#drake walker

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It was a picture-perfect scene, exactly the kind of idealised royalty the court painters loved to immortalise. And beside her, Liam Rhys looked entirely the part.

He was undeniably handsome, his features sharp but softened by a quick, easy smile that always seemed to find its way to his lips whenever he looked down at her. He was intelligent, funny, and possessed a rare, unpretentious warmth that made the rigid, gossiping halls of the palace feel almost bearable. Liam loved her with a pure, unreserved devotion that left him completely awestruck by his own luck. When they had met in the wake of her darkest autumn, he hadn't seen a princess; he had seen a woman drowning in the expectations of her station. They had bonded instantly over a shared, quiet disdain for the pretentious sycophants of the royal court, and over the months, that fierce friendship had bloomed into a gentle, steady, and anchoring love.

He knew nothing of Drake. He didn't know about the quiet stable hand at Applewood, the brutal banishment across the French border, or the devastating fire of the love Emilia had been forced to leave behind. He only knew she had been recovering from a deeply difficult time, and he had contentedly stepped into her life to offer her a safe, stable harbour.

Right now, however, that harbour felt crowded by the shadow of the crown.

"I just don't see the bloody point, Liam," Emilia vented, her free hand gesturing toward the towering, sun-bleached stone facade of the palace rising beyond the hedges. Her voice was tight with a frustration she had been nursing all morning. "An official announcement? For a courtship? It’s entirely ridiculous. If we were announcing a formal engagement, or—or a pregnancy, God forbid, I could almost understand the necessity of the theatre. But we have only just begun courting. Why does every single breath we take have to be turned into a grand display for the nobility and the crown?"

Liam let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound rich and unbothered as he slowed his pace, drawing her to a stop beneath the shade of a particularly ancient apple tree. "Because, my love, your father doesn't know how to do anything quietly."

"It's not just that, and you know it," Emilia pressed, her brows drawing together as she looked up at him. "It's a chess move. My father wants to boast to the public. He wants to plaster our names across every newspaper in the kingdom to prove the absolute stability of the crown at the end of the social season. Courtship leads to marriage; marriage leads to heirs. That’s all he cares about. It’s control, pure and simple. He has to have his fingers in every tiny crevice of my life."

Liam smiled tenderly, his thumb casually wiping a stray pink petal from her cheek before his larger, warm hands reached out to capture both of hers. "I know, Emilia. I know the protocol is exhausting, and I know how much you despise the spectacle of it all. But..."

"But?" she echoed, tilting her head back, her brows lifting slightly as she searched his gentle blue eyes. She was slightly taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone; Liam despised the grand, performative displays of the court just as much as she did. It was the very thing that had brought them together in the first place.

Liam looked down at their joined hands, a faint, genuine flush rising on his cheekbones. When he looked back up, his expression was laced with a vulnerability that made her chest ache. "But... if I'm being entirely honest, I’m actually quite looking forward to it."

"You are?" Emilia asked, her voice tinged with genuine surprise.

"I am," Liam admitted softly, his grip tightening around her fingers with an earnest, grounded pressure. "I know I usually don’t buy into all the pageantry of the court. But, on this occasion, I want the world to know that you’re mine, Emilia. I want every pretentious lord in that court and every person in this country to know that the most incredible, intelligent, and amazing woman on the planet chose me. I can’t wait to make it public. I want to stand beside you and declare our love to everyone and anyone that will listen."

Emilia forced her lips to curve into a soft, reciprocal smile, but inside, her soul actively winced.

The word public echoed in her mind like a heavy iron gate latching shut. All her life, she had dreamed of an escape from the suffocating cage of her royal status. She was so profoundly tired of being told where to stand, what to wear, who to speak to, and how to feel. It was a relentless, draining performance. She had desperately hoped that her relationship with Liam could be a sanctuary—something that belonged completely and exclusively to them. And in the privacy of their quiet afternoons, it was.

But the moment that formal announcement was read to the court, to the people on the city streets, the sanctuary would break. Their relationship would belong to the entire country. Every glance, every gesture, and every choice would be scrutinised, analysed, and commodified by the press and her father. Even now, Constantine was pulling the strings, orchestrating the timeline of their affection.

It was exhausting. It was a life mapped out by someone else's pen.

And suddenly, with the terrifying speed of a flash flood, her mind violently dragged her back to a love that had known no ceremony, nor needed any.

Drake.

The memory of him hit her with a physical, bruising intensity, a rush of fire and passion that made the manicured palace gardens fade into a distant blur. The freedom she had felt with Drake was a lawless, intoxicating thing like nothing else she had ever experienced in her life. There were no royal protocols with him. She could still feel the thrilling, icy rush of the wind whipping through her hair as she rode on the back of his motorcycle, her arms locked desperately around his waist whilst her cheek rested against his broad, muscular back. She remembered the dizzying, breathless heat of their first kiss at the very top of the Ferris wheel at the county fair, completely hidden by the night sky with only the stars as witnesses. She remembered the stable loft at Applewood—the scent of sweet hay, leather, and the intoxicating, unbridled passion they had found beneath his rough blankets. She remembered the quiet, domestic realness of sitting by the small fire ring in the woodland clearing, laughing as they browned marshmallows over the embers to make messy s'mores.

None of it had been an exhibition. It had been private. It had been wild, passionate, fiercely loving, and more terrifyingly real than anything else her world could ever offer.

With a sudden, sickening start, a heavy realisation settled deep into Emilia’s stomach: I am never going to feel that kind of freedom, that kind of pure, all-consuming love, again.

"Emilia? Hey... are you alright?"

Liam’s voice broke through the memory, gentle and laced with immediate concern. He was leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed as he scanned her face, noting the sudden stillness that had overtaken her.

Emilia blinked, swallowing down the dry lump of grief that had risen in her throat, forcing the ghost of the stable loft back into the dark corners of her heart. She managed to widen her smile, injecting a soft, convincing warmth into her voice. "Of course. I’m just... I’m just a bit nervous about the announcement, that's all."

