#cordonia

Yet for all the speculation and whispered theories, one truth stood above the rest: she was back. And Cordonia would be given a second chance to welcome home the girl from Kenya, the woman shaped by Auvernal, and the Queen she had once been.

The press gathered in the throne room, awaiting an official statement from Marquise—the man who was not only Eleanor's son, but the reigning King of Cordonia.

Marquise entered the throne room dressed in his official regalia, Eleanor at his side. She was composed, matronly, and regal, with her hair pinned neatly away from her face, looking every bit the Queen the world remembered. It was the first time the two of them had appeared together publicly since her return. They walked as though no years—and no distance—had passed between them.

When they reached the thrones, Marquise took his seat. Eleanor remained standing beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

Marquise drew a steadying breath before donning his kingly mask and addressing the gathered press corps.

"Good morning everyone," he began. "Thank you all for joining me today. I stand before you to formally announce the return of my mother, Queen Eleanor Anyango-Rys. After twenty-eight years away, Her Former Majesty has returned to the kingdom she once called home."

A murmur moved through the room—quiet but unmistakable. Cameras clicked. Pens stilled, then resumed their frantic motion.

Marquise did not rush to fill the silence.

"My mother's absence," he continued evenly, "was shaped by circumstances that were complex, deeply personal, and not for public speculation." His gaze swept the room, calm but firm. "What matters today is not where she has been, but that she is here now—by choice, and with my full support."

Eleanor's hand tightened briefly on his shoulder. He felt it, grounding and steady.

"Effective immediately," Marquise said, "Queen Eleanor is restored to her rightful place as Queen Mother of Cordonia. She returns not only as my mother, but as a respected member of this royal family and this kingdom."

The words landed cleanly. Final. Undeniable.

"There will be no further questions regarding her absence," he added, voice calm but edged with steel. "Cordonia has always been a nation that understands dignity, restraint, and respect. I expect no less from those gathered here today."

Silence followed—thick, controlled, obedient.

Marquise paused, then turned slightly toward Eleanor. A silent question passed between them.

She nodded.

Eleanor stepped forward, her hand leaving his shoulder as she faced the gathered press. The room shifted at once—not with noise, but attention. This was the moment many of them had been waiting for.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steady and composed. "Thank you for being here today."

She glanced briefly at Marquise, her expression softening.

"I am deeply grateful to His Majesty—my son—for his love, his protection, and for welcoming me home with such generosity of spirit." Her gaze returned to the room. "Cordonia was once my home and at one point my kingdom alongside his father Constantine, and I am thankful and grateful for the opportunity to stand here again—not as I was, but as I am now."

She let the words settle before continuing.

"I understand that there are questions. Concerns. And, undoubtedly, many rumors." A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "In time, I will address them. At a later date, I will speak openly and fully in an interview with an old friend, Donnie Brine of the Cordonian Broadcasting Company."

A ripple moved through the press corps at the name.

"But today," Eleanor said calmly, "is not about the past. Today is about gratitude, family, and the grace of being given a second chance. I ask that you allow my family and me the space to begin this new chapter together."

She inclined her head slightly.

"Thank you."

Eleanor stepped back beside Marquise, and once again placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming this morning," Marquise said evenly. "I do appreciate your attendance. Now, if you will excuse Her Majesty and me, we do have somewhere pressing that we need to be. Thank you again."

Marquise rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais, then turned back and offered his hand to his mother. Eleanor accepted it without hesitation, allowing him to help her down. She gave the gathered press a small, warm wave—measured, gracious, unmistakably royal.

Then, together, mother and son exited the throne room.

Behind them, the press erupted—not in chaos, but in urgency. Questions flew, voices overlapped, and speculation ignited the moment the doors closed. But Eleanor and Marquise did not slow their pace.

The moment the doors sealed shut behind them, the noise vanished.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Eleanor exhaled softly.

"Well," she said at last, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "that went better than I expected."

Marquise let out a quiet breath of his own, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. "You were perfect," he said simply.

She glanced at him then—not as Queen Mother, not as former monarch—but as his mother. And in that look was pride, relief, and a love that had survived distance, silence, and time.

"Thank you for bringing me home," Eleanor said.

Marquise didn't answer with words. He only nodded, once, and continued walking at her side.

Ahead of them waited family, warmth, and a momentary peace.

Behind them, the past had begun to stir.

The corridor beyond the throne room opened into a smaller reception salon reserved for family—quiet, private, untouched by cameras or questions. Waiting inside were familiar faces Eleanor had not seen in decades and yet had never truly lost.

Leo was the first to move.

"Mom," he said softly, and the word alone bridged nearly thirty years.

Eleanor turned just in time to see him cross the room and take her into his arms. He was taller now, broader, older—but the way he held her was achingly familiar. For a moment, she simply rested her cheek against his shoulder, her hand pressing firmly between his shoulder blades as if to reassure herself that he was real.

"I've missed you, my love," she said quietly.

"I know," Leo replied. "I've missed you too."

When they stepped apart, Leo turned slightly and gestured to the woman beside him. "Mom, this is Hana. My wife."

Hana stepped forward, composed but warm, offering a gentle smile. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Your Majesty."

Eleanor took Hana's hands without hesitation. "No," she said softly, meeting her eyes. "The honor is mine. Thank you for loving my son."

Something in Hana's expression softened at that, and Leo exhaled as though a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying had been lifted.

Then Eleanor's gaze shifted.

Across the room stood a man who stole the breath from her lungs.

For one suspended moment, time slipped sideways.

"Sebastian—" Eleanor breathed before she could stop herself.

The name hung between them, fragile and unguarded.

The man's expression gentled immediately. "Carlo," he said softly.

Eleanor blinked, her hand lifting to her mouth. "Carlo," she corrected herself at once, her voice catching. "Oh, Carlo...please forgive me. You just...you look so much like him."

Carlo didn't hesitate. He crossed the room and took her into his arms with quiet certainty. "I've been told," he said gently. "And I don't mind."

She held him as she once had when he was a boy—too small, too young, already carrying too much loss. Her hand came to rest at the back of his neck, familiar despite the years.

"I can't believe how grown you are," Eleanor murmured. "Your father would have been so proud."

"I hope so," Carlo said quietly.

Nadia approached then, and Eleanor turned toward her just as Joanna stepped forward from the opposite side of the room.

For a moment, all three women simply looked at one another.

Time had changed them—etched lines of loss and resilience, softened some edges, sharpened others—but the recognition was instant.

"Eleanor," Joanna said first, her voice steady but warm.

"Joanna," Eleanor replied, her face breaking into a smile that carried relief and history in equal measure.

And then Nadia was there, her hands warm and familiar as she drew Eleanor into a careful embrace.

"We're all here," Nadia said softly, as if afraid to say it too loudly.

"Yes," Eleanor answered, emotion tightening her throat. "We are."

Three mothers stood together—each shaped by love, sacrifice, and survival. Between them stood the men their sons had become: Marquise, Leo, and Carlo. Different paths, different burdens, but bound by blood and legacy.

For a fleeting moment, the Rys family felt whole.

And Eleanor, surrounded by the lifeblood of the lineage she had once feared lost forever, allowed herself to believe—just briefly—that this peace might last.

The moment shattered with the sound of heels on stone.

"Well, isn't this just lovely?" Regina's voice dripped with venom. "An entire Rys family reunion—without me."

Every head turned.

Regina stood in the corridor, posture rigid, expression locked into the same practiced scowl she'd learned at Constantine's knee. Time had not softened her. It had only sharpened her bitterness.

"Well," Leo muttered coolly, "that's because no one invited you."

Regina ignored him. Her gaze slid instead—slow, deliberate—until it landed on Eleanor.

"Well, well," she sneered. "If it isn't the Queen of the dead."

Eleanor didn't flinch.

She smiled thinly. 

"Well, well," Eleanor replied pleasantly, "if it isn't the whore who haunted my husband's bed." Her eyes flicked Regina up and down. "You look well... for something one of the kitchen cats dragged in."

Joanna let out a sharp, unrepentant snort.

"Et tu, Joanna?" Regina snapped.

"Oh, don't start with me," Joanna said flatly. "Ellie wasn't the only Rys wife who had to endure your whorish machinations—unless you'd like a history lesson."

Regina's lips thinned as she turned, stiff with indignation, toward Nadia.

"And what of you, my sister-in-law?" she asked coldly.

Nadia didn't miss a beat.

"First," she said evenly, "I am not your sister-in-law. You never knew my husband." Her gaze hardened. "And second, it must burn you up to see Eleanor, Joanna, and me standing here with our children. You know—the one thing you could never give your husband."

Regina's nostrils flared.

"How dare you speak to me that way?" she hissed. "I am the Former Queen of North Cordonia!"

Nadia shrugged, utterly unimpressed.

"So are Eleanor and Joanna," she said. "Your point?"

Regina's glare sharpened—until it hit a wall.

"Enough."

Marquise's voice cut through the room like steel.

Regina turned on him. "You would allow them to speak to me this way?"

Marquise didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"This is my kingdom," he said calmly. "So yes. I will." His eyes never left her. "And I will not have you addressing my mother, Leo's mother, or Carlo's mother in any tone that does not show respect for their titles."

He lifted a hand without looking away.

"Remove my father's whore at once."

Regina sputtered with fury. "You ungrateful bastard! I am a Queen!"

Marquise's gaze went glacial.

"If you continue to annoy me, Regina," he said quietly, "you will be absolutely nothing."

The guards stepped forward.

And Regina, for all her venom, was escorted out of the room without ceremony. For a moment after Regina was gone, no one spoke.

Then Nadia exhaled slowly.

"Well," she said flatly, "that was certainly...unpleasant."

Eleanor's gaze lingered on the corridor Regina had been dragged down, her expression thoughtful rather than angry.

"I should have had her killed when I had the chance," she said mildly, as though discussing an unpleasant but solvable inconvenience.

Joanna hummed.

"Hindsight, dear," she replied. Then, with a small, knowing smile, she added, "And really—who's to say your son won't decide she's outlived her usefulness?"

Marquise cleared his throat.

Not sharply.

Not loudly.

Deliberately.

Eleanor glanced at him, lips curving. Joanna's smile deepened. Nadia inclined her head once, satisfied.

Nothing more needed to be said.

With Regina removed and the tension slowly ebbing, the family began to separate in small, natural currents. Joanna linked arms with Nadia, Hana falling easily into step beside them as Carlo followed. They headed toward the parlor, where Margo and her family had already gathered, along with Shanelle's parents—voices and laughter beginning to rise once more as the palace tried, valiantly, to reclaim normalcy.

Marquise lingered.

"Come," he said quietly, turning to Eleanor. "I'll show you your rooms."

Leo fell into step beside them without comment, the three of them moving away from the noise and deeper into the residential wing of the palace. The halls here were quieter, softer somehow—less ceremonial, more lived in. Eleanor took it all in without rushing, her gaze lingering on familiar arches and corners that had once belonged to a much younger version of herself.

As they reached the entrance to the wing, an attendant approached, careful and respectful, carrying two pale pink bakery boxes stacked neatly in his arms.

"Pardon my intrusion, Your Majesty," the attendant said with a small bow, "but this came for Her Majesty."

Eleanor's face brightened at once.

"Ah, yes. For the children," she said warmly. "Thank you. Leo, would you be a dear?"

Leo accepted the boxes without question, though curiosity flickered across his face as the attendant departed.

"What's in there?" Marquise asked, glancing at the unmistakably cheerful packaging.

Eleanor smiled to herself. "A surprise for the children." 

“We are your children,” Marquise said.

“Yeah. We're your children.” Leo added.

“The grandchildren,” She said before turning back to Marquise then, her expression gentle but expectant. "Now, I do believe you two were showing me to my newly revamped bedroom."

Marquise chuckled softly, gesturing down the corridor. "Right this way, Your Majesty."

Leo followed behind them, the faint scent of chocolate already beginning to escape the boxes in his hands.

Inside were double chocolate muffins—rich, indulgent, familiar. The same kind Eleanor had shared with Khari only a month earlier in Auvernal, after a certain seven-year-old had commandeered a jet and turned an international incident into a family reunion. Eleanor had remembered. Of course she had. And now, she intended to share them again—with Khari, and with her brothers, together this time.

Because some comforts, like love and chocolate, were meant to be passed down.

And Eleanor Anyango-Rys was finally home to do just that. 

Eleanor slowed as they reached the door.

For a long moment, she simply stood there, her hand hovering inches from the handle. The wood was different—newer, polished—but the shape of the doorway was the same. The same threshold she had crossed countless times in another life. The last time she had stood before it, she hadn't known she was leaving for nearly three decades.

Her breath caught.

"I haven't seen this door in years," she said quietly.

Marquise stopped beside her at once. Leo did the same, flanking her without a word, as if on instinct.

"It's okay," Marquise said gently. "You're home."

Leo nodded. "Take your time, Mom. It's still yours."

Eleanor let their words settle, then reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

"Surprise!"

The shout hit her all at once—bright, loud, joyful.

Eleanor blinked, startled. "What in the world—?"

"We plan big s'prise for you, Gwandmuvver!" Zyon announced proudly.

"Yeah! Come see! Come see!" Kylo added, already scrambling toward the bed.

He bounced once.

"Kylo! No jumping on the bed!" Khari snapped instantly.

Kylo froze mid-bounce.

"Oh! Sowwy!"

Khari turned back to Eleanor, suddenly serious, hands clasped tightly in front of her. "We did this for you. We hope you like it, Grandmother."

