#king liam

After Liam, Leo, and Regina decided at the Portavira hospital, Constantine was quickly airlifted back to the Capitol to join his home team of medical staff. His doctors worked tirelessly to get him stable, but his condition remained fluctuant since he arrived at the Cordonian Medical University. They hadn’t received a recent update, but Liam was determined that the moment he was able, he and Constantine would pick up their conversation right where it left off. 

The anxiety he felt was like no other. He hadn’t slept in days and didn’t remember the last time he consumed something other than coffee. Time molded together, and he wasn’t sure what day of the week it was. The search for Riley drove him right to the gates of insanity, but Liam was determined, with everything in him, he was going to find her, no matter what it took. 

The tension in the waiting room was a palpable force. Liam paced the area tirelessly, biting his nails until each finger bled. Leo stared into space and bounced his leg rapidly, filling the air with the sound of his pants as they rubbed against the upholstery of his chair. Regina watched the pair with pinched brows, and the longer she stared, the higher her curiosity rose. She noticed well before today that their demeanors had been different lately, and she heard of Liam’s hospital stay only a few days prior. His body language was off the charts at all moments, but she didn’t have any idea what could have created such trouble for them. She speculated but didn’t know for certain if her hunch was correct. All she knew was that something was indeed being kept from her. 

Regina observed until she could no longer stand the tension and her curiosity got the better of her. “Liam… Are you alright?” She faintly asked, but her voice nearly echoed in the stillness.

“No, I’m not. He has to make it.” Liam answered, all the while continuing his pacing. 

Regina's features softened. “I understand this is difficult to process, but everything is going to be alright—” 

“No, it’s not!” Liam suddenly yelled, startling Regina and causing her to jump. “I need to know who did it. I have to know.”

Regina’s brows furrowed, her confusion reaching its peak. “What do you mean?”

Liam spoke again, but Regina quickly realized he spoke to himself instead of her. He walked in a short line then back again, his eyes glued to the floor and when he answered, his words were fast and muddled. “I just don’t understand. Who could’ve talked him into this mess? Was it Madeleine?” He pinched his brows and stopped before he shook his head. “No, no — he wouldn’t do what just anyone says… And that’s way too obvious, right? Right.” 

Regina interjected, “Liam, what—” 

“The council? Was this a collaborative effort? Is everyone guilty?” He continued, as his face quickly shifted from a bright shade of red to nearly white. “Can I trust anyone? Is this a sign to abdicate and call it a win?” He paused, the wheels visibly cranking inside his head before he spat out, “That solves nothing and doesn’t keep her safe! What the fuck am I supposed to do?!”

“Liam!” Regina yelled, stopping him in his tracks. Her eyes widened, she cleared her throat, and she smoothed down her skirt when his fiery gaze centered on her. “I apologize for the outburst, but what in the world are you talking about?” 

“What?” 

“You said something about Madeleine? And the council?” 

Liam could only stare at Regina. He swore all that was happening inside his head, but it seemed lately there was no difference between the two. “I — uh…” He swallowed thickly as he silently weighed his options.  

He didn’t know if he should tell Regina. It wasn’t because he believed she could be involved, but he didn’t want to risk putting her in danger. But now that the thought arose, it played repetitively, causing his heart rate to increase because maybe she could know something. 

At this point, it wouldn’t surprise him if even Leo had a hand in it. 

He shook the thought quickly, willing his paranoia to stay at bay. However, he also realized if Constantine had told anyone about his indiscretions, it would’ve been Regina, and his conscience wouldn't allow him to dismiss her as a person of interest. 

Liam let out a sigh, placed a hand on Regina’s shoulder, and led her to a chair. He sat down beside her and addressed her in a low, stern tone. “What’s spoken of here does not get repeated. Are we understood?” He momentarily cursed himself because he wasn’t trying to come off this way to Regina, but he was so far over the ledge, that he could practically see underneath. 

Regina agreed, and Liam swiftly caught her up to speed on what they knew, and her tears freely fell by the time he finished. She had no idea these things had happened and felt like a fool because she was a reigning monarch at the time the initial incident transpired. This was just as much her fault as it was Constantine’s, and she felt guilty for assuming what the media presented was correct. 

“Liam, I didn’t know… I’m so sorry this has happened…” Regina started as she wiped her cheeks. “I heard you were running some kind of investigation, but—”

“You know about the investigation?” Liam hastily inquired, his red eyes not even blinking as he awaited her answer.