Liam’s expression melted into instant relief. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up from her fingers to cradle the sides of her face with a gentle, protective tenderness. He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips—a kiss that was sweet, stable, and deeply comforting.

"I'll be right there with you, Emilia," Liam murmured against her skin, his breath warm in the spring air. "When we walk out on to that balcony, just forget about the public. Forget about the press, and forget about your father's political games. Just look at me and remember the only thing that actually matters. I love you."

Emilia stared up into his honest, devoted face, her heart twisting with a profound, aching bittersweetness.

"I love you too, Liam," she whispered.

And she did. She really did love him for the beautiful, good man he was. But as they turned to continue their stroll beneath the falling pink petals, the suffocating realisation that her entire life was still being planned for her only made the vacuum in her chest grow wider.

She walked in the Cordonian sun, officially courting a lord, while her soul secretly craved the rough, lawless life she could have had with the stable hand in the worn leather jacket.

*****

The transition from the sun-drenched gardens to the interior of the palace felt like stepping from life into a mausoleum. As the heavy, brass-fitted oak doors clicked shut behind Emilia and Liam, the sweet scent of cherry blossoms was instantly replaced by the oppressive, familiar smells of the court: beeswax polish, aged parchment, and the dry, stagnant air of centuries of unyielding tradition. Their footsteps echoed with hollow symmetry against the polished marble floor of the grand corridor as they made their way toward the King’s private audience chamber.

Inside, the room was a masterclass in Cordonian power. Towering windows draped in heavy crimson velvet overlooked the capital, but the sunlight that managed to pierce through felt cold, illuminating the dark, sprawling mahogany table at the centre of the room.

King Constantine sat at the head of the table, the picture of absolute, unshakeable authority. Beside him sat Queen Eleanor, poised and elegant, her posture flawless but her eyes remarkably quiet.

When Emilia and Liam took their seats, Constantine didn't offer a fatherly smile or a warm greeting. He didn't ask about their walk. Instead, a rare, chillingly satisfied aura seemed to radiate from him. He was thrilled. Truly, deeply thrilled—not as a parent witnessing his daughter’s happiness, but as a monarch watching a meticulously planned campaign finally yield its victory. For years, he had endured Emilia’s stubbornness, her ridiculous resistance to the expectations of her bloodline. But now, she had finally chosen a suitor worthy of the crown.

As Constantine leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto Liam, his mind drifted back to the absolute absurdity of the previous year. Drake Walker. The stable hand. Constantine internally scoffed at the memory. To think Emilia had thrown a tantrum, claiming she loved the boy. It had been nothing more than a pathetic summer fling; a ridiculous, childish infatuation with a commoner who wasn't worth the mud on a royal boot, let alone a princess or the Cordonian crown.

In his mind, Constantine's thoughts wandered down the hall to his private study, straight to the locked mahogany desk drawer where a thick, heavy stack of unopened letters sat postmarked from France. No one else in the palace knew they existed. And no one ever would. He had considered burning them—erasing the boy's desperate, pathetic scrawl from existence entirely—but Constantine was a politician first. He kept them because he knew the value of leverage. If the Walker boy ever forgot his place, if he ever tried to return or cause a scandal that could threaten the stability of the monarchy, those letters would be all the proof Constantine needed to frame the boy for harassment. It was a neat, tightly coiled trap. If it came to it, he would use them to throw the vermin into a dark cell without a second thought.

But looking at Liam Rhys, Constantine felt a rare sense of approval. Liam was hardworking, fiercely intelligent, and, most importantly, he carried a title that commanded respect. He wasn’t quite as ruthless as Constantine would have liked in a future ruler—there was still too much softness in the boy's disposition—but ruthlessness could be taught. A king had to learn to put the crown above all else, and Liam would have to learn it well once he married Emilia and she was crowned Queen.

"Lord Liam," Constantine spoke, his deep voice cutting through the quiet of the room, rich with a formal, calculated praise. "I have just finished reviewing your latest reports on the agricultural reforms for the western provinces. Exceptional work. Your intellect and work ethic are precisely what this court requires. It is a relief to see a young man of your standing who understands the weight of administrative duty."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Liam replied, bowing his head with genuine modesty. "I only wish to be of service where I can."

The smooth, reverent cadence of their dialogue ground directly on Emilia's nerves. It wasn't because she thought Liam deserved anything less than absolute respect—he did. He was a good, brilliant man, and she was with him because she genuinely loved him, because his friendship had saved her when she was drowning. She wasn't holding his hand for his suitability to the crown; she was holding it because he made her happy. But listening to her father boast about Liam’s intelligence and work ethic made a bitter, toxic taste rise in the back of her throat.

Drake was hardworking, she thought fiercely, her jaw tightening as she stared down at the polished wood of the table. Drake was intelligent. Drake spent his entire life working himself to the bone in one stable or another. He read, he fixed up his motorcycle, he knew more about the land and the people of duchy Ramada than half the snobs in the high court combined. The only difference—the single, brutal difference—was that Liam had a title. Drake did not. For that simple accident of birth, Liam was welcomed into the palace with open arms and royal praise, while Drake was beaten, bloodied, and violently banished from his home. It was sickeningly unfair, and the hypocrisy of it made her blood boil.

Across the table, Eleanor sat in absolute silence, watching her daughter.

The Queen’s eyes, sharp and practiced from decades of surviving the royal court, missed nothing. She saw the tiny, microscopic wince in Emilia's eyes when Constantine spoke of worthiness. She noticed the subtle, tense furrow of her daughter's eyebrows, and the way her teeth lightly grazed her bottom lip in a telltale sign of suffocating anxiety. Eleanor knew her daughter’s heart, and she knew, with an aching certainty, that something was profoundly wrong.

Eleanor adored Liam. She truly did. He was wonderful, kind, and a year ago, she had genuinely believed he would be the perfect match to give Emilia a happy life. Even now, she believed he would be a safe, loving, devoted husband. But a darker, tragic part of Eleanor’s soul looked at her daughter and recognised the phantom. Emilia would forever spend her life dreaming of the freedom, the wildness, and the unfulfilled life she could have had with Drake Walker.

