a dark, suffocating weight that reminded her of the consequences of public defiance.

"Of course," she said, the words tasting like lead.

He led her back onto the floor as a slower, more intimate melody began. Neville didn't observe the traditional distance of the court; he pulled her closer, his hand splaying across the small of her back until she could feel the heat of his palm through the heavy silk. His breath, smelling of citrus and something sharp, fanned across her cheek.

"You know, Princess Emilia, I very much enjoyed your company at the Victory Gala," he murmured, his voice a low, oily drawl. "Jupiter was a worthy winner at the Derby. Your father should be proud of such a magnificent beast."

"Jupiter is proof that with enough hard work and training, one can overcome any obstacle," Emilia said. She meant Drake—she meant the man who had turned a spirited horse into a champion—but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"Indeed," Neville chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. "My father was quite surprised the King allowed Mr. Walker to leave Applewood so soon after the win. It seemed... uncharacteristically generous of His Majesty."

The mention of Drake’s name hit her like a physical blow. Her breath caught, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She felt the sudden, stinging heat of tears behind her eyes and turned her head away, staring into the blur of the golden columns so he wouldn't see her composure shatter.

"Of course, my father jumped at the chance to have such a skilled horseman working at Château Lumière," Neville continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress—though in reality he was savouring every second of it. "Personally, I think one stable hand is much the same as the next. Nothing truly special about the help, is there? They are bred to serve their betters, after all."

Emilia’s anger flared, a white-hot spark in the centre of her grief. He is more of a man than you will ever be, she wanted to hiss. But the silence from France—the months of empty mail trays—smothered the fire.

"My father assures me he is doing a fine job, though," Neville added, leaning in so his lips were inches from her ear. "And I must admit, he seems to be making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids."

Emilia froze, her feet faltering for a fraction of a second. "What?"

"Oh yes," Neville said, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, feline satisfaction. "One hears the gossip in the halls. Several of the girls seem quite taken with the man. I don't see the appeal myself—he’s hardly a gentleman—but I suppose the help should stick with the help. It’s the natural order of things, wouldn't you agree?"

Emilia felt as if her heart had been gripped by a frost so deep it turned her blood to ice. The image of Drake—her Drake—smiling at another woman, touching someone else, made her feel physically ill. The room began to spin, the gold and light blurring into a sickening, chaotic swirl.

Neville watched her carefully, his thumb tracing a slow, insulting circle against her waist. He could see the devastation etched into every line of her face, the way her regal mask was finally, irrevocably cracking. It was exactly the reaction he had been fishing for.

His mind drifted back to a morning two months ago at the Château, to the moment he had found out exactly what had occurred between the princess and a stable hand…

Two Months Earlier…

Château Lumière was a monument to the Vancouer family’s ascent—a sprawling, white-stone fortress tucked into the rolling hills of the French countryside. To Neville, the estate was more than a home; it was a kingdom he intended to rule with a much firmer hand than his father ever had.

He moved through the high-vaulted hallways with a proprietary swagger, his silk-lined heels clicking against the parquetry. It had been a week since their return from the Victory Gala in Cordonia, and the air of the palace still seemed to cling to him—the smell of power, the weight of a crown he intended to draw closer to his own bloodline.

As he turned toward the east wing, a flash of white caught his eye. A maid, young and slender, was hurrying down the corridor toward the garden doors, a small wicker basket of mail tucked under her arm.

Neville slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as they tracked the sway of her hips and the way her blonde hair had escaped its cap in soft, flyaway strands. She wasn't noble-standard, of course—her skin was a bit too sun-touched, her hands likely calloused from scrubbing—but she had a certain "fuckable" quality that made him pause. He was bored, and the Château felt stiflingly quiet after the excitement of the capital.

He followed her out onto the terrace, the late summer sun hitting his face with a warmth he found irritating.

"Going somewhere in such a hurry?" he called out, his voice a low, oily drawl.

The girl jumped, spinning around so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face before she dropped into a frantic, clumsy curtsy. "Mr. Vancouer! I—I’m sorry, sir. I was just taking the post to the staff quarters."

Neville stepped closer, invading her personal space until he could smell the cheap lavender soap on her skin. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to the swell of her chest beneath the cotton bodice. He offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a calculated, predatory display of teeth. "The post can wait, can't it? Surely a girl as lovely as you has more interesting things to do with her morning than deliver bills to the help."

He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw. The girl recoiled slightly, her face flushing a deep, uncomfortable crimson. She looked flustered, her hands trembling as she tried to pull away from his touch.

"I... I really must go, sir," she stammered, her voice high and tight.

In her haste to step back, her heel caught on the edge of a stone planter. The wicker basket slipped from her fingers, hitting the gravel with a dull thud. Letters scattered like white petals across the grey stones—bills, postcards from neighbouring countries, and personal notes for the Château's army of servants.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, sir!" She dropped to her knees, frantically scrambling to gather the paper.

"No need to fret," Neville said, his voice dripping with a mock gallantry that made his own skin crawl with amusement. He knelt beside her, his movements fluid and predatory. He enjoyed the way she avoided his gaze, the way her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. He wondered if he could squeeze a quick release out of this encounter—a blowjob behind the hedgerow, perhaps, in exchange for not reporting her clumsiness to the head housekeeper.

But as he reached for a stray envelope near his foot, his hand froze.

The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and bore a distinctive, raised crest in gold wax. The Cordonian Royal Seal. And beneath it, in a graceful, flowing script: Mr. Drake Walker.

A cold, sharp interest replaced his lust. He assumed it was a letter from King Constantine—perhaps a summons for the stable hand to return to Applewood. The King was likely trying to reclaim his prized horseman now that he had heard of Drake’s success at the Chateau. Not if I can help it, Neville thought, his fingers closing over the envelope with a practiced sleight of hand. His father was quite taken with the Walker boy, and the Prime Minister didn't like to lose his assets.

He slid the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket in one smooth motion.

"There you are," he said, handing the girl a few mundane letters he’d gathered. He stood up, his interest in her vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. "Run along now. And try to be more careful. My father doesn't pay you to litter the terrace."

The maid didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her basket, offered another frantic curtsy, and fled toward the stables as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

Neville didn't watch her go. He turned back toward the house, his mind buzzing. He retreated to his private study, locking the heavy oak door behind him. He sat at his mahogany desk, the stolen letter feeling like a live coal against his chest.

He broke the seal with a silver letter opener, expecting a formal royal command.

As he scanned the first few lines, the shock he felt was physical—a jolt of pure, unadulterated revulsion.

My dearest Drake...

It wasn't from the King. It was from the Princess.

I wake up every morning with the ghost of your touch on my skin... I love you... I haven't forgotten the promise we made...

Neville slammed the letter down on the desk, his face contorting into a mask of fury. "How dare he," he hissed into the empty room. "That stable vermin. That... filth."

The thought of the Princess of Cordonia—the woman he desperately wanted to claim as his own prize, a jewel for the Vancouer bloodline—being touched by a man who smelled of manure and sweat made him feel physically ill. Every word of love she had written felt like a personal insult, a stain on the natural order of things.

He stood up, his eyes wild with a cold, focused rage. He wouldn't just keep the letter; he would ensure it never existed.

He crossed to the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling against the morning chill. He held the cream-colored paper over the dancing orange flames and, for a heartbeat, he watched the ink—Emilia’s heart poured out in elegant loops—shrivel and blacken.

He dropped it into the embers.

The paper flared bright and hot, the gold seal melting into a puddle of leaden wax before the fire consumed it entirely. Within seconds, the only evidence of Emilia’s love was a handful of grey ash swirling up the chimney.

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