Shanelle stood just inside the room, Ellie perched securely on her hip, smiling as she watched Eleanor take it all in.

Eleanor didn't speak at first.

Her gaze moved slowly across the room—the refreshed walls, the softened light, the careful balance between modern comfort and familiar bones. The bed. The windows. The space that had once held her youth, now holding her future.

And then she looked back at the children.

Emotion surged without warning, sharp and warm all at once. She pressed a hand to her chest, blinking hard as the weight of it washed over her—not grief this time, but gratitude. Belonging.

"Oh," she whispered. "You did all of this for me?"

Khari nodded solemnly. Kylo beamed. Zyon rocked on his heels, pleased as could be.

Eleanor crossed the room and knelt as best she could, drawing the three of them into her arms at once. She laughed softly as Kylo nearly toppled into her and Zyon clung tight, Khari holding firm like an anchor.

"Thank you," Eleanor said, her voice thick. "I love it. I love you."

And in that moment—surrounded by laughter, small arms, and the echo of a life she thought she had lost—Eleanor Anyango-Rys finally felt it settle in her bones.

She was home.

Kylo's attention, inevitably, drifted back to the pink boxes Leo was still holding.

"What's in da box?" he asked, peering at them with intense suspicion and hope.

Eleanor smiled. "Leo, would you be a dear and set those down for me?"

Leo obliged, placing the boxes carefully on the small table near the sitting area. Eleanor stepped closer and lifted the lid of the top box.

The rich scent of chocolate filled the room instantly.

"Oh!" Khari breathed.

"Muffins!" Zyon declared triumphantly.

Kylo gasped. "Choc'late?"

"Double chocolate," Eleanor confirmed, amusement dancing in her eyes.

The children crowded closer, excitement bubbling over as Eleanor lifted one muffin free of the box. Zyon bounced on his toes.

"Can we have one?" he asked hopefully.

Shanelle stepped in smoothly, Ellie still balanced on her hip. 

"Everyone may have one muffin each," she said firmly, though her smile softened the rule. "Only one. We still have a gathering to get to, and we are not being late."

Kylo nodded vigorously. "One muffin," he echoed solemnly.

Khari accepted hers with care, already planning how best to eat it. Zyon grinned like he'd just won something important. Kylo took his and immediately examined it as if it might disappear.

Eleanor watched them, heart full, as the simple ritual unfolded — crumbs, chocolate-smeared smiles, small hands clutching treats meant to be shared.

It wasn't just a snack.

It was continuity.

Memory.

Home.

And for Eleanor, standing there surrounded by her sons, her daughter-in-law, and her grandchildren, it was enough.

Eleanor watched them for all of two seconds before she laughed.

Khari sat neatly at the edge of the bed, peeling back the paper of her muffin with deliberate care, as though she were unwrapping something precious rather than chocolate. She brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap before taking a polite bite, nodding to herself in quiet approval.

Zyon turned his muffin slowly in his hands, studying it from every angle. He sniffed it. He poked it once. Then, apparently satisfied it posed no immediate threat, he took a careful bite and chewed thoughtfully, eyes widening just a little.

Kylo, meanwhile, wasted absolutely no time.

He lifted his muffin with both hands and took what could only be described as an attack.

"A T-Wex bite!" he announced proudly, teeth sinking deep.

Chocolate immediately smeared across his mouth.

Eleanor burst into laughter, the sound surprised and unrestrained, as Kylo grinned back at her—triumphant, messy, and utterly pleased with himself.

"Oh my," she said, shaking her head fondly. "I see restraint is optional."

Kylo beamed wider, somehow managing to get more chocolate on his face. Zyon giggled. Even Khari's carefully composed expression cracked into a smile.

Shanelle watched from the doorway, Ellie on her hip, her eyes warm as Eleanor wiped a thumb gently across Kylo's cheek. "Well," Eleanor said softly, still smiling, "I suppose some traditions should never change."

Crumbs fell. Laughter lingered. Chocolate smeared where it pleased.

And in that small, imperfect mess, Eleanor found herself laughing again—free, present, and finally, undeniably home.

The side parlor had been transformed.

Sunlight filtered in through tall windows dressed in sheer linen, catching on arrangements of fresh flowers in shades of warm gold and soft tangerine. Yellow roses. Orange ranunculus. Accents of amber glass and polished brass. Eleanor's colors—cheerful, bright, alive—woven into every corner of the room as if the space itself had been waiting for her return.

It was not a grand affair. There were no orchestras, no rigid seating charts, no stiff protocol.

Just family.

Low tables were set with finger foods and small plates—savory pastries, fresh fruit, cheeses, delicate tarts, and miniature desserts arranged with care. Laughter drifted easily through the room, mingling with the quiet clink of glassware and the soft hum of conversation. It felt less like a royal function and more like a gathering that had grown naturally out of love rather than obligation.

As Eleanor stepped inside, she paused—just for a heartbeat.

The colors.

The warmth.

The life.

Her hand tightened briefly around Marquise's arm before she let go, her gaze sweeping the room as something tender settled behind her ribs. This, she realized, was what she had been missing—not ceremony, not titles, but this quiet abundance of presence.

Margo noticed her immediately.

She crossed the room without hesitation, her face breaking into a broad, genuine smile. "Welcome home, Your Majesty."

Eleanor smiled back, but she shook her head gently. "Margo. There is no need for formality. You are my friend." Her eyes softened. "Well—I hope you still are my friend. You know you may call me Ellie."

Margo laughed softly and nodded. "Very well," she said warmly. "Welcome home, Ellie. The palace feels a great deal lighter now that you're here."

Eleanor reached for her hands, squeezing them with affection. "Thank you, my friend. It feels good—truly good—to finally be home."

Around them, the gathering continued to bloom.

Joanna sat with Shanelle's parents, their conversation easy and unguarded, punctuated by shared laughter and knowing glances that came from decades of experience navigating royal life. Nadia stood nearby with Carlo, her hand resting comfortably at his back as he spoke with Leo, the two men leaning into a conversation that felt both familiar and overdue.

Hana moved effortlessly among them, graceful and observant, checking in on everyone with quiet warmth. She paused briefly beside Eleanor, offering a gentle smile that needed no words. Eleanor returned it with gratitude—an unspoken understanding passing between them.

At one corner of the room, the children had already begun to claim territory.

Khari stood at the center of it all, directing Kylo and Zyon with the authority of someone who had clearly taken her role as planner very seriously. Ellie sat happily in Shanelle's arms, watching the activity with wide, curious eyes, occasionally reaching for anything within her grasp.

Eleanor watched them, her heart swelling.

"This was all Khari's doing," Marquise said quietly beside her, amusement coloring his voice.

Eleanor laughed softly. "I had no doubt."

They moved together through the room, Eleanor greeting familiar faces, accepting embraces, exchanging gentle words that carried the weight of years lost and found again. Each interaction stitched something back into place, mending threads she had once feared were gone forever.

At one point, Marquise leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I wanted to let you know—the estate at Duchy Anyango isn't quite ready yet."

Eleanor nodded thoughtfully. "That's alright," she said without hesitation. "I'm not quite ready to see it just yet." She glanced around the parlor, at the faces she loved. "But we'll go before the end of July."

Marquise smiled. "We'll make it happen."

She reached out and squeezed his hand, pride shining in her eyes.

The afternoon unfolded gently.

People drifted in and out of conversation. Plates were refilled. Desserts disappeared faster than expected. Zyon proudly presented Eleanor with a napkin he had "borrowed" to wipe chocolate from Kylo's face. Khari corrected him on etiquette while still smiling. Eleanor laughed until her sides ached.

At one point, she found herself seated between Joanna, Margo, and Nadia, the three of them watching their sons across the room.

"We did alright," Joanna said quietly.

Nadia nodded. "We did."

Eleanor exhaled, the sound soft and full. "Yes," she agreed. "We did."

"I am proud of the men you three raised."

"Four," Eleanor softly corrected, "The four of us raised. You are as much Marquise and Leo's mother as Joanna and I are." 

"She's right Margo. You kept them safe as much as anyone." Joanna added. 

"Thank you, ladies. I appreciate you including me." 

For a fleeting moment—just long enough to savor—it felt as though time itself had slowed. As though the past had loosened its grip, allowing the present to exist without weight.

Eleanor looked around the parlor once more.

Yellow and orange.

Light and warmth.

Family gathered whole.

And she let herself believe, if only for now, that peace could be real.

One week later...

July 14th.

The Rys Family Crypt was cool in a way the palace never was.

Stone held the temperature steady, unmoved by season or sunlight, as though time itself slowed once one stepped below ground. Eleanor descended the worn steps alone, the echo of her footsteps soft but persistent, each one sounding louder than it should have in the quiet.

It had been a week since her return.

A week of warmth, laughter, color, and family. A week of pretending—just a little—that the past could remain where it had been buried.

But today was July fourteenth.

Sebastian's birthday.

She had come for him.

But first, there was something she needed to see.

Eleanor turned down the familiar aisle and stopped.

There it was.

Her grave.

The marker bore her name, carved cleanly into stone, the dates below it marking a life that had not ended when the world believed it had. For a long moment, she simply stared at it, an odd dissonance settling in her chest. She had stood at many graves in her life. She had never stood at her own.

Beside it lay Constantine.

His name.

His dates.

The finality of the stone.

She took a step closer, her gaze fixed not on her own marker but on his. This—this was why she had come here first. Not for closure. Not for grief.

For certainty.

"You're really gone," she said quietly, her voice barely more than breath.

No anger rose. No satisfaction. Just a deep, aching stillness.

She thought of the man she had married. The man he had been before suspicion hollowed him out. Before fear sharpened his instincts into cruelty. Before lies—spoken and believed—had poisoned everything they touched.

"I loved you once," she said softly. "I wish that could have been enough for you."

It hadn't been.

And now it never would be.

Eleanor stepped back, inclining her head once—not in forgiveness, but in acknowledgment. The past did not need her permission to be what it was.

She turned and walked on.

The crypt extended deeper, lined with the names of monarchs and consorts who had shaped Cordonia long before Eleanor ever set foot within its walls. She passed King Leonardo and Queen Alessandra—her in-laws—stone faces eternally serene, their reign long concluded, their judgments rendered by history rather than blood.

And then she saw it.

Sebastian's grave.

Her steps slowed without her intending them to. The air felt heavier here, thick with memory. She stopped just short of the marker, her chest tightening as his name came into view.

Prince Sebastian Giancarlo Rys I.

Beloved son.

Devoted husband.

Loving father.

Hero of Cordonia.

A lie carved in stone.

Eleanor knelt carefully, setting the bouquet she carried at the base of the grave. White roses—fresh, unblemished. His favorite.

"I remembered," she murmured. "You always said they were honest flowers. No pretense."

She brushed her fingers lightly over the stone, tracing the letters of his name as though they might answer her.

"Happy birthday," she whispered. "You would have been...older than you'd like to admit by now." A sad smile touched her lips. "Carlo is grown. He's a good man. A wonderful one. You would be so proud of him."

Her throat tightened.

"You have grandchildren," she continued softly. "Twins. A boy and a girl. He named them after you and Nadia." Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. "They are beautiful, Sebastian. Truly. Carlo brought them and their mother Marianna to the palace yesterday. Your grandchildren are beautiful. As is your son. He looks just like you. So grown and independent. Like you."

Eleanor bowed her head then, the weight she carried pressing down hard.

"They're all together now," she said. "The family. Marquise. Leo. Carlo. Their children." She swallowed. "I wish you were here to see it. To be part of it."

Silence answered her.

The truth pressed against her ribs—sharp, familiar, unrelenting.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I should have protected you, Sebastian. I should have stopped it. I should have been able to save you." 

The words echoed uselessly in the stone chamber. Apologies did not resurrect the dead. They did not rewrite history. They only lingered, heavy with the knowledge that some things could never be undone.

Eleanor straightened slowly, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She did not cry—not here. The crypt had seen enough tears.

"I won't let them lie anymore," she said quietly. "I promise you that."

She rose, smoothing her coat, and took one last look at the grave. The white roses stood stark against the gray stone, luminous in their simplicity.

"Rest well," she whispered. "You deserved better."

As Eleanor turned to leave, the sound of footsteps reached her—soft, familiar.

She did not need to look to know who it was.

Nadia stood a few paces away, her expression gentle, her eyes already glistening. In her hands, she held a single white rose.

"I thought I might find you here," Nadia said softly.

Eleanor exhaled, something loosening in her chest as she met her gaze.

"Yes," she replied. "I thought you might."

And together, they stood before the grave of the man who had bound them forever—through love, through loss, and through a truth that would no longer remain buried.

Nadia stepped closer, stopping beside Eleanor at Sebastian's grave. For a long moment, neither woman spoke. The crypt held its silence like a held breath, broken only by the faint echo of water somewhere deeper in the stone.

Nadia knelt and placed her single white rose beside the others. She adjusted the stems carefully, her fingers lingering as though reluctant to let go.

"He always liked them fresh," Nadia said softly. "Said wilted flowers felt like an apology."

Eleanor let out a breath that trembled despite her best effort. "That sounds like him."

Nadia straightened slowly, brushing dust from her hands. "I used to bring red roses at first," she continued, her voice steady but distant. "It felt appropriate. Love. Passion. All the things people like to imagine when they speak about heroes." She shook her head faintly. "Then one day I remembered him standing in the garden, scolding the groundskeeper for planting something too dramatic."