Eleanor closed her eyes for a brief fraction of a second, a phantom ache blooming in her own chest. It was the exact same grief she had carried for more than two decades—living in a golden palace, married to a king, while her soul and her heart forever belonged to Jackson Walker. The tragedy of their bloodline was repeating itself right before her eyes.

"Now," Constantine continued, clapping his hands together once, shifting the mood entirely back to logistics. "Let us discuss the final details of the announcement. It has been officially arranged for just three days' time."

Emilia's breath hitched slightly, but she kept her face carefully blank.

"The court is joining one final time to mark the formal end of the social season," the King explained, his voice clinical, mapping out the theatre of it all. "The farewell ball will take place, as per tradition, to give the nobility a proper send-off before they depart for their country estates for the summer months. The announcement of your courtship will be made prior to the commencement of the ball. We will utilize the grand balcony. All of the high court will be assembled in attendance below, and the public will be gathered on the Royal Mile outside the palace gates to listen."

Constantine smiled, a cold, triumphant expression. "It will be a magnificent celebration to close the season. The news that the Crown Princess has finally chosen a suitor will be the absolute talk of the royal court and the country as a whole. It provides the exact image of stability the kingdom needs."

Internally, Emilia rolled her eyes so hard it felt physical. An image of stability. A prop. They were nothing more than a beautiful token for her father's political theatre.

Liam, sitting right beside her, caught the subtle, fleeting flash of exasperation across her features. Without a word, he reached across under the edge of the table and slid his warm, strong hand over hers. He gave her fingers a tight, reassuring squeeze, offering a silent anchor amidst her father's suffocating grandiosities. Emilia turned her head slightly, meeting his gentle, supportive gaze, and managed a small, genuine smile of gratitude. With Liam, she was safe.

"Thank you, Your Majesties," Liam said smoothly, addressing the King and Queen with flawless court etiquette. He turned his smile back to Emilia, his blue eyes shining with a pure, unclouded joy that made her heart ache. "Emilia and I are very much looking forward to telling the world that we are together."

Emilia simply smiled and nodded, her voice locked safely behind her teeth.

But as she pulled her gaze back, she accidentally caught her mother's eye across the wide mahogany table. Eleanor was still watching her. The Queen didn't say a word, but the look she gave Emilia was heavy with an agonising, knowing sympathy. It was the look of a woman who recognised the invisible chains around her daughter's wrists because she wore the exact same pair.

Emilia looked away quickly, unable to bear the weight of her mother's shared grief. Beneath the table, out of sight of the King, she pulled her free hand back into her lap and clenched it into a tight, white-knuckled fist. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, the Cordonian sun shining through the windows feeling less like warmth and more like the heat of a furnace, branding her into a life that had already been written for her.

*****

Across the country, far from the suffocating grandeur of the capital, the late spring sun hit the duchy of Ramada with a completely different kind of warmth. It wasn’t the manicured, perfumed heat of the palace gardens; it was raw and earthy, drifting through the open windows of Bianca Walker’s small cottage alongside the distant sound of bleating sheep and the rustle of overgrown grass.

Inside, the house felt heavy with absence. The familiar scent of vanilla, baking spices, and line-dried laundry that had always defined Drake’s childhood home was slowly giving way to the dry, sterile smell of dust and empty cardboard boxes. Zeke had already left earlier in the week, heading back to France to tend to the farm, leaving Drake, Max, and Leo behind to face the heartbreaking task of packing away a lifetime.

Leo folded one of Bianca’s hand-knit cardigans, his movements unusually gentle for a man of his size, before placing it into a wooden crate. Max was standing by the bookshelf, carefully wiping the spines of old paperbacks before packing them away. They had been working for hours, and the silence between them was thick with a reluctant, protective worry. Neither Max nor Leo was happy about the fact that Drake was leaving Cordonian soil again.

"You’ve been back for two weeks now, Drake," Leo spoke up, breaking the quiet as he leaned against the edge of the worn sofa. He looked across at his friend; his brow furrowed with genuine frustration. "And not a single person in this village knows the real reason you went to France in the first place. Not a single person even batted an eye when you crossed back over the border to get here. You could just stay, man. You could live right here, in this house. You could find work on one of the local farms or the breeding stables. Constantine or his royal guards never need to know. You’d be home again. With us. Where you belong."

Drake stopped what he was doing. He was holding a small porcelain teacup—one his mother used to use every single morning—he stared down at it, running his thumb over the faded floral pattern. He let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound scraping against the quiet room.

"I know it sounds as simple as that, Leo," Drake replied, his voice quiet but steady as he carefully placed the cup into a padded box. "But... I can’t spend the rest of my life constantly looking over my shoulder. All it would take is for someone close to the King—one of his loyal servants, a guard, or even one of the nobility passing through—to come to Ramada and see me. Recognise me. If that happens, I’ll be locked up in a cell. Or worse. I can't risk it."

Max turned around from the bookshelf, a heavy biographical omnibus cradled in his hands. "But what if that doesn't happen? You can keep your head down, Drake. You can stay away from the capital, stay away from Applewood... anywhere a member of the royal court would likely be. You could just live a quiet life here."

Drake looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, weary intensity. "And what kind of life is that, huh? Hiding in the shadows for the rest of my existence? Fearing my own reflection every time a carriage rolls into the village?" He shook his head, running a tense hand through his dark hair. "My mother fought so hard, she did everything she could, just so I could have a future. A real life. I can't live that life constantly in fear, or running to hide inside the house whenever an outsider steps foot in the village limits."

He looked out the open window, toward the distant, hazy blue horizon. "In France, I can be free. I know I can't come and go across the border whenever I want, but France is a big place. There's plenty of land out there where I can build a life for myself. A place where I don’t have to hide. Where I can find an old timber cabin and fix it up with my own two hands. A place that’s mine, that no one can ever take away from me." A place like Emilia and I dreamed of, he thought.