“It was hard to miss, unfortunately.” She sadly smiled. “I’m afraid most people know you were looking into Lady Riley’s whereabouts, but they don’t know how deep it runs.” 

“Who’s been talking about it?”

“The truth?” Liam nodded, so Regina finished. “... Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes, Liam… Word traveled around the court fast after you hired some kind of investigator—”

“They know about Ray, too?” Liam repeated in complete disbelief. 

“Yes, but everyone assumed you were simply looking for Lady Riley to demand an explanation. No one has mentioned anything about her still being in the country, or anything else, for that matter.”

“Do you know anything about it? Did father ever mention it?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Regina answered through clenched teeth. “And if he pulls through this, he had better pray to the heavens above for protection, because I have a lot to say to him regarding the matter.” 

“What about the murders?” Leo interjected. “Has anyone said anything about those?” 

“No. Most don’t even know who the maid was, and Penelope’s death hasn’t circulated the rumor mill yet.”

Liam ran a hand down his face as he let this conversation seep in. Nothing they’d done was secret. Sure, some aspects were, but they had been so careful to keep this under wraps, yet this information seemed to spread like wildfire.

This raised the question — was there yet another mole? His vision briefly connected with Leo’s and his expression echoed Liam’s, confirming that his suspicion wasn’t just paranoia.

“Regina, you can’t tell anyone —” 

“You have my word, Liam.” Regina softly interrupted. “If I can do anything to help you in any way —” 

“No.” Liam sternly answered. “I don’t want you anywhere near this — forget this conversation ever happened. I trust you, but I don’t want you getting mixed up in this.” He stopped himself, not knowing if he spoke he truthl. He didn’t know if he trusted her, but unless he received a reason, Regina’s name moved to the bottom of his list of suspects.

“But if someone mentions it…” Leo trailed off. 

A doctor appeared in the doorway a moment later and bowed to the trio, interrupting the moment. “Your Majesties, my name is Doctor Gordon —”

Liam shot up from his seat. “How is he? Is he awake?” 

“I’m afraid he’s not, sir, but we’ve stabilized him. We’re waiting on a few more lab results and his vitals are fluctuant, but for the time being, he seems to be on a steady level.”

“What happened?” 

“Unfortunately, this can happen in carcinoma patients. The cancer already dwindles air and the lungs overexert and overpower the heart, triggering a myocardial infarction.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Liam practically barked as his patience ran thin. 

“He suffered a heart attack. In any other circumstance, his survival rate would be high, but because of the cancer, unfortunately, his heart was already weak.” 

“A heart attack?” Liam mimicked in disbelief. 

“Yes, sir — a pretty nasty one. All we can do is keep him comfortable—” 

“Don’t say it,” Liam gritted out through clenched teeth. “There has to be something you can do.” He pleaded, his desperation quickly skyrocketing. “We have funds — get a fucking specialist or something!”

Dr. Gordon winced at his volume. “Sir, he’s not eligible for any kind of surgery — his lungs will collapse the second we administer anesthesia. We’re giving him medications to keep him relaxed and manage his pain, but I’m afraid there’s not much more to be done...” 

Liam could only stare at the man in front of him as if he spoke another language. This should not have been a surprise; they all knew Constantine was on borrowed time, but the convenience of hitting another roadblock regarding Riley couldn't be denied. That was his father, and he wanted to be sad that his life was essentially ending, but all he felt was anger and regret that he didn’t get the chance to uncover the final hidden piece of the puzzle, leading him to wonder if he would ever be able to find her again. 

“Will he wake back up?” Liam tentatively asked, holding onto any little sliver of hope. 

“I’m not sure, sir. He could, but it all depends on him right now. There’s nothing we can do to bring him out of it — it’s just a waiting game at this point.” The doctor responded with a sad smile. “I’m truly sorry.” 

“Can you take us to him?” Regina tearfully inquired. 

“Of course, ma’am.” Dr. Gordon bowed. 

Leo and Regina went to follow, but Liam couldn’t force himself to go. If his father was not yet awake, he had somewhere else he needed to be. He wanted to feel guilty for not staying, but he meant what he said to Constantine; he was no longer his father. All he could picture was a monster who turned a blind eye while letting someone hurt the woman his heart still cries for. Perhaps his feelings would change with time, but for right now, he felt nothing but hatred for his sperm donor. 

And his conscience screamed at him, demanding he go check out his father’s suggestion — the tunnels. 