Eleanor smiled weakly. "He always hated excess."

"He always hated lies," Nadia corrected gently.

That did it.

Eleanor closed her eyes, her chin dipping toward her chest. "I failed him," she said quietly. "I failed you. I failed Carlo."

Nadia turned to face her fully then. "No," she said at once. "You didn't."

Eleanor laughed softly, bitterly. "You're kind to say that."

"I'm not being kind," Nadia replied. "I'm being honest."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice even though there was no one else there. 

"Sebastian died because Constantine was a coward. Not because you loved him. Not because Barthelemy whispered poison. And certainly not because you didn't fight hard enough."

Eleanor's eyes snapped open. "If I had shut it down sooner—"

"If you had known," Nadia interrupted gently. "But you didn't. None of us did. That was Constantine's doing. His fear. His jealousy. His inability to sit with doubt like an adult man."

The words landed with finality, sharp and clean.

Eleanor pressed her lips together, nodding once. "I replay it in my mind," she admitted. "The look on his face when he told me about the DNA test. About ordering it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And then the moment when the truth slipped out of him. About the ambush."

Nadia's hand curled slowly into a fist at her side. "I remember," she said. "You came to me that night. You were shaking."

"I was terrified," Eleanor said. "Of what I'd done. Of what he'd done. Of what would happen if anyone ever knew."

They stood there together, two women bound by a shared horror that had shaped the rest of their lives.

"I hated you for a while," Nadia said suddenly.

Eleanor flinched, but she nodded. "I know."

"I hated you because it was easier than hating him," Nadia continued. "Because he was gone, and you were standing right in front of me, alive." She swallowed. "And because part of me knew you were hurting just as much as I was."

Eleanor turned to her, eyes shining. "I would have understood if you never forgave me."

Nadia shook her head. "I forgave you long before I knew how to forgive myself."

They stood in silence again, the weight of decades pressing between them.

"Carlo still believes his father died a hero," Nadia said quietly.

Eleanor's chest tightened. "So does Marquise. And Leo."

"Yes," Nadia agreed. "And that lie protected them. For a time."

"For a time," Eleanor echoed.

Nadia looked back at Sebastian's grave. "Carlo worships his father," she said. "Not in a childish way. In a quiet one. The way a man tries to live up to a ghost."

Eleanor nodded. "Marquise does the same. In different ways."

"And Leo," Nadia added softly. "He lost Sebastian before he was old enough to understand what loss really meant."

Eleanor closed her eyes. "We stole their choice."

"We gave them childhood," Nadia corrected. "And that matters."

Eleanor exhaled slowly. "But they are not children anymore, Nadia."

"No," Nadia said. "They are husbands. Fathers. Kings. Princes." Her gaze sharpened. "And they are building a future on a foundation that is cracked."

The words echoed in the stone chamber.

"I'm afraid," Eleanor admitted. "Afraid that telling them will break them."

Nadia looked at her steadily. "Not telling them will break them even worse, love."

Eleanor's breath caught.

"They will find out one day," Nadia continued. "Truth has a way of surfacing when it's least convenient. And when it does, it will matter who told them."

Eleanor nodded slowly, the truth settling heavy and undeniable. "The truth. It should come from us."

"Yes," Nadia said. "From their mothers."

They turned then, standing shoulder to shoulder before Sebastian's grave.

"He never got to meet Marquise," Eleanor said softly. "That haunts me."

"He would have adored him," Nadia replied without hesitation. "A mind like that. A heart like that." She paused. "He would have been proud of all of them."

Eleanor swallowed. "And Carlo?"

Nadia's voice softened. "Carlo already carries his father inside him. He just doesn't know how deeply yet."

They both knew what that meant.

Eleanor brushed her fingers lightly over the white roses once more. "If we tell them," she said carefully, "it changes everything."

"Yes," Nadia agreed. "It will."

"It will fracture their memory of Constantine."

Nadia's expression hardened. "Good."

Eleanor let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You never lacked clarity, my dear."

"I learned it the hard way," Nadia said. "Loving Sebastian taught me many things. Losing him taught me the rest."

Eleanor straightened her shoulders. "Then we tell them."

Nadia nodded. "Together."

"When?" Eleanor asked.

"Soon," Nadia replied. "Before the silence grows teeth again."

Eleanor nodded once, resolve settling in her chest like armor. "I'll speak to Marquise. You speak to Carlo."

"I will," Nadia said. "And Leo?"

"I'll handle Leo," Eleanor said softly. "He deserves that from me."

They stood there a moment longer, letting the decision root itself.

Finally, Eleanor stepped back. "Walk with me?"

Nadia smiled faintly. "Always."

They turned away from Sebastian's grave together, their steps slow but steady as they moved back through the crypt. Past the kings and queens carved into stone. Past the stories polished into legend.

As they climbed the steps toward the light, the air warmed almost imperceptibly.

Neither woman spoke.

They didn't need to.

They had buried the lie long enough.

Now, they would exhume the truth — carefully, deliberately — and place it where it belonged.

In the hands of the men they had raised.

And together, Eleanor and Nadia walked back toward the palace, toward their sons, toward a reckoning that could no longer be postponed.

July 18th came in quietly—sunlight on stone, summer warmth in the gardens, the palace moving through its routines as if routine could keep the past sedated.

It couldn't.

Marquise's office sat at the end of a long corridor that always felt a shade cooler than the rest of the residence wing. The guards posted outside were the same ones who had stood there yesterday and the day before, faces neutral, posture immaculate. Nothing about their presence suggested catastrophe. Nothing about the palace suggested a family would be remade in an afternoon.

Inside, the office was immaculate in the way Marquise preferred when he needed his mind to be sharp: papers aligned, pens in their places, the scent of polished wood and faint bergamot lingering in the air. Tall windows let in the light, but it landed softly here, filtered by heavy curtains and the weight of history.

Marquise stood behind his desk at first—not seated, not settled—his hands resting lightly on the wood as he watched the room fill.

Shanelle was already there, positioned near the window with the ease of a woman who understood both palace politics and her husband's silences. She wore calm like armor, chin lifted, eyes steady. When Marquise glanced at her, she gave him a small nod: I'm here. I've got you.

Leo arrived next, as punctual as ever, with Hana at his side.

Hana entered with the composure of a Duchess—quiet, self-possessed, dressed simply but with the kind of precision that announced rank without needing to raise its voice. Her gaze swept the room once, taking in placement, mood, Marquise's posture, Shanelle's stillness. Then she looked at Leo, and her hand brushed his forearm—an almost imperceptible touch that said breathe.

Leo's jaw was already tight.

He nodded at Marquise first. "Brother."

"Leo," Marquise returned, voice calm, controlled.

Then Leo's eyes went to Eleanor.

The word came out of him like it always did when he didn't want to think too hard about what it meant. "Mom."

Eleanor stood near the seating area rather than the desk, as if she did not want to occupy authority here—only truth. She had dressed in something dark and understated, no regalia, no public face. Just a woman who had run out of places to hide a secret.

Her smile for Leo was soft, but it didn't reach her eyes. "My darling."

Leo crossed to her and kissed her cheek, a gesture both reverent and intimate, then stepped back as though he could already sense the room tightening around them.

Carlo arrived last—with Nadia.

The moment Carlo stepped through the doorway, Marquise felt the shift. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the subtle, unmistakable change in the air when the final weight is added to a scale.

Carlo was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit that fit like discipline. His expression was polite, even warm, but restrained—like a man walking into a room where he suspected the walls might move.

Nadia followed at his side with the grace of a Duchess who had learned long ago that grief did not excuse you from dignity. She had carried Sebastian's name for years, carried his legacy even longer, and the title clung to her like something earned rather than given.

Her eyes met Eleanor's first.

There was no surprise there. No greeting that needed words. Only a look that said: We're here. We're doing it.

Carlo greeted Marquise with a firm clasp of the hand. "Your Majesty."

Marquise corrected automatically, because it was safer than thinking. "Carlo."

"Marquise," Carlo returned, and there—briefly—was cousinhood.

Then Carlo nodded to Shanelle. "Your Majesty."

"Carlo," Shanelle said warmly, and her warmth was real. Shanelle could do many things, but she could not fake care.

Carlo smiled warmly.

"Shanelle," he said respectfully.

Leo and Carlo exchanged a brief embrace, the kind men gave when they were family but not boys anymore. Hana greeted Carlo with a small smile and a nod of respect, and Carlo returned it with genuine courtesy.

Then Nadia stepped forward and greeted Shanelle, then Hana, then Joanna's absence lingered in the room like an unasked question—one of many.

At last, Nadia faced the group fully.

"Thank you for coming," she said, her voice quiet but carrying. "I know it was...sudden."

Marquise's brow lifted just slightly. "You asked to meet. You said it was important." He kept his tone neutral, but his instincts had already begun to prickle. "So we're here."

Nadia nodded once. "Yes."

Eleanor remained still beside her, hands clasped loosely in front of her, posture careful. Marquise noticed, with a flicker of irritation he didn't quite understand, that Eleanor wasn't standing at his shoulder today the way she had in the throne room. She was not presenting herself as Queen Mother.

She was presenting herself as witness.

And that made his stomach tighten.

Nadia looked around the room—at the men, at the women, at the way everyone had unconsciously spread out as if distance could soften impact.

"I need everyone to please sit. Wherever you'd like," she said calmly.

It was a simple request. It did not sound like an order.

But it landed like one.

Marquise didn't move immediately. Neither did Leo. Carlo hesitated a fraction of a second longer than both of them, eyes narrowing slightly—as though measuring the weight behind Nadia's words.

Then Shanelle moved first, sitting behind Marquise's desk on the bookshelf ledge, with deliberate ease. Hana followed, smooth and composed, choosing a seat close enough to Leo that her knee could brush his if it needed to. Leo sat last among them, his movements controlled, his gaze locked on Eleanor as if he could demand the truth out of her by force of will.

Carlo sat opposite Leo, posture straight, hands clasped loosely. Nadia remained standing for one heartbeat longer, then sat beside her son—not because she needed support, but because she was choosing proximity.

Eleanor took the seat beside Nadia.

Marquise remained standing.

He looked at them—his mother, his wife, his brother and sister-in-law, his cousin and aunt—assembled in his office like a council called to judge something ancient.

Finally, he sat behind his desk, not because he needed the chair, but because if he did not sit, it would look like he was bracing for attack.

Silence thickened.

Outside the office, the palace continued to exist. Somewhere down the hall a clock chimed softly. Somewhere in a courtyard a bird sang as if nothing in the world had ever died.

Inside, Nadia drew a slow breath.

Her fingers lifted—without her seeming to notice—to the delicate chain at her throat. A small locket rested there, worn smooth by time and touch. She pressed it lightly between thumb and forefinger, the gesture unconscious, instinctive, intimate.

Marquise's gaze caught on it.

Leo's eyes followed.

Carlo's attention sharpened, something flickering behind his expression that Marquise could not name.

Nadia's voice, when she spoke again, was steady.

"I need you all to listen very carefully," she said softly. "And I need you to understand—before anything else—that what we're about to say was never kept from you out of malice."

Eleanor swallowed, her composure tightening like a cinch pulled too fast.

Shanelle's hand slid across Marquise's shoulders when she noticed them tense slightly—a quiet anchor.

Marquise felt his pulse shift. He sat up slightly, elbows near the arms of his office chair, eyes fixed on Nadia.

"What is this about?" he asked.

Nadia looked at him for a long moment, her hand still resting against the locket as if it could give her courage.

Then her gaze moved—briefly—to Carlo, then to Leo, then back to Marquise.

"It's about...Sebastian," she said.

And the room, in one breathless instant, became smaller.

No one spoke.

The name sat in the room like something fragile laid on a table—too important to touch too quickly.

Prince Sebastian.

Marquise felt it first in his chest, a tightening he didn't immediately understand. Sebastian had always been a constant in his life without ever truly being present—an idea more than a man. A portrait. A story. A legacy spoken of with reverence and restraint.

Carlo shifted in his chair, just slightly. His hands remained clasped, but his shoulders drew in a fraction, as if bracing against a cold that hadn't yet reached him.

Leo leaned back, one arm folding across his chest. His jaw worked once, twice. He said nothing.

Shanelle watched all three men with quiet focus, already cataloging reactions, already preparing herself to anchor Marquise when the moment came. Hana did the same for Leo, her knee brushing his in subtle reassurance.

Eleanor kept her gaze lowered.

Nadia inhaled slowly through her nose, then exhaled with care, as if breath itself had become something she needed to ration.

"I want to begin," she said softly, "by talking about who Sebastian was."

Marquise's brow creased. "We know who he was."

Nadia nodded. "You know who he was to the kingdom." Her eyes lifted, meeting his steadily. "But I need you to remember who he was to us first."

She turned slightly in her chair, angling her body toward Carlo.

"He was your father," she said. "Before he was a Prince. Before he was a General. Before he was ever a hero."

Carlo's lips parted, then pressed together again. "I know that," he said quietly.

Nadia smiled faintly. "You were six when he died."

The number landed harder than it should have.

Carlo's gaze flickered, something old and instinctive stirring behind his eyes. "I remember him."

"I know you do," Nadia said gently. "You remember his voice. The way he smelled when he came home from riding. The way he knelt so you could climb onto his shoulders." Her voice wavered, but she steadied it. "You remember the feeling of him."

Carlo swallowed.

"But you don't remember his fears," Nadia continued. "Or his doubts. Or the arguments he had with his brother when the doors were closed."