Leo and Max looked at him, their expressions heavy with a profound, helpless sadness. Sensing the drop in the room's energy, Drake forced a small, rough chuckle, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "Look... in an ideal world, I’d still be free to live here, or there, or wherever the hell I want. But right now... I just need to sort everything out here, go back across the border, and build something that’s mine. Besides, you two can visit me whenever you want. I’ll find a cabin with enough space for you both, I promise."

Leo held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a defeated breath. "Right. Okay. We get it."

They turned back to the boxes, the rhythm of packing resuming. Max cleared his throat, picking up a stack of colourful ceramic ornaments from the mantelpiece. "What do you plan to do with all of this stuff, anyway?"

"Her clothes, Leona has offered to sort through," Drake said, gesturing vaguely toward the boxes. "She’s going to take them down to a local charity in the village. Give them to someone who actually needs them. The ornaments, too. I’ll keep the photographs, of course—the framed ones and the old albums—and there are a few other personal things I’ll take back to France with me. If there’s anything you guys want from the rest of it, just ask."

Leo leaned back against the door frame, crossing his arms. "And the house? What are you doing with that?"

Drake paused, his gaze wandering slowly around the small, sunlit living room. A bittersweet ache bloomed deep in his chest as he looked at his childhood home. So many of his happiest memories were contained within these four walls. He could almost see it—the winter nights when he was a little boy, curled up tightly on the sofa with his mum while she read to him by the light of the fire. He remembered the teenage years where he, Leo and Max sat at the small wooden table playing loud, competitive board games until midnight, while Bianca brought them plates of freshly baked cookies straight from the oven, laughing at their antics.

He had thought about keeping the house. He had tried to justify it. But what was the point? He couldn’t live here. What use was there in keeping a home empty and locked up just for the sake of memories, when he was living miles away in another country?

He let out a sharp breath, running his hand through his hair again to shake off the emotion. "I’m going to sell it. I’m going to see Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, in three days' time. I’ll speak to him about putting it on the market then."

His friends smiled at him, a quiet, supportive understanding passing between them. Leo stepped forward, extending a heavy hand and placing it firmly on Drake’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Whatever you need, mate. We’re here. I’ll drive you into the capital myself."

Then, Leo’s voice dropped, the protective edge returning. "But like you already said... it’s going to be dangerous going into the city, Drake. The Royal Mile especially. It’s close to the palace... too damn close."

"I know," Drake said, his jaw tightening slightly as he met Leo's eyes. "But I need to see him. I need to find out exactly what my mother left me in her will. I’ll keep my head down. It’ll be okay. We’ll get into the city, have the appointment, and get straight back out. No one will even notice we’re there."

Leo nodded slowly. "Okay, mate. Whatever you need."

With the decision made, they resumed their sorting in silence. But as Drake reached for the next stack of papers, his mind began to race, the quiet of the cottage fading behind a wall of internal noise. He stared blankly at a box, his heart beating a little faster against his ribs as he wondered what his mother had left behind with Mr. Harrison—and how close he was about to get to the gates of the palace, to the love of his life, and to a world he had been brutally cast out of.

*****

The heavy, diesel rattle of Leo’s truck engine bounced sharply off the high, sun-bleached stone walls of the capital's outer districts. Inside the cramped cab, the heat was stifling. Drake sat squeezed into the middle of the bench seat, his shoulder pinned against Leo’s shifting arm and his flank pressed tightly against Max on his other side. The three of them were trapped in a thick, uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the squeak of the vinyl seats every time Leo turned the steering wheel to navigate the winding streets.

Drake was suffocating. Strands of dark hair clung to his forehead beneath the stiff brim of a flat cap, and beads of sweat rolled slowly down his neck, soaking into the collar of his heavy winter coat. He had layered up in a desperate bid to alter his silhouette, to shrink into the shadows and blend into the background of a world that had violently rejected him. But now, with the midday sun beating directly through the glass windshield, the thick wool felt less like a disguise and more like a neon sign.

He was hiding, yet he had never felt more entirely, terrifyingly obvious. His boots tapped a frantic, irregular rhythm against the floorboards. He reached up, his fingers trembling slightly as he yanked the heavy collar of the coat higher over his stubbled chin, pulling the flat cap down until the brim nearly touched the bridge of his nose.

"Drake, mate, you need to calm down," Leo murmured, his eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the centre of the seat. He shifted gears, the mechanical clunk loud in the quiet cab. "You’re fidgeting. If you look like a man trying to hide, people are going to start looking for a reason why. Just breathe."

Drake swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. "Easier said than done," he muttered, his voice rough. He forced his hands to flatten against his thighs, closing his eyes and drawing in a long, slow breath through his nose, trying to force his hammering heart to slow its frantic pace.

Leo steered the truck into a crowded, gravel parking lot a few blocks away from the Royal Mile. The tires crunched to a halt, and for a moment, the three of them just sat there, peering out through the dusty windows. The capital was alive with late-spring energy. The sidewalks were bustling with shoppers carrying paper bags, and the sweet, rich aroma of roasted coffee and fresh pastries drifted from pavement-side cafés where patrons sat laughing under wide umbrellas.

Max turned his head, assessing the lively crowd before looking back at Drake with a sympathetic but critical eye. "Maybe lose the coat, Drake. Seriously. People are bound to notice you bundled up like you’re heading to the snow peaks of Lythikos. The weather here is far too warm for wool. You’ll stand out more keeping it on."

Drake looked down at his heavy sleeves, the logic piercing through his panic. He nodded once, a short, sharp motion.

They pushed the heavy truck doors open, the sudden influx of moving air doing little to cool the balmy afternoon heat. Drake slid out of the cab, his boots hitting the gravel with a soft thud. He quickly shrugged out of the suffocating wool coat, tossing it onto the middle seat before slamming the door shut. Underneath, he was just a man in a plain, fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. He kept the flat cap firmly in place, using his index finger to pull the brim even lower, casting a deep, protective shadow over his eyes to shade himself from view.