As a child, he’d heard fables and stories of the dreaded, abandoned area, hidden deep under estates from some older nobles. However, it never received recognition from a technical standpoint, only hearsay; it wasn’t something you’d learn about during a lesson or schooling of any type.  

Liam honestly didn’t know if his father was being truthful or just trying to provide him with some kind of answer to deflect his anger. He had no reason to trust a word that came out of Constantine’s mouth, but he couldn’t deny the sudden jump he felt as he mentioned it; like a blast of lightning struck him, sending a jolt of electricity down the length of his spine. Rationally thinking, he was wary of believing his father, but his heart’s reaction couldn’t go unnoticed. 

Either way, he felt he needed to check. They had to address anything and everything they found, and this would be no different. He assured himself that if Olivia were there, she would’ve already left to secure the scene. The rest of the duchies would get attention later, but right now, he needed to check his home turf.

Leo noticed Liam didn’t follow and turned around to see the wheels actively working in his brother’s head. “Li…” 

“You go. Stay with him in case he wakes up.” Liam answered, his eyes centered on the palace in the distance as he peered out a window.

“Where are you going?” 

“I have to check,” Liam said, more to himself than Leo. “He mentioned the tunnels — if she could be there, I have to look.” He swallowed down a lump of bile as he thought about what he might find, but either way, he needed to know.

“Liam, I know you want to, but —” 

“I have to, Leo.” He swallowed thickly and quickly blinked, willing the sudden burn behind his eyelids to go away. “I have to.” He whispered. 

“Then I’m coming with you,” Leo responded with utmost determination.

“No. I want you to stay with him.” 

Leo’s mouth fell agape. “That is not happening —” 

“I’m ordering you not to leave his side, Leo, not until I say it’s okay.” Liam rumbled. “Don’t fucking test me. I’m not in the mood. I need you here.” He turned and strode away before Leo received a chance to respond. 

Leo watched Liam go with wide eyes. He didn’t know what to think or do in this situation. He couldn’t fathom that his father had done such a thing — that he stooped so low. Leo had his issues with Constantine, but nothing even close in comparison. However, he realized Liam was a walking ball of rage; there was no telling what he would do, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. Right now, he only saw the anger he felt at the moment. He was oblivious to what his actions could spiral into, and Leo couldn’t help but feel like this game was far from over.    

Leo quickly pulled his phone out and called Drake, who was close by, to tell him to keep an eye out for him. It wasn’t because Leo wanted to stop him; he only wanted to ensure Liam did not go alone. He realized there was no telling what could be waiting — if anything — but on the chance there was something down there, Liam would not walk into it by himself. 

Liam returned to the palace a short time later and instead of heading through the front doors, he veered left. He walked directly beside the building, surveying the concrete siding with his eyes and hands, mindlessly searching for something he wasn’t even sure existed. He didn’t know if anyone was around, and didn’t know if he had a guard trailing behind him. The only thing his brain registered was his footsteps in the grass and the immediate view in front of him. 

To know Riley could have been here this entire time, right under his nose, made him sick to his stomach. Not only did he turn his back on her, but he potentially walked right above her all day every day, wishing she was there; now, there was a chance she was the entire time, and he couldn’t even begin to process it. 

He still couldn’t fathom how this entire operation happened right under his nose. If Olivia hadn’t spoken up, someone would have covered this whole thing up. He not only abandoned her, but he also allowed this madness to happen. The guilt he felt at that moment was hard to ignore, but as he mindlessly trekked around the outside of the palace, searching for the unknown, his hands shook as he realized what could lie before him. 

Riley could be inches away; he swore he could sense her aura near. His footsteps quickened and echoed in the stillness, even in the moistened grass, as he let that thought resonate through his body like lightning in his veins, fueling him forward. He was on a mission and saw nothing except his end goal. 

Riley was close, and he was going to rescue her. 

A hand on his shoulder startled Liam. He spun around with his fist cocked, ready to strike, but he stood down when he saw Drake. “It’s just me, Li…”

Liam raised his palm. “Don’t try to stop me, Drake. I’m going to find it.” 

“I know, man. I’m coming with you.” 

“No, we don’t know what’s down there—”

“Exactly. No way in hell are you going in there alone.” Drake swiftly interrupted. “Come on, let’s go.” Without a second of hesitation, he walked a few feet away from Liam to the back of the palace, directly to a wall covered in thick vines. He brought out his pocketknife and sliced through the shrubbery, revealing a large stone door. 