Marquise straightened slightly at that.

Sebastian and Constantine arguing was not unheard of—but it had always been framed as ideological disagreements. Policy. Military strategy. Brothers who loved each other too much to agree easily.

Leo let out a slow breath. "Sebastian used to bring me sweets," he said suddenly, his voice rough. "From the kitchens. He'd tell the cooks it was for me, but he'd eat half of them himself."

Nadia smiled at that, her eyes shining. "He had no discipline around sugar."

Eleanor's mouth curved, sad and fond. "He used to sneak pastries into my sitting room and swear me to secrecy."

Leo huffed a short laugh. "He called me 'little lion.'"

"I remember that," Eleanor said softly. "You followed him everywhere."

Leo nodded, his gaze distant now. "I was three."

The words fell into the silence like stones.

Marquise shifted in his seat. "I don't remember him at all," he said. It wasn't accusation. It was fact. "I was two months old."

Nadia turned to him then, her expression gentle but unflinching. "No. You don't remember him." She paused. "But you have lived under the shadow of his memory your entire life."

Marquise didn't respond.

"You were told he died a hero," Nadia continued. "That he was ambushed while protecting his men. That he gave his life for Cordonia."

Eleanor's hands clenched in her lap.

"That story," Nadia said carefully, "was not untrue."

Carlo's head snapped up. "Then why are we here?"

"Because," Nadia replied, her voice steady, "it was not the whole truth."

The air in the room changed.

Marquise felt it like pressure behind his eyes. He leaned forward slightly. "What are you saying?"

Nadia glanced at Eleanor.

Eleanor lifted her head at last.

"There are things," she said quietly, "about Sebastian's death that were...deliberately withheld."

Leo's expression hardened. "By whom?"

Eleanor didn't answer immediately. She looked at each of them in turn—Leo, Carlo, Marquise—her sons and her nephew, grown men who had once been boys she'd sworn to protect.

"By us," she said.

Carlo stared at them both, confusion beginning to bleed into something sharper. "You lied to us?"

Nadia shook her head slowly. "We protected you."

Leo scoffed softly. "That's what people always say."

Hana's hand slid fully over Leo's now, grounding him.

Marquise held up a hand, palm open. "Enough," he said calmly. Too calmly. "Start from the beginning."

Nadia nodded once. "As you three know, Sebastian was a General," she said. "Not because he wanted power—but because he believed leadership required presence. He believed you could not command people you were unwilling to stand beside and fight for."

Eleanor closed her eyes briefly.

"He was respected," Nadia continued. "Not feared. Not adored. Respected. His men trusted him."

Carlo's throat bobbed. "I know."

"He was also," Nadia said carefully, "under increasing scrutiny."

Marquise frowned. "From whom?"

"From Constantine," Eleanor answered.

The word sat heavy.

Leo's posture stiffened. "Why?"

Eleanor took a breath. "Because your father was afraid."

Marquise's jaw tightened. "Of what?"

"Of losing control," Eleanor replied. "Of being replaced. Of being questioned."

Carlo leaned forward now, forearms resting on his thighs. "You're saying my father was a threat."

"No," Nadia said immediately. "He never sought the throne."

"But he had it," Leo said sharply. "If Constantine fell. If something happened."

Eleanor nodded once. "And that possibility terrified him."

Marquise pushed back in his chair, standing abruptly. "You're dancing around something."

"Yes," Nadia said softly. "Because once we say it, it can't be taken back."

Marquise turned toward the window, staring out at the gardens below. His voice was controlled, but tight. "Say it anyway."

Eleanor rose slowly from her chair.

She moved toward Marquise's desk, not to sit, but to stand beside it—no longer witness, but participant.

"Barthelemy Beaumont," she said.

Leo's head snapped up. "That bastard."

"He was always adversarial toward Sebastian," Eleanor continued. "Openly. Publicly. He wanted Sebastian gone."

Marquise turned back. "Why?"

"Because Sebastian was incorruptible," Eleanor replied. "And Barthelemy thrived on leverage."

Carlo frowned. "What does that have to do with us?"

Eleanor swallowed. "He took a photograph."

The room stilled.

"A photograph?" Marquise echoed.

"Of me," Eleanor said quietly. "When I was pregnant with you."

Marquise's breath caught.

"It was taken completely out of context," Eleanor continued. "I was falling. Sebastian caught me."

Leo's eyes widened. "That's it?"

"Barthelemy said it was proof," Eleanor said. "Proof of an affair. Proof that the child I carried wasn't Constantine's."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Carlo stared at Eleanor. "That's insane."

"Yes," Nadia said softly. "But insanity is persuasive when fed to fear."

Marquise's voice dropped. "My father believed that?"

Eleanor nodded slowly.

"Yes. So much so that he ordered a DNA test," Eleanor said.

Shanelle inhaled sharply.

Marquise felt the floor tilt beneath him. "You're telling me my father tested...me."

"Yes," Eleanor replied.

"And?"

Eleanor met his gaze. "You were his son."

The relief was immediate—and then obliterated by what followed.

"That's when he realized," Eleanor said, "what he had already done."

Leo's voice was barely audible. "What did he do?"

Nadia closed her eyes while taking hold of Eleanor's hand. 

"He ordered Sebastian's death."

The words didn't echo.

They absorbed.

Carlo didn't move. Didn't breathe. His face went strangely blank, as if his mind had simply... stepped away.

Leo surged to his feet. "No."

Marquise didn't speak at all.

"Sadly yes, he did. He had it staged as an ambush," Nadia continued. "Sebastian and his entire unit."

Hana stood abruptly, moving to Leo as his hands clenched at his sides.

Carlo finally spoke. "You're lying."

Nadia looked at her son, pain etched deep into her expression. "I wish I were."

Marquise turned slowly toward Eleanor. "You knew."

"Yes," she said. "He told me."

"And you let him live," Leo snarled.

Eleanor's voice broke. "I forced him to tell Nadia."

Nadia nodded. "Two days later."

Carlo's breath shuddered. "You let us believe my father died a hero."

"Yes," Nadia said softly. "Because the truth would have destroyed you."

Marquise sank back into his chair.

Silence swallowed the room.

The lie had not shattered yet.

But it had cracked wide enough for the truth to breathe. 

No one spoke.

The truth had been spoken aloud, but it still hovered in the room like something theoretical—horrific, yes, but not yet real. Words could still be argued with. Reinterpreted. Disbelieved.

Evidence could not.

Eleanor stood very still beside Marquise's desk.

For a long moment, she simply rested her hand on its surface, fingers splayed as if grounding herself in the solidity of the wood. The desk had belonged to Constantine once. It had been refinished since then, altered, modernized—but its bones were the same.

Appropriate, she thought distantly.

"There's something you need to see," she said.

Marquise did not look up. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the desk, beyond the room, as if staring hard enough might rewind time.

Leo's voice was sharp. "What could possibly make this any worse?"

Eleanor met his eyes. "Understanding."

That made him flinch.

She moved then—slowly, deliberately—to the side of the desk. Her fingers brushed the carved edge near the base, finding the small, nearly invisible seam. She paused there, breath steadying, eyes closing for half a second.

This was the last moment before the lie died.

She pressed.

A soft click sounded.

A panel slid open.

It wasn't dramatic. There was no mechanical whir, no flourish. Just the quiet reveal of a shallow compartment hidden within the desk itself—one Constantine had believed no one would ever dare open.

Inside lay a single folder.

Thick. Aged. Its edges worn not by time alone, but by hesitation.

Marquise's head snapped up.

"What is that?" he asked.

Eleanor lifted the folder out with both hands.

"This," she said quietly, "is what I would allow your father to destroy."

She carried it to the center of the room, every step measured. Shanelle rose without thinking, positioning herself closer to Marquise. Hana did the same with Leo. Nadia remained seated, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles pale.

Carlo hadn't moved at all.

Eleanor set the folder on the table between them.

The sound it made—paper meeting wood—was far too loud.

"There are three things in here," Eleanor said. "We're going to go through them one at a time."

Leo laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Of course there are."

Eleanor ignored the tone. "You need to see this as it happened. In the order it happened."

Marquise finally spoke. His voice was steady, but it had gone hollow. "Show us."

Eleanor opened the folder.

The first document was a photograph.

She slid it out slowly, turning it so they could all see.

It was grainy. Poorly angled. Cropped just enough to lie convincingly.

Eleanor stood, visibly pregnant, one hand braced against a stone balustrade. Sebastian was beside her, arm outstretched, fingers gripping her sleeve—catching her mid-stumble.

It looked intimate.

It looked damning.

It looked like a moment frozen without its truth.

Carlo leaned forward slightly, squinting. "That's it?" he asked. "That's the proof?"

"That was enough," Eleanor replied.

Leo surged to his feet. "That's nothing. That's—" He broke off, teeth grinding. "That's a man stopping a woman from falling."

"Yes," Eleanor said. "But Barthelemy framed it as something else."

Marquise stared at the image, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "My father believed this meant—"

"Yes," Eleanor said quietly.

Shanelle's voice cut in, low and furious. "He believed you cheated on him."

"And that the child you were carrying wasn't his," Hana finished, her voice cold.

Eleanor nodded once.

Carlo's hands curled into fists. "This is insane."

"Yes," Nadia said. "But insanity wears a very convincing face when it flatters fear."

Eleanor slid the photograph aside.

The second document was thinner. Clinical. Official.

She hesitated before lifting it.

"This," she said, "is the DNA report."

Marquise's breath hitched.

Eleanor turned the paper so it faced him directly.

At the top was the royal seal.

Below it: names. Dates. Genetic markers. The name: Longview Diagnostics Services.

Conclusion: Probability of paternity — 99.999%.

Marquise's vision blurred.

"You're his," Eleanor said softly. "You always were."

Relief hit him like oxygen—sudden, overwhelming—

And then drowned instantly beneath the weight of what followed.

Eleanor's voice dropped. "But by the time the results came back..."

She reached back into the folder.

The third document was heavier.

Thicker.

Final.

Nadia closed her eyes.

Eleanor laid it on the table.

Black ink.

Royal header.

The seal pressed so deeply into the paper it had scarred it.

Leo leaned over, reading before anyone could stop him.

His breath left him in a broken sound.

Marquise didn't need to read it. He knew.

But his eyes moved anyway.

Death Warrant.

Name: Prince Sebastian Rys.

Authorization: King Constantine Rys.

Reason: Classified.

The room detonated.

Leo slammed his fist into the table. "No—"

Carlo made a sound that wasn't language. He stood so abruptly his chair skidded back, legs scraping harshly against the floor.

Marquise didn't move at all.

His world had narrowed to ink and paper and the unmistakable truth that his father had signed his brother's death after knowing the lie was false.

"You kept this," Leo snarled at Eleanor. "You kept this in his desk?"

"Yes," she said, tears finally breaking free. "Because one day, I knew you would need proof."

Carlo's voice was hoarse. "My father...died because of a photograph?"

"No," Nadia said, rising at last. "He died because Constantine couldn't live with doubt."

Marquise's hands trembled as he reached out—slowly, carefully—and touched the edge of the warrant.

"This is real," he said.

"Yes," Eleanor whispered.

"He ordered the ambush," Marquise continued, voice distant. "And then he ordered this."

"Yes."

"And everyone called him a hero."

"Yes."

Marquise closed his eyes.

Something inside him broke—not loudly, not violently—but completely.

Leo paced the room like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair. "He killed his own brother," he spat. "Over a lie."

"And then made us honor him for it," Carlo said, his voice hollow. "I named my son after him."

Nadia stepped toward him. "And that does not make you wrong."

Carlo shook his head, tears finally spilling. "I taught my children their grandfather was a hero."

"And he was," Nadia said fiercely. "Just not in the way you were told."

Silence returned—but this time it was heavy with wreckage.

Marquise sat there, king, son, man, staring at the proof that his entire inheritance had been built on blood and cowardice.

Shanelle knelt beside him, one hand gripping his knee, the other braced on the desk. "Breathe," she murmured. "You're here. I've got you."

Marquise drew a shuddering breath.

Eleanor stood trembling before them, her secret finally laid bare.

"This is why," she said brokenly, "we couldn't tell you sooner."

No one answered.

They were past answers now.

The truth had teeth.

And it had sunk them deep.

The room did not erupt.

It did not fracture into shouting or collapse into chaos. It did something far worse.

It went still.

The death warrant lay on the table like a body no one was willing to claim. The black ink seemed darker now, heavier, as if the paper itself had absorbed the weight of what it had done. No one touched it. No one looked away from it either.

Marquise sat motionless behind his desk, his hands resting where they had fallen, palms open, fingers slack. His eyes were fixed on the seal—his father's seal—and there was a strange distance in them, as though his mind had stepped back from his body for its own protection. He breathed, because breathing was automatic. Nothing else was.

Leo stood near the window, shoulders rigid, his reflection staring back at him in the glass like an accusation. He dragged a hand down his face, then braced it against the wall, knuckles whitening as if the stone might anchor him to the present.

Carlo remained standing where he had risen, chair still skewed behind him. He stared at the warrant without blinking. When he finally did blink, it was slow—deliberate—like a man testing whether the world would change when he opened his eyes again.

It didn't.

Shanelle knelt beside Marquise, one hand firm on his knee, the other lightly gripping the edge of the desk. She did not speak. She knew better. This was not a moment that could be soothed. It could only be survived.

Hana had moved closer to Leo without drawing attention to herself, her presence a quiet line drawn between him and the edge of something he might not come back from.