Aligning themselves shoulder-to-shoulder, the three friends set off toward the main thoroughfare. Drake kept his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes fixed mostly on the cobblestones ahead, his peripheral vision hyper-focused on scanning for the telltale glint of brass buttons on palace guard uniforms or the elegant, fine silk garments of nobility. To his immense surprise, however, the immediate side streets were strangely quiet—almost entirely deserted, as if the life of the city had been vacuumed away into a different district.

They turned a sharp corner, stepping out from the narrow alleyway and directly onto the wide, sprawling expanse of the Royal Mile.

Here, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The air was thicker, humming with the murmur of a growing crowd of people all moving in the same direction, their faces turned upward. Drake’s gaze instinctively followed theirs, lifting toward the end of the grand street.

And there it was.

The Cordonian Palace.

It loomed in the distance, a massive, breathtaking monument of white stone, gold trim, and towering spires rising majestically against the porcelain-blue sky. It was grand—infinitely grander, more imposing, and more beautiful than any wealthy estate or breeding stable Drake had ever worked in.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed deep in his chest, a toxic mix of longing and profound inadequacy that made it difficult to breathe. He stared at the distant white stone, his mind spinning into a dark, dizzying spiral. What the hell did a girl from a place like that ever see in a stable hand from the mud? How had he ever been foolish enough to think a princess could belong in a world of leather, grease, and worn blankets?

Before the thought could pull him under, Leo’s heavy hand gripped his forearm, pulling him firmly along the pavement. "Don't look at it, Drake. Keep moving. We can’t afford to hang around out here."

Drake blinked, the spell breaking as he pulled his eyes away from the palace gates. He nodded tightly, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, and turned to follow Max and Leo as they stepped up the stone stairs and disappeared into the quiet, polished sanctuary of the solicitor’s office.

The heavy, brass-trimmed oak door closed behind them, muffling the low, collective roar of the city into a distant, underwater hum. Inside, the solicitor’s office was cool, dim, and smelled intensely of old paper, leather bindings, and expensive mahogany polish.

Leo approached the mahogany reception desk to speak to the young receptionist, but Drake barely registered the quiet exchange. His boots felt heavy, anchored to the plush Oriental rug beneath his feet. He allowed Max to guide him toward a pair of high-backed leather armchairs in the corner of the waiting room, sinking down into the cushion while keeping his flat cap firmly pulled over his eyes.

His body was sitting in that quiet, elegant room, but his mind was still completely stranded out on the cobblestones, staring up at the blinding white facade of the palace.

He had seen photographs of it, of course. Growing up, he’d flipped through newspapers at the village pub in Ramada or seen faded prints in the local library. But ink on paper was nothing compared to the towering reality. It was grand, sprawling, and utterly luxurious, but beneath the gold-leaf detailing and the glistening stone, Drake saw it for what it truly was: utterly, sickeningly pretentious.

The towering iron gates and thick stone walls didn't look like a defence against invaders; they looked like the bars of a gilded prison designed to keep the world out and Emilia firmly locked inside.

For the first time, the sheer, crushing weight of Emilia’s world truly settled into his chest. He could see it now—really see it. He understood why she had been so desperate to escape to the countryside, why she had clung to the simple, lawless freedom of riding on the back of his motorcycle or sleeping under the stars in his Applewood stable loft. The realisation didn't cure the bitter, nagging ache that told him a stable hand from the mud had no place near a princess, but it ignited a different, far more dangerous fire in his blood. She was trapped in there. Behind those golden bars, surrounded by cold stone and the suffocating control of her father.

A sudden, violent wave of restless energy surged through his veins, making his hands shake where they rested on his knees. The proximity was agonising. She was there. Right now, just a few hundred yards down the street, breathing the same air, sitting behind those high windows.

I need her.

The thought screamed through his mind, louder than reason, louder than fear. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to move. His muscles coiled tight, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He gripped the edge of his seat, his boots sliding back against the floorboards as he prepared to push himself up. He wanted to run out the heavy front door, tear down the Royal Mile, scale those brass-tipped gates, and drag her out of that golden cage himself.

He was halfway off the leather cushion, his teeth grinding together as he prepared to bolt, when a sharp click echoed through the quiet room.

A heavy panelled door at the back of the hallway opened, and Mr. Harrison stepped out, holding a thick manila folder under his arm.

"Mr. Walker," he said, a quiet, sympathetic warmth in his eyes as he recognised Drake from the funeral service. "Thank you for making the trip down to see me."

The sound of his name snapped the fragile, desperate thread in Drake's mind, dragging him violently back to reality.

He froze, catching himself just before he lost his balance. Beside him, Leo glanced over with a sharp, perceptive look, placing a quick, warning hand on Drake's forearm. Drake swallowed hard, forcing the wild, dangerous air from his lungs. He stood up on shaking legs, adjusting his cap with one tense hand while extending the other.

"Mr. Harrison," Drake grunted, his voice rough as he took the solicitor's firm grip.

"If you would follow me," Harrison said softly, stepping aside and gesturing into the quiet depth of his private office.

Drake took a slow, deep breath, forcing his boots to turn away from the front entrance. With Leo and Max falling in step right behind him, he crossed the threshold into the dark, book-lined study, the heavy door closing behind them and cutting off the street—and the palace—once again.

Mr. Harrison moved around the heavy mahogany desk, pulling out his leather armchair before gesturing smoothly toward the leather seats opposite him. "Please, take a seat, Mr. Walker."

Drake pulled out one of the chairs and sat, his posture rigid, while Max and Leo hovered quietly near the flanking bookshelves, standing like silent sentinels.

"I want to begin by offering my deepest condolences once again for the loss of your mother, Drake," the solicitor said gently, resting his hands flat on the desk. "And thank you for coming in today under such difficult circumstances."

"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," Drake grunted softly, his throat tight as he adjusted the brim of his flat cap.

Harrison opened the thick manila folder in front of him, the crisp rustle of parchment cutting through the quiet office. "As executor of your mother’s last will and testament, it is my duty to formally outline her wishes. Bianca was very clear: she has left everything she owned to you."

The solicitor tapped a page in the file. "Firstly, the cottage in Ramada. The title is officially yours to do with as you wish."