Nadia was standing.

She had risen without realizing it, chair scraping faintly behind her. Her gaze was locked on the warrant, but her hand had gone to her chest, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her dress as though she could hold her heart still by force.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she tried.

"He..." The word caught immediately, snagging in her throat like a splinter. She swallowed hard and tried again. "Sebastian—"

Her voice broke completely.

The sound that came out of her was small, involuntary, raw. Nadia pressed her lips together, eyes squeezing shut as if to physically stop the grief from spilling out. Her shoulders lifted with a sharp inhale she couldn't seem to complete.

Carlo turned toward her at once. "Mother."

That was all it took.

Nadia shook her head, one hand lifting as if to ward the word away. She tried to breathe again, but her chest hitched, breath stuttering uselessly in her lungs. Tears welled despite her efforts, blurring her vision until the room became indistinct shapes and shadows.

"I—" she whispered, then stopped, defeated by her own body.

Eleanor moved.

She had been still until then—too still—but now she stepped forward, closing the distance between them with careful, deliberate steps. She placed one hand at the small of Nadia's back, solid and steady, and with the other gently took Nadia's trembling hand away from her chest.

"It's alright," Eleanor said quietly. Not kindly. Not soothingly. Just true. "I've got it."

Nadia nodded once, sharply, unable to trust herself with more. She stepped back, surrendering the center of the room without protest, her hand lingering for half a second in Eleanor's before letting go.

Eleanor turned to face them all.

Her posture was straight, but only because she was holding herself there. Her face had gone pale, the skin around her eyes tight with effort. When she spoke, her voice was calm—not because she felt calm, but because anything less would shatter her.

"There are things you need to understand," she said. "Not the conclusions. Not the outcomes. The sequence."

Marquise did not move. Did not speak. His gaze remained fixed on the table, his father's handwriting burned into his vision.

"This did not happen in a moment," Eleanor continued. "It happened over months. Quietly. Deliberately. Without warning."

Leo turned toward her. "Start talking."

She nodded once. "Barthelemy went to Constantine in June of 1986."

That got Marquise's attention.

His head lifted slowly. "June."

"Yes," Eleanor said. "I was five almost six months pregnant."

The date hung between them.

You have reached the end of Part One.

Despite that, he was a friendly child who learned by the age of four that being charming got him whatever he wanted from the nannies and the kitchen staff.

A heartfelt, “Please?” netted him cookies, cakes, candies, and plenty of baklava. No one could withstand the cuteness of the little prince. Especially his mother.

His first smiles, at three months old, were for Eleanor. As he grew into a toddler and preschooler, she remained his favorite person, that somber expression turning into a wide faced grin at the sound of her voice or the sight of her face.

She read to him, she played with him, she took him on walks in the garden. She was the antidote to his father’s seriousness.

By the age of six, Liam had learned that his father’s affections were less frequent and harder earned. The bulk of Constantine’s attention went to Liam’s older brother, because Leo was going to be king, and Liam was not. He was only the spare.

Liam never resented Leo for it. He loved him. Leo was his second favorite person in the world, after Eleanor. He started toddling along behind him as soon as he could walk. Leo was older, cooler, and knew all the best games.

Leo was also a frequent rule breaker, while Liam was not. On this particular day, Leo and Olivia had decided to sneak away from the nannies and play in the woods behind the palace.

Leo had read to him until he bored of it. Pushing the stack of books away he exclaimed, “I can’t stand being inside for another moment! Let’s go out to play!”

“Finally!” Olivia cast the copy of Little Women she’d been reading to the side as she jumped up from the oversized beanbag in the corner of the library.

“I want to come too!” Liam scrambled quickly to his feet. He had learned the hard way that if he didn’t keep up with the older kids, he’d be left behind.

 “Sure,” Leo shrugged, “but you have to be quiet until we get past the hedge maze.”

“Past the hedge maze?” Liam asked in alarm, “We aren’t supposed to go past the hedge maze! Father said-“

“Father doesn’t have to know, does he?”

“Maybe you should stay here, Liam,” Olivia said sagely, “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Liam thought for a moment, taking in Leo’s amusement and Olivia’s smug sureness that he would stay behind. He drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders, “No. I’ll go!”

“Are you sure, Li?” Leo asked with a laugh, “Last time you got caught breaking the rules, you cried.”

Liam flushed with embarrassment. Father had been so angry. He didn’t like to make anyone angry, “I didn’t mean to break the vase.”

“Hey,” the amusement disappeared from Leo’s face, replaced with sympathy, “It’s okay! It wasn’t even your fault, I’m the one that talked you into playing football in the great room!”

“It’s okay, Liam,” Olivia placed a hand on his shoulder as she leaned down, “but I heard there’s fresh baklava in the kitchen. You should go get some!”

“Yeah…okay….” He agreed half-heartedly.

He picked up an illustrated copy of Where the Wild Things Are with a sigh as he watched Leo and Olivia sneak giggling down the hallway toward the garden doors.

Thirty minutes later he was perched on a stool at one of the marble counters in the place kitchen, shoving baklava into his mouth as he turned the pages of his book when he heard unfamiliar voices.

He turned away from his book in interest as the head of the King’s Guard entered the room with a man and a woman Liam had never seen before. Trailing behind the adults were two children.

Liam’s eyes widened as he took in the new arrivals. A little girl with dark curls and wide eyes took in everything around her in wonder. A boy that looked to be about the same age as himself kept his gaze trained on the floor indifferently, a shock of chestnut hair falling into his eyes; hands stuffed into his pockets.

Liam twisted back and forth on the stool in excitement, nearly tumbling out of it as he did.

“Careful there young master!” The pastry chef caught him before he could fall.

“Sorry!” Liam exclaimed as he twisted out of her grasp, his head spinning to keep track of the children, “Who are they? I want to go say hi! Can I?”

“Certainly!” She laughed as she released him and watched as he sprinted across the travertine tile.

The group had moved into the formal dining room when Liam caught up with them, skidding around a corner and colliding directly with the head of the King’s Guard. “Ooof! Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Captain Sullivan helped him to his feet, “What’s the big hurry?”

“I wanted to meet the kids!” Liam ducked his head, suddenly a little shy, “Who are they? What are they doing here?”

“Okay, okay, slow down!” The captain laughed, “I’ll introduce you! Your Highness, this is the newest member of the guard, Jackson Walker, his wife Bianca and their children, Drake and Savannah. Everyone, this is Prince Liam.”

Liam sucked in a breath of surprise; he knew that some members of the guard lived at the palace. He felt like he was about to explode with excitement. Please let them live here, he prayed furiously. Out loud he said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“And we’re very pleased to meet you,” Jackson shook his hand.

The girl shoved her way in front of her parents, a look of awe on her face, “Are you an honest to God, real life prince?”

“I am.” Liam grinned at her.

“It’s nice to meet you Liam,” Bianca told him before pushing the boy forward, “Isn’t it Drake? Can you say hi to the prince?”

Drake shuffled forward awkwardly, lifted his eyes to Liam’s face for a moment then dropped them as he mumbled, “Hi.”

“Can they come play with me?” Liam directed the question to the adults, lacing the fingers of both hands through each other as he pleaded, “Pleeeeease?”

“Oh, yes!” Savannah squealed, clapping her hands as she jumped up and down, adding her pleas to his, “Can we please?”

“I think that would be okay,” Jackson replied, “What you think, son? Would you like to go play with Liam?”

The sullen faced little boy lifted his copper and gold flecked eyes again and found Liam’s face. Drake’s determination to hate everything about this new place faltered a little as saw the genuine excitement bubbling over in the other child. “I guess that would be okay. What do you want to do?”

“Yes!” Liam jumped up into the air with joy, “We can play whatever you want! Hide and seek, or tag in the gardens, we have board games, video games, we could ride bicycles if we get the nannies to supervise us or we could play sword fighting-“

“You have swords?” Drake’s eyes widened with interest.

“Wooden ones but-“

“Can I dad?” Drake turned to Jackson hopefully.

“Yes, go on. We’ll come find you later.” Jackson squeezed Bianca’s hand as they watched their children scurry down the hall with the prince. Relief flooded his wife’s features, mirroring his own. Drake had been the child they had been most worried about adjusting to the move, but he seemed to be warming to the place already.

“What’s it like being a prince and living in a palace?” Savannah asked as she hurried to keep up with the older boys.

“Boring,” came the instant reply.

“Really?” Savannah sounded disappointed.

Drake laughed and Liam’s smile broadened at the sound as he elaborated, “The other kids in the palace are all older than me and no one ever wants to play.”

He was lonely.

“Drake comes up with all the best games,” Savannah told him.

“Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Drake agreed, “Where is this playroom you’re taking us to?”

“Fifth door on the left,” Liam pointed down a long hallway.

“Race you,” Drake grinned at him, “Winner gets to pick his sword first!”

“Okay-“ Liam started to agree but Drake was already sprinting down the hall. It only took a second for Liam to realize what was happening and tear off after him.

The three children tumbled through the playroom door panting and shrieking with laughter.

Drake collapsed onto the floor in purposeful exaggeration as he gasped, “I’m dying….but I won!”

“You cheated you mean!” Liam laughed as he dropped onto the ground next to him.

“It wasn’t cheating,” Drake corrected him, “It’s called gaining a tactical advantage!”

Liam was used to other children being awkward around him, letting him win games or actively trying to avoid playing with him, because of his status. The young prince was absolutely delighted by this new playmate’s utter lack of concern about his title.

Drake had been convinced that the princes would be stuffy, stuck up and boorish. He was thrilled to be proven wrong. He hadn’t wanted to move, yet again. He hadn’t wanted to give up his friends, yet again. His father had promised that this duty station was more permanent. He had been determined not to get attached to anything or anyone, but as they staged epic battles with the wooden swords, of which Liam had let him claim the best one, he found the heaviness that had sat in his chest since his parent’s had announced this move starting to loosen.

The boys quickly became inseparable.

In the weeks and months that followed, Liam became less somber, at least around Drake. He was still a serious, thoughtful child, but he had a quicker smile as Drake drew out his playful side. Drake became less guarded, at least around Liam. He was still a slow to warm up child, but he turned outward a little more as Liam gained his trust.

“Drake seems to be adjusting well,” Eleanor remarked as a maid set the tea service in front of her.

“He is!” Bianca agreed happily, “It’s been four months and he seems completely back to normal! I think it’s because of Liam, honestly.”

Eleanor nodded with a smile on her lips as she blew on her tea to cool it, “Liam is so happy to have a playmate of his own. He’s a different child now. I think this friendship is good for both of them.”

A/N 2: It's been a while, so how about a quick review? *clears throat* Previously on Pour Two Glasses... Sensing her need to be close to her husband, Drake coordinates for Riley to sleep each night of Liam's Royal Wake next to his closed casket; he also gives her a necklace to wear that holds Liam's wedding ring and signet ring; Riley and Drake have a heart-to-heart, which included the intimate story of the promise Liam and Riley made to each other: a promise to "pour two glasses"; after the funeral, a member of the 'Les Combattants de la Liberté' (the same coups that shot down Liam's plane) opens fire during Liam's funeral procession in an attempt to assassinate the queen. Despite Drake's efforts, Riley is shot.

~🖤~

"Ahhh! Fuck!" Drake grimaces, holding pressure to his left arm as blood seeps violently from his fresh bullet wound. Sucking in a sharp breath from the pain, he glances to his right where he had pushed Riley down, and hopefully out of the way.

Her body lies completely still as a pool of deep rouge grows from under her petite, lifeless frame.

"Brooks?" He stretches his neck in hopes of a glimpse of her face, but the abrupt shock of sharp torment in his shoulder knocks the air from his lungs. Anxiously panting, he glances back at Riley, realizing she remains motionless to the sound of her name. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Riley!” He frantically searches for a way to get closer to her. He peers at his injured shoulder and his crimson-stained fingers, weighing the options that don't exist on borrowed time that has already expired.

He grabs the collar of his shirt, bunching up the material in his palm before biting down on it. He rolls onto his stomach, his screams of torment muffled into his makeshift gag as he gnashes his teeth. With his good arm, he army-crawls on his side, pulling himself across the pavement with his elbow. The balls of his feet push to propel him, all the while he moans in agony.

His body finally gives out from the misery. "Brooks? Brooks?" He gruffly pants. He lays flat on the ground, reaching to her sprawled out hand with his unaffected arm. He nudges against her skin, but she doesn't move. His fingers find her wrist; he feels a weak, slow pulse.

"Goddammit!" Drake cries out in pain as he sits himself up. "No–no–no… Riley!" Groaning in anguish, he single-handedly pulls her body to himself, propping her head up in his lap. He tenderly peels the blood-drenched wisps off of her cheeks and forehead. Her head suddenly lolls back, her neck extended across his thigh with her pale lips agape. "Riley!" Tears flood his eyes, "No…" Surveying her body, he notices two bullet wounds to her left shoulder near her chest. 

Near her heart.

Drake turns to the other guards that are tending to a few critically wounded people in the otherwise desolate courtyard. "We need help over here!" He cradles Riley's head as he watches the color drain from her face. "Don't do this, Brooks,” he growls, “Don't you dare fucking do this.” He sobs angrily, gripping firmly to the fabric of her dress. "You can't leave me, too…"

------

A crisp gentle breeze catches her brunette waves in a delicate waltz of silk and sunshine. The softness of the evergreen grass tickles her toes as she ventures through the fragrant blooms. Somewhere amongst the fresh harvest of Cordonian rubies, a handsome melody echoes across the meadow, a deep baritone that Riley instantly recognizes.

“Liam?” Her steps begin to quicken as she searches behind the bark and the bend. “Liam?” Her voice is earnest and hungry as her widened, ocean-blue eyes survey the area for even just a glimpse of his beauty. She grips the sides of her skirt, lifting the hem to her hips as her feet become more swift amongst the uniform rows of bountiful trees.

As she approaches a knoll, a large shadow grants her body brevity from the warm sun. She brings a hand to her forehead, shielding the brightness from her eyes. She strains to make out the broad shapes and chiseled lines of the man standing before her, but she knows it's him. His eyes shimmer with the brilliance of the Mediterranean, his skin like the soft sands of Nissi.

“My love,” he smiles endearingly at her; he cups two filled wine flutes in one large hand as he extends his arm out towards her, his open palm ready to take her into his arms.

“My king,” she breathes, her heart swelling at the very presence of him. She drops her skirt. She draws closer to him as a smile brightly bubbles across her lips. It’s him; it’s really him.

But as their fingertips almost touch, Riley missteps. She trips over an imperfection in the terrain as she falls to her knees, her hands catching her on the ground. As she looks back to her husband, he is gone.

“No,” she whispers as she frantically scours the rolling hills around her. Empty. Not a single trace of life. Riley is alone. “No–no–no… Liam?”  She spins wildly around, searching for him. But suddenly, she hears an ear-piercing crackle like thunder.

And then another. 

A searing pain abruptly burns deep into her shoulder and chest, knocking her off her feet. The impact of the fall robs her of the air in her lungs. In a state of panic, she begins gasping for air, but the rise and fall of her chest makes her whimper, tears collecting in her eyes. 

"Liam?" She tries to scream, but can only muster a rough whisper. "Someone? Please?"

Riley tries to sit up, but an intense scorch of discomfort stuns her to lay back amongst the long blades of grass. Her mouth falls open from the sensation, but only silent sobs pour from her lips.

With a trembling hand, she carefully touches her fingertips to the painful area of her chest. Biting her lip to stifle her screams, she feels a thick oozing of warm fluid escaping her shoulder, flowing between her fingertips.

Blood.

"Help," she strains, but her words falter as her eyelids fall heavier with each blink. 

She hugs her body with her other arm as the breeze suddenly feels frigid against her pale skin. Her breathing becomes more rapid, each inhale growing laborious, more challenging than the last.

'Anyone?' Riley mouths as she grows still. The light in her eyes falls dim, her lashes fluttering as they begin to close.

Stillness.

Darkness.

Suddenly a large, calloused hand squeezes tightly to her petite weak fingers.

"Brooks," a deep, trembling whisper calls to her, "it–it's going to be okay, baby. Hang in there." A sense of relief rushes over her; hearing the familiar gritty voice comforts her, grounding her back with reality.

Riley can hear a soft shrill of metal on metal from squeaky wheels underneath her. She feels a light current of air swishing across her body as if she is being moved rapidly. The pungent smell of medical-grade antiseptic with the slight undertone of decay hits her nostrils, reminding her instantly of the night she had to identify her husband’s remains.

She tries to speak, but her mouth refuses to move; even her whimpers fall silent, unable to get anyone’s attention. She tries to grip onto the hand that is holding her fingers, but despite her effort, nothing moves.

As she relaxes her body, an excruciating pain suddenly penetrates through her torso, an inexplicable affliction of torment tearing through every last nerve, leaving her senseless, breathless, motionless.

An abrupt alarm of rapid analog chimes begins to whistle.

"Heart rate 152. We need to move, people…"

Riley's eyes flicker open to blurred fluorescent lights, flashing obnoxiously into her field of vision. She hears a twisted garble of concerned voices around her, but can barely make out the faces of the strangers surrounding her.  

"Hang another liter of NS. Go ahead and draw up fifty of hydromorphone…"

"...BP 88/42…"

"... prep OR six…"

"... order four units of O neg…"

The swift movements around her makes her stomach turn as the searing discomfort ravages throughout her chest. She grimaces, her eyelids shutting at the furrow of her brows.

Suddenly, she feels a pinch, like a tiny sharp prick of pressure pushed into the swell of her thigh.  A warming sensation follows, infiltrating through the area before finally swimming briskly through her body.

"Hydromorphone with Phenergan 25 in…"

The room begins to swirl into nothingness, the chatter falling into silence. Her hand falls limp, no longer able to feel Drake's tight grip on her fingertips. No more background noise; no more strange smells. Like falling into the deep end of the ocean, a single, high-pitched shrill rings incessantly in Riley's ears as she flails her arms and legs into the blackness. She finally clenches her eyes shut, terrified of the loneliness, terrified of the struggle, terrified of the emptiness.

Stillness.

Darkness.

Until a warm glow grazes her skin.

A gentle caress of her cheek leads to a tender stroke of a thumb across her full bottom lip.

Riley's eyes cautiously flit open.

And she gasps.

"Liam?"

------

"Sir, this is as far as you can go."

Though he understands hospital safety protocols, Drake scoffs as Riley's hand is pulled away from his grasp. An abrupt loneliness tugs at his heart as he watches the gurney rapidly wheel down the white sterile hallway. As his left arm hangs limp, Drake drags his fingers down his face, swallowing a sob. Will this be his last memory of her alive?

He feels his chest begin to dramatically rise and fall, his breathing becoming quicker as his expression contorts into remorseful anger. He was supposed to protect her. He promised her–shit, he promised Liam that he would look after her, and now Riley is fighting for her life.

As Drake's jaw trembles, a petite hand tenderly pats his unaffected shoulder. He jerks around to find a familiar raised eyebrow, her piercing jades sympathizing instantly with his downcast stare. “Liv,” he whispers, a crooked smile flashing across his lips as his face twists with emotions. “You’re… here. You’re… you're okay,” he chuckles into a choked cry.

Noticing the sincerity of his tone, Olivia Nevrakis’s typical stone-cold presence melts into something more human and warm.  She smirks, holding her arms outstretched. "Come here, big guy," she snickers, waving him into her embrace. “You know that even rogue militant coups can’t get rid of me that easily.” The longtime friends squeeze each other more snuggly; though they might not always see eye-to-eye, they silently gesture in agreement that life is better together.

“Christ on a Kraken! Riley is never going to believe this.”

Drake turns towards the cheerful, flamboyant voice. He casually tosses his head to the side, his chestnut fringe cascading out of his field of vision. The corners of his mouth curl, grateful to see the youngest Beaumont brother alive and well with no obvious injuries.  

"Hey, man," Drake reaches out to take Maxwell's hand, pulling him into a brotherly embrace.

"We were so worried. I thought you were dead," his breath hitches in his chest, "and–and Riley…" The young lord succumbs to his tears, unable to speak. Drake endearingly pats his friend on the back as he flashes a knowing look to Olivia.

"I'm fine, Max," Drake mutters, signaling for him to let go. 

"Have you even been seen by a doctor yet?" Maxwell looks at the crimson gore, dried across the guard's once pristinely pressed suit.

"Not yet. I–" he freezes as he peers down the now empty corridor, the last place he saw her, the last place he touched her. The last place he felt her life in his own hands. A large lump forms in his throat as the horrific scene plays in his head.

The definitive cocking of the chamber of a glock; the smell of smoke and blood in the air; the unraveling of fearful screams of hopeless onlookers… 

"Riley! Look out!"

He tried to shield her; he tried to protect her. He tried to save her.

Was he too late?

The queen's guard shakes his head, staggering away from his friends, willing the sting of his tears away. He already lost his very best friend almost a month ago; he can't lose Liam's wife, too.

"She's strong, Walker–"  Drake stops in his tracks, turning to the fiery red head that fell into step with him walking down the hallway. He leans up against the wall, shoving a hand in his pocket as his head falls forward in anguish.

"I just… I feel so fucking guilty, ya know?” he mutters under his breath. “I was supposed to be there for Liam–I should’ve been there with him, and Riley?" He looks away, blinking away tears. “It should’ve been me–"

"No," Olivia interjects sternly. "Don't go there. You are not responsible for his death. And Riley?”  She takes Drake’s face between her palms, commanding his attention to focus on her words. "She will survive this–'

"I should've been there–"

"And you were," she interrupts. "Drake, she would've been killed if you hadn't intervened when you had."

"You saved her life, man," Maxwell tearfully steps forward, holding out a cup of coffee for the guard. "She's been through a hell of a lot worse." They all chuckle knowingly with one another. "She's going to survive this," Maxwell states encouragingly as he dabs away his tears.

Olivia nods in solidarity, looking towards Drake. "She will."

Drake stares at his styrofoam coffee cup before bringing it to his lips. "She has to," he breathes before taking a sip.

"Cmon, buddy," Maxwell's mouth begins to curl as he slaps Drake on his wounded shoulder. "Let's get you checked out–"

"Ow!" Drake roars, "Limp dick motherfffff–!" Drake bites his tongue as he shields his arm.

"Oh, there he is," Olivia snickers to herself, taking a seat in the waiting room. "I was concerned he left his balls next to his snuff in the back pocket of his Wranglers."

—---

Tangled in sheets of silk, Riley cradles Liam's head against her bare chest. He kisses tender pecks along her velveteen skin, her fingers mindlessly combing through his golden waves. 

Coming down from their euphoric bliss of making love, the gentle warmth of intimacy saturates the air. A soft hum escapes Riley's lungs as she is overwhelmed with the desire to cry streams of joy. To be at peace again. To feel whole again. To be herself again.

This is perfect. Too perfect. Riley had craved for weeks now to have just one more moment, one more breath with her beloved. And now…

Is this really happening? 

She presses her lips into his disheveled, blond hair, breathing in his intoxicating scent. His fingertips graze across her shoulders and down the slope of her full breast, his familiar touch igniting a scattering of goosebumps across her body. But when Liam looks up at her with his hungry gaze, his crystal blue stare that rivals the Northern Lights, relief floods her senses.

I'm home.

Biting her bottom lip, Riley guides her husband up her body until he's lying face-to-face with her, their longing stares never breaking from one another. She delicately traces the angles of his jaw, the contours of his neck until finally resting her palms in the scatter of hair on his chest.   

She rests her head against his body, her fingers lacing with his.

"Liam," she exhales as she listens to the rhythmic pulse of his heart. "I've missed you." Her words softly shudder against her stifled sobs, tears coursing down the curve of her nose. She nuzzles her forehead into him, wanting to be closer, deeper with him, thirsty to drink every last drop of him.

"Please tell me this is it," she flutters her eyes close, his large hands draped across her back. "Please tell me this is where our forever starts."

Feeling his piercing stare on her, Riley instantly meets his mouth in a searing kiss. She slips her tongue between his full lips as the passion continues to burn between them. 

Riley guides him to lay on his back, straddling his broad physique as their tongues continue to caress in steady pulses. She nips at him, coaxing for more.  Gently rocking her hips, Riley sits up on her husband, his length pushing against her slick folds. Taking his large, rugged hands in hers, they cup her peaking breasts, fondling them together.

"I love you," Riley moans into the darkness as her desire builds for her husband once more. 

But then she stops.

She looks back to Liam's handsome face. And a sudden chill runs down her back.

He didn't say, 'I love you'...

"Love," Riley grips one of his hands, bringing it to her lips to kiss. "Is this okay? Are–are you okay?"

He doesn't answer.

An uncomfortable coldness floods her veins as a familiar burning sensation grows in her lower left shoulder.

"Liam?" She shakes his body. "Liam baby, please," her eyes begin to water, "please talk to me." 

Riley glances around the dark room; it looks like their royal quarters, but deep in her heart, she abruptly knows she's far from home. 

And far from Liam.

And like an old film reel, the fantasy around her begins to burn away, slowly at first as a blinding light pierces through the darkness.

"This… this isn't real, is it?" She trembles, bringing his hand to her heart. "Please, baby…" the room becomes stifling as Riley begins to gasp for air, her husband’s touch nothing but a phantom pain. "Please don't leave me again…"

Suddenly, Riley feels like she's choking as a soreness forms promptly in her throat.

"That's it, your majesty," the assured voice of a stranger calls out to her. "We're done with your surgery. Take some nice big breaths for us."

Riley barely peeks through her heavy eyelids, but her stormy blues are instantly met with the brazen shine of surgical spotlights. And she grimaces, discomfort etching across her delicate features.

"Good job. Take another breath."

The queen can feel something weighted and quite warm being folded across her frigid body. Suddenly, she feels soft fabric engulfing her toes, then her feet.

Where am I?

"Let's get you some Fentanyl and the rest of your Zofran for the ride, your majesty."

Abruptly to her arm, she feels a twinge of heat expanding in her veins, traveling first to her shoulder before dispersing across her body. The panic that was building in her nerves subsides as she relaxes into a subtle snore. And then into nothingness all over again.

—---

"Rise and shine, little blossom…"

Hearing the muffled, yet familiar whisper of her dear friend, Riley cautiously opens one eye. But in an instant, she closes it. Her eyebrows knit together, the burn from the bright sunlight too much for her right now.

“Max?” She croaks softly, her lips dry and cracked. “Maxwell?” She makes a small effort to move, but a sudden ache knocks her back onto her bed. She mouths the word ‘Ow’ as she slowly reaches up towards her injured shoulder with a trembling hand. 