Drake nodded slowly, staring down at the polished wood of the desk. "I’ve already decided to sell it." He flicked a brief glance over his shoulder toward Max and Leo, who watched him with heavy, understanding expressions, before returning his gaze to Harrison. "I’ll be going back to France in a few days. There’s no point in keeping the house locked up and standing empty when I won't be living in it. I’d rather it be sold... so a new family can move in and make memories there."

Mr. Harrison offered a sympathetic nod. "I completely understand, Drake. I can get the ball rolling on the listing and paperwork for you right away." He turned another page in the file, his expression softening further. "Now... there are a few other items your mother left specifically for you."

Reaching down, Harrison unlocked a small side drawer in his desk. He pulled out a worn, velvet-lined box and slid it across the mahogany blotter. "Your grandmother’s ring. I understand this was immensely important to your mother. When she came to see me late last year, she brought this with her and asked me to hold onto it until the day you came to collect it."

Drake reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft velvet before he lifted the lid. Sitting inside was the delicate, antique silver ring he had seen his mother wear on special occasions throughout his childhood. A sharp, bittersweet ache bloomed in his chest. He managed a faint, sad smile, his thumb tracing the vintage band before he softly clicked the box shut and looked up. "Thank you."

"And then there is this," Harrison added, sliding a crisp, cream-coloured envelope alongside the ring box. "A letter written in your mother’s own hand. She gave it to me with strict instructions that it was only to be handed to you after we had concluded our meeting."

Drake’s heart did a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. He swallowed down the dry lump in his throat, staring at his mother's familiar, elegant handwriting on the front of the envelope. He slowly placed a heavy hand over the paper, holding it flat against the desk as if trying to anchor himself.

"And finally..." Mr. Harrison paused, taking a breath as he looked over the final document. "Your mother has left you a financial inheritance, Drake."

Drake’s dark brows pulled together in instant surprise. "Money?"

He knew better than anyone how hard Bianca had scraped by over the years. Once Drake had been old enough to work, every spare coin he made from the stables went straight into her hand to help pay for groceries, firewood, and to keep the local debt collectors from pushing through her front door. He had helped enough to keep her comfortable, but savings? She hadn't had a single spare coin to her name.

"I think you might be mistaken, Mr. Harrison," Drake said bluntly. "My mum didn't have savings."

Harrison smiled, a knowing, quietly triumphant look in his eyes. "This wasn't old savings, Drake. This money was transferred to her recently—last summer, in fact. It is a substantial sum."

Drake’s mind began to race, confusion swirling in his chest like a dark cloud. "Substantial? From where?"

"It was paid directly from the royal treasury, Drake," Harrison revealed, his voice dropping into a solemn, respectful register. "It was the official compensation owed to your family for your father’s sacrifice all those years ago. Long overdue, if you ask me."

The room seemed to drop ten degrees. The air rushed out of Drake's lungs as if he had been struck hard in the solar plexus.

The palace.

Mr. Harrison kept talking, mentioning figures and bank accounts, but the numbers blurred into background noise. Drake’s pulse hammered deafeningly in his ears. He couldn't process it. Constantine had actually paid his debts? After all these years of cold, heartless neglect? The crown had finally recognised the blood Jackson Walker had spilled for them.

In an instant, Drake’s mind flashed back to the previous summer—to Queen Eleanor standing in the shadows, her eyes brimming with genuine sorrow as she swore she would do everything in her power to ensure the Walker family received what was owed. She hadn't known Constantine had withheld it. She had forced her husband's hand. She had made him pay.

She made him make it right, Drake thought.

Except it wasn't right.

A sudden, searing wave of white-hot rage erupted in Drake's gut, scorching through his confusion. If that money had been paid when it was actually due—when his father died—his mother would never have been forced to make the horrifying sacrifices she made just to survive. She wouldn't have been worn down by poverty. She might still be alive, breathing, and sitting in her kitchen in Ramada right now.

It wasn't compensation. It was blood money. Paid by a ruthless king to wash his hands clean of a commoner's life.

His fists clenched so tightly against the mahogany desk that his knuckles turned bone-white, his teeth grinding together as his jaw locked in sheer fury.

"Drake? Hey, Drake?"

A heavy hand shook his shoulder, snapping him violently out of the dark, suffocating spiral. He blinked, turning his head sharply to see Max and Leo standing right beside his chair. Both of them were looking down at him, wide-eyed, smiles breaking across their faces.

"Did you hear that, mate?" Max breathed, his voice laced with genuine awe and relief. "She left it all to you. Drake... this is more than enough. You can rebuild your entire life in France with this. You can buy that land, build the cabin... everything."

Drake stared back at his two best friends, their hopeful, happy faces a stark contrast to the toxic fire burning inside his own chest. He looked down at the letter resting beneath his trembling palm, then back to Mr. Harrison, completely paralysed, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of a gift that felt like a curse.

*****

Inside the royal suite, the air was thick with the suffocating tang of hairspray, heavy French floral perfume, and the scorched-metal smell of curling irons.

Emilia stood frozen in the centre of her dressing room, staring blankly into the full-length gilded mirror. She hated the woman looking back at her. Her face was painted in porcelain-perfect layers of foundation and silk powder, masking every drop of genuine emotion. Her hair had been pulled up and pinned so tightly to her scalp that a dull, throb of a headache was pulsing behind her eyes. But worst of all was the gown. The structured silk boning of the elaborate bodice was laced so viciously tight across her ribs that every breath felt like a shallow, agonising effort.

Outside her heavy oak doors, the faint, thunderous roar of thousands of voices gathered along the Royal Mile vibrated through the floorboards.

Panic, sudden and violent, seized her throat. Her heart hammered against her constricted ribs like a wild bird trapped in a cage. I can't do this, she thought, her hands beginning to tremble uncontrollably against the heavy skirts of her dress. I can't go out there.