“Shhh, Riley,” Maxwell tenderly pats her arm. “I’m gonna go get someone. I’ll be right back.”  With a squeeze of her fingers, Maxwell takes off to the nurse’s station.

Feeling the agonizing pulse in her left shoulder, Riley tries to open her eyes again.  Everything remains a blur as her eyes dart to the glass door. Two large men stand just outside the windows like perfect statues on either side of the frame, wearing what appears to be… guard uniforms?

“Drake…?” She tries to call out, assuming he's one of the men, but the hoarseness of her voice silences her attempt as she winces at her sore throat. Where am I? She frantically peers around her bed, noticing a collection of monitors and clear bags of fluids, all attached to her body with various cords and wires. 

What happened?

Riley’s head feels a bit swimmy, dizzy from the heavy medications she has been given, not to mention the anesthesia slowly dissipating from her body. She was trying to put the puzzle pieces back together, fact versus fiction. Each part played like a vignette in her memory. 

Laying in bed with Liam… The airplane crash… Giving herself a progesterone shot... Sneaking into the church with Drake…  Dancing at the award ceremony.  Gunshots…

Had it all been a dream?

Suddenly, her eyes widen with realization, wishful-thinking blooming across her face. It was a dream.  Noticing a big red button on the bed with the word ‘Nurse’, Riley frantically presses it. A jolt of hope bursts within her chest. 

It was just a dream– a terrible dream– but just a dream.

The sliding glass door to her ICU room hurriedly rolls open, an older nurse with peppered short hair hurries in with Maxwell hot on her tail.  “Well, well… look who’s finally awake!” She smiles kindly, her hazel gaze sparkling with genuine joy. “Your majesty, my name is Vangie, and it has been an honor to care for you through your recovery–”

“Recovery?” Riley looks to Maxwell with curiosity.

“You have two nurses that have been assigned to specifically care for you per the guard's protocol,” Maxwell informs as he takes a seat next to Riley’s bed, gently grabbing her hand. “Vangie here is your night nurse, and she has been incredible.”

Riley turns to the nurse, giving her an uncertain half grin before giving her attention back to Maxwell. “But… what is going on? Why–why am I here?”

Maxwell grips tightly to her fingers, a pensive-look crossing his features.  “You’re in the hospital, Ri. You had surgery–”

“Surgery?” 

“Yes, your majesty.” Vangie finishes administering medications into Riley’s IV before glancing back to her queen. “You’re quite lucky, actually.  You lost a lot of blood, and it was touch-and-go our first night together, but you have pulled through nicely–” her pager suddenly beeps, a slight annoyance flashes in her eyes. “My apologies, your majesty,” she bows, “I need to take this.”

Riley gently nods, offering a soft smile before turning back to Maxwell. He sweetly leans over her, resting his elbow on her bed as he pushes away stray hairs on her face.  “I’m so glad you’re finally awake. I've been so worried.”

Riley’s eyebrows furrow, an expression of confusion falls over her as she glances around the room. “Maxwell, I–” she cinches her eyes closed in frustration, “how long have I been out?”

“A good part of three days.” His words drip with worry, “They said the injuries you sustained were pretty severe, but thank God, one of the bullets missed your heart by two millimeters–”

“Bullets?”

Maxwell pauses inquisitively. “You don’t remember much, do you?” 

Riley chews on her lip, shaking her head.

“That’s honestly a good thing,” he sighs heavily.

“Max,” she softly pleas, “please… tell me?”

Maxwell sits up in his chair, combing his fingers through the relaxed style of his hair. “Ri, you just woke up. I think you should get some more rest before we dive into what happened. Heck, Olivia and Drake will be back in the morning, and we can–”

“--and Liam?”

Maxwell freezes, the color draining from his face at the mention of his dear friend and king.  He swallows thickly. “Wh–what about him?”

“Is he–?” She presses the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I must sound like a lunatic,” she chuckles anxiously, “but… it’s all bleeding together, these thoughts in my head spiraling and mixing reality with fantasy. I feel like when I’m awake, I’m dreaming, and when I’m dreaming, I’m awake, and–I mean, I just…” She tosses her hands on the bed, another titter escaping her throat as tears prick her eyes. “The airplane crash, the funeral, his casket… please tell me the truth.”

Maxwell’s breath hitches, causing a sobering chill to overwhelm Riley.  Of all the images flashing through her mind–the morgue, champagne in the orchard, his wedding ring on a necklace–she had hopes that maybe–just maybe– the worst of them all was actually a nightmare, that maybe Maxwell can ground her back into reality, that maybe—

“My husband… ?”

A wave of sorrow pours onto Maxwell's features as his ever-optimistic expression drains. And he shakes his head.

It wasn’t a dream. 

~🖤~

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------

New York 

"Liam needs me, it's a big night, so Maxwell told me Liam has met someone he spent a lot of time with  while he was here."

"Yeah Drake told me about her, but do you think he's over Riley?"

"The way Max tells it he is, he said has the same look for Mia he used to have for Riley.

"Oh interesting but what about the situation?

"That's not our place, but thank you for being there for her, I love you."

"I love you too Olivia."  He pulled her close and showered her with soft kisses 

"Leo, you'll  make me late." I need to Shower and get dressed."

-------

Cordonia

Liam spent most of his day in meetings. He made it back to his quarters at 3pm, he knew Mia would be up around 7am to get ready for work.

She answered on the second ring. ”Hello beautiful, how is your morning going?"

“It’s okay I just really miss you a lot, "  I was just having coffee and doing a little online grocery shopping before work." Liam hit the FaceTime button

I miss you too, my love. I've closed the deal I was working on, so after this fundraiser, I can come visit for a few days. I know you have work and you planned to come here in 2 weeks." A  knock on his door. "My love someone is at my door, can you hold for a moment."

"Sure."

“My son, we need to talk."

“Okay father give me a minute I was on a call, I’ll be right back."

“My love It’s my father he needs to talk with me, I’ll call you when you get off work.( Kisses)

" Okay lo, I mean kisses talk to you later." Oh boy I almost told him I love him, good save I hope, you know it's too soon for that she said to herself.

"Yes Father?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure father" 

"Son, you know I'm  getting up in age, it's time I stepped down."

"When?"

"At the end of the next social season, William, I need you to find a wife. Madeleine is my first choice,  but I can understand you looking elsewhere, but to reality secure that you choose a good queen,Princess Francine Hassan of Morocco, or Princess  Alana of Norway, either woman would be a wonderful choice for Cordonia for different reasons and I met the princess of Norway she's so beautiful."

 "Father, I will not be in some loveless marriage or marry for Cordonia, I will find my own wife, someone I love and care about."

"All I have ever tried to do is protect you, from getting hurt, from experiencing the pain I was caused when someone took your mother, the only woman I've ever loved away from me, you are all I have left of her. 

He felt bad for his father, but he still wanted love and if he was granted a second chance, he was going to grab it and hold on for life. 

"I understand, but I'm a man you must trust that I'll make the right decisions regarding my love life." He finally said 

"Son, your enemies will  use  the people you love against you and that will hurt you more than anything, remember I love  you son, and only try to protect you." 

" I love you too father, but if you'll excuse me I gotta go, I take it you can  see your way out."

He walked into the hallway,  he took a deep breath to try calm his nerves before he called Drake. 

Hey Li."

"I really need to relax before this Gala, are you guys for a spa day?'

"Sounds good buddy." Max said 

"Yeah count me in." Drake said

They were all relaxing when Max brought up Mia.

Liam smiles at just thinking of her. " I am falling for her, I mean she could be the one, I don't know what about this woman that makes me so happy but I believe that we belong together, I mean she's beautiful, smart, caring and she smells absolutely amazing all the time, guys I so wish she were here tonight."

" Buddy I'm so happy to see you happy again, you deserve it."  Max said 

"And so do you Drake, you'll meet someone, who will make you happy." 

Liam Studied Maxwell for a moment, " My friend, so do you, are you still dating that Mark guy?"

Max,was  looking down avoiding eye contact, Drake turned to look into his eyes  "Okay Beaumont spill it, what are you hiding?" 

"I was on a date with Ava and Mark ruined my date, he caused a scene, both broke up with me.

"Why didn't you talk to us?" Liam asked

"Really, it's no big deal."

"I'm assuming this happened around 2 weeks ago? Drake said" 

"How did you know that?" 

"Well Beaumont you were in an unusually bad mood,"

Drake laughed. "Oh my God Beaumont, I just realized all the women you've dated are red heads."

Maxwell smiled. "So what about it?" 

“So you do have a thing for Liv?"

"I never thought of her that way, sometimes she can be kinda scary and sexy at times." Desire crossed his eyes for a moment 

“I don’t know you all made me think how hot she can be at times, but she probably would never date me

"Never know until you try Max, Liam patted him on the back

“Let face it Max said, she always had a thing for you Rys men.

"What do you mean men? I only knew she was kind of into me."

“Max and Drake laughed, kind of, she's been in love with you forever man."

“ But after she found out your feelings for blossom, I saw her making out with Leo ."

Both Drake and Liam's mouths hang open.

“My brother always gets what he wants but just plays with women's feelings too much, I hope he's not going to hurt my friend."

They all made it back to the  palace and went there separate ways to get ready for the Gala, it was now 7pm, Liam had the chef to prepare him dinner, there would be food but they served dinner really late at this event.

He ate, then showered and got dressed, it was 9pm time for the Gala. Mia was just getting off work, he faced her, she picked up on the first ring, “Hello beautiful how was your day?" 

“It was nice, I just miss you like  crazy, I have been thinking I own my own business and Jennifer is reliable, I want to come to visit you."

 “My love, that sounds wonderful, but I didn’t want to pull you away from anything important, you told me your work was very important."

“It is but in a short time you become important to me too, you told me you had a ball to attend right?".

“Yes a fundraiser to help families living on the streets of Cordonia, we give them a home and see if we can help them get on there feet, we only help them for a year, we support them  either till  they find a job or they opt out of the program, we hate to see that happen, we start this last year we helped 10 families get on their feet, last year we only raised 6 million." 

“I will ask my dad to put in 6 million for me, I’m sure once he sees why I’m asking he’ll have no problem  with it, we've been talking for 30 minutes and you have a ball to attend."

 “I'd rather stay in my suite talking to you all night, a knock on the door, he let out a sigh sorry my love It’s my guard (Kisses) call you once I am done."

————————————————————– 

He mingled  and  worked the room, he knew his smile could get him just about anything he wanted, he had already raised 10 million dollars this year, he thought about Mia 16 if her father gives, an older lady walked up that he had never saw before, she offered 20 million if I spent one night with her, I had to decline, after all she to old and I have a girlfriend.

 I worked the room more, Drake and Maxwell and Rashad, come over laughing, I see you sent Mrs. Ferguson." 

 “Neville actually  slept with her for her 30 mill for his father's charity event." Rashad said laughing.

“So gross I couldn’t imagine being with someone who could be my Nanna, come on I am only 26 and that lady is like 60/70." Liam said as he laughed. 

——————————————————————————-

Mia had hung up and went and showered, she hadn't washed her sheets yet that still smelled of him,  she only slept on his side of the bed, he had left a bottle of his cologne behind and she would spray a little in the air before falling asleep 

 She slept for about an hour before she heard banging on the door, it was almost five, they came in with wine coolers and food, Jen looked around. " Is your man back already?"

“I wish, sit guys I want to talk to you, Jennifer I need you guys help, I want to visit Liam, but I need someone I can trust with my baby, you both know how important my career is, but I got to be honest in a short time I’ve fallen in love with Liam .

“Love is big Mia, you just met him." Jen said.

“I know but  I have never felt this way for anyone before, sure I have loved guys but I was never in love with them." 

Her friend's mouth hung open, the sex must be good if he got you all in love, she didn’t look up at her, so you haven’t had sex?" Oh my God you really are in love."

“ Let's take your mind off this call my brother Amy, let’s play cards, Daniel came over.

 “So Dan, who's your new boy toy this week?

“Are you staying with mom again?" 

"Jen, please I'm fine, and God no I'm not staying with mom."

“I was just checking on you, I wish you would settle down and pick one guy, we all worry about you"

“Jen you start this every time you are drunk stop it, I am fine." 

 She didn’t say anything else, she took her phone out texting her mom.

The announcement caught Mia's attention. "Turn that up.

"This is Craig Shyster reporting from Corodia General hospital, we got a tip that Prince William Rys, was shot in the shoulder doing a Gala fundraiser last night and the person who shot him was shot dead on scene, right now we have no further information about the Prince condition at this time."

It was like someone punched me in the gut , I got dizzy, I was losing my mind, all flights were canceled to or from Cordonia, I got myself together, I called my father.

He could hear my voice trembling, asking what was wrong.

“Father, did you see the news about Prince William Rys?"

“Yes I saw it but what does that have to do with you?

“He’s the guy I was telling you about."

"No flights are going in or out. I need your private jet.

“Mia, that might not be a good idea, the prince just shot you in danger.

“Please father, I don't care, I need to get to the man I love."

“But you haven’t known him long and you believe you love him?"  

“Yes and he may be dying thinking I didn’t care enough to come be at his side, father please I’ll do  you want even let you put me back under your protection, I will follow whatever you want to  get me to Cordonia please."

—-------;--

2 hours earlier

Olivia and Penelope made their way over to Liam smiling, “ we made 4 times the amount as last year,

 Him and Olivia walked across the room. “So I hear you met someone"

“Who told you this? 

“I can’t reveal my secrets, but if this Mia woman is what you want I wish you all the best."