She felt an overwhelming, desperate urge to tear the pins from her hair, rip the suffocating dress down the back, and run. She wanted to bolt through the private servants' passages, escape into the sun-drenched sanctuary of the apple orchards, and find Liam. She just needed a moment—a single, quiet moment alone with him in their sanctuary before the crushing weight of the entire country settled onto their shoulders, demanding courtship details, wedding dates, and future heirs.

She took a sharp, desperate step toward the doors, her teeth grinding together as the panic threatened to swallow her whole. But before she could move any further, a soft knock echoed through the room.

"Your Highness," Rose announced softly from the doorway, a soft smile playing on her lips. "His Majesty has taken the stage. It is time."

The sanctuary was gone. The clock had run out.

Emilia forced her spine straight, swallowing down the dry lump of terror in her throat, and stepped out into the grand, quiet corridor.

Standing a few yards away, waiting beside the tall velvet draperies that led toward the balcony doors, was Liam. He looked impeccably handsome in a crisp, tailored suit, the blue of his jacket bringing out the deep colour of his eyes. The moment she stepped into the hall, his face lit up with a soft, breathtakingly genuine smile that immediately cut through the coldness of the stone walls.

As she approached, Liam’s smile softened into concern. His sharp eyes instantly caught the subtle, uncontrollable tremor in her white-gloved hands and the tight, panicked strain around her mouth.

"Hey," he murmured softly, stepping forward.

Without a care for her pristine dress or the court optics, Liam stepped into her space and wrapped his strong, warm arms securely around her waist, pulling her close. Emilia collapsed into his embrace, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder. She breathed in his familiar, grounding scent—sandalwood, fresh linen, and a hint of the crisp spring air—and felt the icy grip of panic instantly begin to thaw.

"I've got you," Liam whispered into her hair, his hand gently pressing against her back, offering a steady, unwavering anchor amidst the storm. "I know it's overwhelming, my love. But I'm right here with you. It's going to be okay. Just focus on me."

Emilia closed her eyes, letting his steady heartbeat calm her frantic pulse. He truly was her safe harbour. He made her happy, he protected her, and in his arms, she knew she wasn't alone.

Liam gently pulled back, cupping her face with his hands and offering her a warm, reassuring wink that made a small, genuine smile break through her porcelain mask. He offered his arm, and Emilia took it, looping her hand over his forearm and holding on tight.

Together, they began the short, agonising walk toward the double doors of the grand balcony. Through the thick glass, her father’s deep, booming voice was already echoing out over the palace loudspeakers, addressing the thousands of citizens packed onto the streets below.

As the guards reached for the brass handles to throw the doors open, Emilia’s mind took one final, involuntary drift away from the palace, away from the crown, and across the border.

A quiet, bittersweet wave of peace washed over her chest as she thought of Drake. In this terrifying moment of total public exposure, a small part of her heart was profoundly, deeply thankful that he was miles away in France. Safe. Happy. Far away from the ruthless games of her father, the suffocating expectations of the court, and the brutal spectacle she was about to endure.

At least one of us is free, she thought quietly. Be happy, Drake. I love you.

And with that final, silent goodbye to the ghost of her past, to the man she still considered the love of her life, Emilia held tighter to Liam's arm, lifted her chin, and stepped out into the blinding midday sun.

*****

Drake stepped out of the solicitor’s office on absolute autopilot, his boots striking the stone steps with a heavy, unfeeling cadence. His mind was a chaotic, spinning void, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired inside. The letter rested like lead in his pocket, and the phantom weight of the crown's compensation money felt less like a gift and more like a brand seared into his skin.

Behind him, the heavy oak door clicked shut, immediately swallowing the cool, quiet sanctuary of the office and plunging the three men into a wall of overwhelming, atmospheric noise.

The Royal Mile had completely transformed. What had been a modest flow of pedestrians an hour ago was now a dense, suffocating ocean of bodies. Thousands of citizens were shoulder-to-shoulder, spilling off the sidewalks and filling the wide avenue, their collective voices rising in an excited, low-frequency roar that rattled the surrounding windows.

Leo’s grip tightened on Drake’s arm, his eyes wide as he surveyed the sea of people blocking their path. He leaned over, grabbing the shoulder of a passing man draped in a Cordonian flag. "Hey, mate! What’s going on? Why’s everyone gathered?"

"The King!" the man shouted back over the din, pointing eagerly toward the white stone palace at the top of the hill. "King Constantine is making a grand address to the nation!"

Drake’s entire body went rigid. His head snapped up with violent speed, his dark eyes locking onto the distant gold-trimmed balcony.

Constantine.

The name hit his bloodstream like pure, burning acid. In an instant, the foggy numbness of the solicitor’s office disintegrated, utterly consumed by the terrifying, white-hot resurgence of his rage. The King. The man who had sat back and let his family starve. The man whose actions had forced his mother sell herself to keep a roof over their heads, wearing her down until she was in an early grave. The monster who had brutally beat him, banished him across the border like trash, and ripped him away from Emilia.

"Drake, no—" Max started, recognising the dangerous, feral shift in his friend's posture.

Before either of them could react, Drake shoved his way into the crowd.

He moved like a man possessed, his broad shoulders ploughing through the mass of bodies. The flat cap pulled low over his eyes was his only anchor as he shoved past tourists and citezans alike, his boots digging fiercely into the cobblestones as he drove himself toward the iron gates of the palace.

"Drake! Stop!" Leo yelled, wrestling his way through the wake Drake was leaving, his hand desperately lunging for the back of his friend's t-shirt. "Drake, you can't be here! We have to go, right bloody now!"

"No!" Drake snarled, tearing his arm free with a vicious backhand, his voice a low, animalistic growl that didn't even sound like his own. "No!"

He didn't care about the risk. He didn't care about the guards, the cells, or the King's threat. The sheer, intoxicating fury coursing through his veins drowned out every thread of self-preservation. He pushed forward, practically throwing himself against the cold, brass-tipped iron bars of the palace gates, coming to a dead halt right at the front line of the crowd.

He looked up.

High above on the sunlit balcony, framed by crimson banners and a golden crown, stood King Constantine. The monarch’s booming voice, magnified by the palace loudspeakers, echoed across the capital, rich with arrogant triumph as he spoke of the monarchy's strength, stability, and the successful end of the social season.