“Can I ask you something  Olivia?

“Sure you can."

 “Why didn’t you tell me about you and Leo?"

“Well we didn’t tell anyone it just happened."

"I assume my father doesn’t know, and how do you feel about Leo?

“I love him, and Con knows they had a big fight about 6 months back, we were at Leo’s in California when your father visited him, but don’t  worry me and Leo will handle it."

A man walked over and handed Liam a note saying his father needs to speak with him, unknown to Liam his father had got a similar note saying Liam needed to speak with him, excuse me lady Olivia

————————————————————–

Drake went along as  security, they entered the room and it was dark, “I guess my father hasn’t arrived yet, they turned on the light and one of the head guards, Damien, had a gun pointed at Constantine's head.

 “Dammit what are you doing Damien?"Drank asked

“ avenging my  parents death, see  along with Olivia parents, my family should be on the throne, my brother may have failed but I won’t."

"Your old man ordered my parents alone with Olivia parents to be assassinated for fighting for what was rightfully theirs, the Rys family should have never been on the throne

"Gentleman let me tell you, your father is not a good man

Drake's eyes went wide,giving an annoyed look. What the hell is he talking about your father.

Damien could see Drake trying to figure out what he was talking about

"Oh my Mr. Walker I assume that King Constantine has never told you he’s your real father?" Am I right?" He laughed."

“What? He’s not my father you fucken psycho and never will be!"

“Drake my boy I have documents that say otherwise,  the birth certificate you have is from America but see you were born here, your father the king arranged it all, for  Jackson to adopt you and legally become your father go on ask him to tell the truth ?'

Tears were running down Drake face, "TELL THIS SONOFABITCH YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER GO ON CON FOR ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE TELL HIM HE’S WRONG."

“Son I can’t do that, it’s all true your mother was my mistress and she got pregnant, she didn’t know who your father was me or Jackson, but the test come back 99.9 that I was your father, so I paid off American doctor to say you were born in the US, were only a week old." 

Drake fort Back his emotions, he knew he had to sort out whatever feeling he had later, right now he had to stay in professional mood and dispose of the situation at hand

"Who dies first?" they head Damien ask

"I volunteer, please just let my boys go they haven't done anything but be born into the Rys family but they are innocent."

 " I love both of you and only try to do whatever is best for you." 

"How touching."  He pulled the trigger and Liam leaped in front of his father getting shot In his Left shoulder, both Constantine and Liam hit the ground, at this time Drake has managed to get his spare gun and shooting Damien dead.

Drake took off his dress shirt asking Constantine to apply pressure to the wound, until he can get some help

The king and queen of Cordonia were enjoying a peaceful breakfast together in their personal quarters at the palace. Their first wedding anniversary was fast approaching, and they hadn’t discussed any plans. Riley was a ball of excitement for their upcoming milestone, but to her surprise, Liam hadn’t brought it up at all. She knew there was no way he’d forgotten, but she couldn’t hold in her excitement a minute longer.

“So..” Riley, broke their comfortable silence, “A pretty big day is coming up for us..”

Liam looked up at her with a smirk on his face, “I must say, I’m very impressed with you.” Riley had a very quizzical look on her face with his response. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, here I thought you would have been talking of nothing but our wedding anniversary for the last month.” Liam smiled very brightly at the topic. Riley hurled a piece of toast at him for picking on her.

“Well excuse me for not interrupting the king’s schedule.” She laughed, completely relieved for his playful response. “So, tell me, what should we do? I’ve been dying for you to tell me there’s some great Cordonian tradition that we mustn’t be the first ones to break.”

“Heh, you always have been one to catch on quick, haven’t you, Love?” He reached over to grab her hand and peck it with a quick kiss. “Well there is one tradition, but it’s not centuries old or anything, and most certainly not something we have to do.”

“Please tell me.” Riley replied with wide excited eyes.

“It’s simple. It’s the idea that we exchange a sort of gesture rather than a gift. Like planting a tree or something of the sort for your partner.”

Riley instinctively scoffed, “I think I can do better than planting a tree for you!” Liam laughed at her instinct to declare she could do better than a tree for him.

“I take it you like the idea?”

“I love it, let’s do it.”

Liam stood from his chair and leaned down to Riley to seal the idea with a deep kiss. “Yes, let’s.”

The next day, Liam found himself in his study, wracked with thoughts about how to fulfill his end on this grand gesture tradition. He had a specific idea in mind. Something very un-Liam and the more he researched, the more he liked it. He knew his wife would be filled with shock and delight over it. He was quickly becoming more convinced on it, but he just needed to find the right design.

Suddenly, there was a quick knock on his door, and Liam called for them to enter. Drake walked into Liam’s study to catch up and check in on his best friend. Upon his entrance, he noticed Liam had laser focus on his computer screen. Liam glanced up, and once he recognized Drake, he adjusted his attention back to his desk. “Oh, hey Drake. Come on in, make yourself comfortable. What can I do for you?”

Drake did just that, but he couldn’t ignore his instinct to inquire on Liam’s current fixation. “Uh, well, you can catch me up for starters.” Drake had no idea what had him looking so serious. Liam didn’t respond assuming Drake would have no trouble helping himself to whatever he needed. “Dude! What’d you got porn on there or something? I’ve never seen a man stare at a screen so hard.”

“What? No!” Liam snapped his head up at Drake with the slightest and feigned look of offense at the comical suggestion. Drake had poured himself a finger of scotch from Liam’s bar cart and motioned, asking Liam if he’d like to join, which he did. Drake handed Liam his drink and sat down opposite him willing Liam to explain. “Well, Riley and I have our first wedding anniversary approaching, and I’m trying to figure out what to do.”

“Uh, huh. And so you’re.. online shopping? Doesn’t seem like you to simply buy something.”

“Astute as ever, Drake. I’m not online shopping. Riley has decided she wants to keep with tradition and exchange gestures instead of gifts.” Drake was interested and still curious where this was going. “I have an idea in mind, but.. it’s very permanent and I’m struggling to find the just right design.”

“Ok, so just exactly what is this very permanent gesture you are so unsure about?”

“Oh, I’m sure about it. I just want it to be right... Let me just say this, what is the one dare Leo gave me that I could never actually do?”

Drake shot straight up in his seat with immediate understanding and total shock. “No way! You want to get a tattoo!?”

True to form, Riley had enlisted Maxwell to help her plan this gesture gift exchange that she and Liam had agreed to. When they came up with the idea, she thought it was the brightest and best idea ever, but now here, in her own private study, she was struggling to come up with an idea. Even Maxwell had completely gushed over the tradition when she told him, but now even his over the top brain was drawing a blank. “And you’re sure you’re totally against the crotch-less panties idea?” He asked very seriously.

Riley side eyed him hard, but after a minute long stare, she shrugged and replied with a sigh, “I’ll call it plan B.” Maxwell nodded at her with pride that she put the idea on the table. “I just.. want to do a huge gesture, but also subtle.. something eternal.”

Maxwell slapped his hand and arm down on the table in a stroke of genius. “I got it!” Riley looked up at him with intrigued eyes. “You should tattoo his name on you!” Her eyes fell immediately with disappointment.

“Maxwell, I’m not even allowed to wear colorful nail polish. There’s no way I could get a tattoo.”

“Well then, get the tattoo on your ass.”

“Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” Riley said although she was secretly letting her mind wander. It’d be kinda perfect. The ass placement would be a little less than romantic as she wanted. But, his name permanently inked on her, she actually liked it. “So… just exactly where would we get all the bodily image regulations, anyway?”

Maxwell clapped his hands in excitement, “I sure as shit don’t know the official rules, but I can bet we know who does!” The next thing they knew, Riley and Maxwell found themselves in front of Bertrand.

“My dearest brother, I don’t know why, but I have always dreaded this day. Somehow, I just knew you’d lure our queen Riley into some drastic shenanigans. Little did I know you’d encourage her into a tattoo!”

“But it’s a gesture of love! And a Cordonian tradition! It’s their first wedding anniversary. And our queen wants to permanently honor our king. Hello, it’s true love!”

With Maxwell’s over excited attitude, Bertrand could only concede. “Lady Riley, if you wish to proceed, I must tell you, there are actually no restrictions on Royal bodily tattoos. You are permitted to a subtle ink job.” Riley couldn’t stop from withholding her excitement. She’d get Liam’s name tattoed on her as soon as possible, she loved the idea. She just needed to put a plan in motion.

For Liam, his plan fell into place quite easily. With Drake’s help, they found a tattoo artist that was more than willing to discreetly meet the king at the palace to get the job done. The timing worked out perfectly, three days before their anniversary date, Riley was due in Valtoria for a ribbon cutting ceremony. A usually quick appearance, but she very conveniently announced she’d stay overnight to prevent exhaustion from the quick travels.

She even assured him she’d take her time in Valtoria, and include time to make casual appearances around the area to visit the residents. It gave Liam more than enough time, it was perfect.

For Riley, she quickly finagled a side quest into her already existing planned visit to Valtoria. Maxwell was already scheduled to attend the event with her to continue with House Beaumont’s standing alliance and connection to the crown. He would help find a local shop for Riley to discreetly dip into.

Liam had already agreed to her extended stay under her guise of visiting the residents. Sure she would, including a visit to a well kept tattoo parlor. It gave her more than enough time, it was perfect.

On the day of Riley’s trip, she hastily began her travels after exchanging her affectionate goodbyes with Liam. Once Liam felt like a comfortable amount of time had passed since Riley’s departure, he had Bastien contact Mara to confirm their safe and steady passage. All seeming to be part of normal security protocol, which was of course part of Liam’s intention, but he also wanted to get started on his appointment.

Liam had decided to use his office for his in-home tattoo parlor. Drake was there to offer his moral support, and to actually see this take place.

“Are you nervous?” Drake asked, he was still in disbelief this was happening. Any time Leo wanted to win a good ‘dare-off’ with Liam, he’d end it by daring Liam to get a tattoo. Any tattoo. But Liam would never take that dare. To him it was too reckless to permanently modify his body on the whim of a dare.

“Not at all,” Liam answered with a smile.

They were cut off with a knock at the door, and Bastien entered with the tattoo artist in tow. The man was covered head to toe in ink and was extremely professional while he set up his designated station and sanitized his tools. After a while, Liam provided the design he created and showed where he wanted it placed. Liam positioned himself in the chair and the artist began his work.

Riley had finished her appearance, and she and Maxwell started to wander down the beaten path in Valtoria. Riley was relying on Maxwell to lead the way as he assured he found an appropriate place and made arrangements with the owner to accommodate the queen.

“I have the address, but aren’t we supposed to find some bright neon sign that says tattoo? I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for it”

“I wouldn’t know, believe it or not Maxwell, I’ve never done something like this before.” Riley answered with no surprise that he would be looking for something as ridiculous as that. Once Riley stepped in with navigations, they quickly found the parlor that was eagerly awaiting her arrival. The staff greeted her and directed her to the booth and artist that would be working on her. She handed over the final draft of what she wanted and laid out where she wanted it and they got started.

Liam and Riley each woke up the next morning, missing each other, but grateful for the night apart to keep their tattoos under its covering without having to explain it. Liam went into the bathroom to clean his hands and carefully uncover his tattoo with plenty of ointment available to keep the area from getting too dry. He was ecstatic with the finished work and now just had to think of how to conceal it when his wife returned home.

Riley couldn’t wait to uncover her fresh ink. She sat up in her bed in Valtoria and quickly peeled off the covering. She loved it and gently touched it to make sure it was real. In the thrill and excitement of getting the tattoo, she had momentarily forgotten what to do next with it and surprisingly, it was Maxwell that reminded her of the needed new tattoo care.

To both Liam and Riley’s surprise, it was fairly easy to conceal the gestures they created for one another. The two were usually unable to keep off each other and they both worried that their singular desire for a little more distance would raise an immediate red flag. But neither said a thing, not wanting to encourage an annoying line of questioning.

The night of their anniversary date had arrived and they enjoyed a very romantic and intimate dinner out in the capital. They were both eager to finally reveal their gestures, and Riley insisted she go first. For some reason, she was a little nervous.

“Ok, I wanted to do something to show you how proud I am of you, to be your wife, your family, your queen. I want to be with you for forever, and I want to show you that you’ll always be with me.” She raised her left hand with curled fingers up to cover her mouth. “Ready?” She asked, and then she slowly twisted her wrist outward to display the fresh ink in the form of a beautifully scripted and ornate “L.R.” on her wrist.

Liam’s eyes went wide with utter shock and delight, the very reaction he expected out of her. He was already moved with her touching declaration and his heart was bursting with affection at his initials adorned on her body. “Do.. do you like it?”

“Like it!?” His eyes darted from her wrist to her eyes, “I absolutely love it, Riley, I never imagined someone doing something like this for me. I am in awe of you.”

Riley was thrilled with his elation, but now it was her turn. “What.. do you have for me?”

“Heh, well considering what you did for me, I think you’re gonna like what I did for you.” He removed the oversized watch he had been wearing on this left hand, and set his elbow upright on the table, displaying the fresh tattoo on his wrist that read “Riley” with a gold crown just above the name on the end.

“Oh my…. Oh my God, Liam! You didn’t!” Riley couldn’t stop from covering her mouth with her hands in complete and total shock. She grabbed his wrist and pulled it to her face. “How did you…. How did you know!? Was it Maxwell, did he spill my surprise? Liam how did you possibly know? This is amazing, look at us! We match! I love it!” She was squealing with joy and excitement.