Drake’s hands gripped the iron bars of the gate so violently his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure. Staring at the man who had nearly killed him—the man who had ruined every single thing he had ever loved—Drake felt a violent, volcanic urge to tear the gates apart with his bare hands. His vision blurred around the edges with toxic red.

And then, Constantine turned.

The King gestured grandly toward the double glass doors behind him. The heavy mahogany frames swung open, and a hush fell over the thousands of people packed into the street below.

Drake’s breath caught in his throat.

Out stepped Emilia.

It felt as though the entire world violently slammed into reverse. The roaring crowd, the blaring loudspeakers, the suffocating heat of the afternoon—it all dissolved into absolute, deafening silence. Drake’s heart didn't just stop; it froze, turned to stone, and shattered in his chest.

It was an out-of-body experience, a brutal, physical gut-punch that robbed every drop of oxygen from his lungs.

She was breathtaking. She was... perfect. Draped in a gown of shimmering silk, her golden hair pinned like a crown, she looked every inch the royalty she was born to be. But to Drake, she wasn't the Crown Princess. She was his Emilia. The girl who had held him in the stable loft, the girl who had ridden on the back of his motorcycle, the girl whose laugh still echoed in his dreams every single night.

A desperate, agonising wave of love and agony surged up his throat. He wanted to scream her name. He wanted to tear his lungs open and shout to the heavens until she looked down and saw him standing there. But the words wouldn't come, lodged like broken glass in his windpipe.

Then, Constantine stepped forward, placing a possessive hand on Emilia's shoulder, his deep voice booming out over the silent crowd:

"People of Cordonia... it is with immense joy and the utmost pride that I present to you the future of our realm. My daughter, Crown Princess Emilia, has officially chosen a suitor. Please join me in celebrating her courtship with Lord Liam Rhys!"

The words didn't register as language; they hit Drake like a physical blow to the head.

From the shadows behind the drapery, a man stepped out. Handsome, polished, with neat blonde hair and a perfectly tailored suit. Drake watched, trapped in a living nightmare, as this stranger stepped up to Emilia’s side, taking her hand and bringing it gently to his lips while she smiled up at him—a smile of tender, quiet devotion.

Drake’s knees buckled.

The sky seemed to tilt, the ground rushing up to meet him as the breath was violently torn from his chest. The entire world went white around the edges, his hands slipping from the cold iron bars of the gate as his body completely gave out.

"No..." Drake choked out, a raw, broken rasp scraping from his throat. He stumbled backward, his boots dragging on the stone. "No... no, no, no..."

He was collapsing, his vision failing, the sheer, unimaginable agony of the betrayal ripping his soul into ribbons.

Before his knees could hit the cobblestones, two pairs of heavy, desperate arms caught him from behind. Max grabbed him under his left shoulder; Leo hooked his arm firmly under his right, hauling his dead weight backward into the surging crowd just as the entire Royal Mile erupted into deafening, frantic cheers.

"I've got you, mate! I've got you, hold on!" Leo barged backward, his voice frantic with terror as he and Max physically dragged a trembling, gasping Drake through the sea of celebrating people.

Drake didn't fight them. He couldn't. His head hung limp, his eyes wide and unseeing, staring blankly at the dust on the cobblestones as he was hauled away into the dark side streets, away from the palace, away from the sun, and away from the only woman he had ever loved—leaving him broken, bleeding, and utterly lost in the shadows.

Max’s head jerked forward to find Drake Walker standing next to him, whiskey in hand, gaze piercing through him to his very soul. “Oh… I… ah…” he fumbled over his words. “I just needed a break… um… from all…. That.”

“Huh.” Drake lifted his glass to his lips as he turned his gaze out toward the dance floor. His eyes scanned the room until they fell on the source of Max’s discomfort. Understanding washed over him as he watched Riley glow under Liam’s attention.

His best friend did tend to have that affect on women.

Lowering his drink, he turned back toward Max. The younger Lord Beaumont was known for his gregariousness, extroversion and love of a good party. The fact that he was moping at the back of the room told Drake all he needed to know about the answer to the question he decided to ask anyway. “So, how’s the Cordonian Agreement going?”

Max shrugged. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Drake lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “Have there been a lot of takers?”

“She’s had a few.” None of the others had gotten under his skin the way Liam did though.

“I meant for you.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Drake watched him intently over the rim of his tumbler as he lifted it for another drink.

“Oh…uh… I’ve…had a couple,” he confessed with a shrug.

“Just a couple?”

His gaze dropped down to focus on the toe of his well polished shoe. “I’m just really not interested in other women to be honest.”

“Other women?” Drake snorted. “What about men?”

“I…what?” Max’s head jerked up to find the other man standing closer than he had been a few moments ago. “I mean I haven’t….I’ve never….uh….what?”

Drake leaned closer, “I was under the impression that you liked both. Am I wrong?”

“N…no,” Max stammered as his heart thudded in his chest and his palms were suddenly inexplicably sweaty. “I mean… I just haven’t… er, I mean, I haven’t really pursued…. Where did you hear that?”

It was Drake’s turn to shrug. “Things get around.”

Max and Riley may have started dating at fifteen, but before Riley, there had been a boy. A boy that Drake had briefly dated a year later.

Max wanted to fall through the floor. Not because he was embarrassed to be bisexual, but because he was mortified at how flustered he was.

Drake Walker was a dream. Tall, athletic, handsome, and confident in a way that Max just wasn’t. There was no way a man like that was into him…. Was there?

“So…” Drake propped an arm on the wall and leaned in, putting his mouth close enough to Max’s ear for his breath to send goosebumps cascading down the other man’s back. “Do you wanna keep staring at them, or do you wanna get out of here and have some fun of your own?”

“I…” Max gulped as he slowly lifted his cobalt blue eyes to meet Drake’s gold flecked copper ones. He wasn’t sure he trusted his voice or his knees at that moment, but he managed to croak out, “I want to get out of here.”