“How did you know?” Liam rasped as he finished, his steely glare centered on Drake. 

Drake recognized his hostility and raised his arms in surrender. Liam didn't outright accuse him of anything, but the fiery blues staring back at him told him exactly what he was thinking. “I’ve run around this place unattended for most of my life, Liam.”

Liam shook his head to clear the chaos. His features softened, and he released a deep breath before he replied, “Right… Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

“S’all good, man.” Drake returned with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Ready?”

Liam mindlessly nodded, and the two started their venture. They swung the stone door open and saw a set of stairs that led into the vastness of the unknown, the chilled temperature seeping out and coating their skin in goosebumps. Liam entered first, Drake hot on his heels, and they cautiously began the descent. 

Every creaky step echoed against the concrete walls, amplifying the tension until they reached a long, dark hallway. The depths of the palace tunnels were cold, damp, and incredibly creepy. A combination of dust and mold littered the air, and spider webs covered most of the walls. It truly mimicked what you’d see in movies, even down to the dull illumination from flickering sconces. The further they traveled, the worse it got and the higher their anticipation rose. 

They followed until they reached a dead end. Both men glanced around, but neither could understand. They found the end of the tunnels and didn’t find a sign of anyone. There were no cells or doors, as Constantine suggested, and no signs of any life around. The only sounds to be heard in the deafening silence were their ragged breaths, mixed in with their pounding hearts as they let this conclusion sink in. 

“Goddamnit! He fucking lied to me, Drake! Again!” Liam suddenly erupted, his voice nearly loud enough to burst an eardrum as it echoed off the stone walls. “He won’t have to worry about his heart giving out — he needs to be more concerned with what I’m going to do once I get back to that hospital.” He went to storm away, but Drake suddenly stopped him. 

“Hold on a sec, Li.” Drake pulled out a small book from his jacket pocket and opened it. “I went to the library and got that book when Leo called to warn me you were coming and where you were going, just in case we needed it. Okay, we’re here…” He pointed at the page before both men carefully assessed the old, dusty map.

“What is that?” Liam asked as he motioned to a dark area. It appeared to be a door of some kind, although they saw no trace of anything as they peered around. 

“That’s gotta be what we’re looking for. These maps don’t have the hidden shit on them, but there’s usually always a clue somewhere or an indicator of some kind.” 

“How do you know all this?” He inquired as he skeptically eyed his best friend. 

Drake smirked. “What do you think I did all those years when you were busy doing prince shit? I know every crevice of this place — if she’s here, we’re going to find her.” 

“How are we going to find the door?”

“I dunno.” Drake shrugged. “We might just have to feel along the walls, or look for anything out of place.”

“Like creepy, floor-to-ceiling paintings in an otherwise empty hallway?” Liam asked as he pointed to a portrait hung not far away, conveniently placed in a darkened shadow. 

“That’d do it,” Drake answered as they made their way over. 

Liam touched the art and tried to move it, but even when he used all his might, it wouldn’t budge. He felt all around the area, searching for a lever or some kind of pulley, but uncovered nothing of relevance.

Drake took a step back and searched his memories as desperation started to creep in. He spent most of his childhood exploring the palace in moments of boredom. Liam joined when he could, but Drake had to entertain himself when he couldn’t fathom being around Maxwell or Olivia and often ended up in areas he knew he wasn’t supposed to be near, including this one.

When he was younger — probably ten or eleven — he found himself in this same tunnel. Somehow, he opened the secret door, but he got scared when he peeked in and quickly left. It was a complete accident; he didn’t even remember how he got the door to open. The only thing he recalled was that he stumbled and hurt his shoulder on the wall, then he flailed for balance as he began to fall. When his hand reached out for leverage, instead of connecting with the stone as intended, he grabbed the sconce and accidentally turned it in his descent. As he stood, he pushed on the painting to regain his leverage, and then... 

Drake suddenly looked up and saw a light beside the portrait. All the other sconces held varying illumination, but produced light in some fashion; this was the only one they’d seen so far that was completely black — not even a faint spark. He approached and, without a second thought, he turned it to the side. Liam watched with furrowed brows and opened his mouth to speak, but a loud click silenced him. Suddenly, the outline of a door appeared and stopped him in his tracks, causing his breath to sputter.  

He pushed on the wall before another click sounded and the door slowly crept open, revealing a darker, tighter hallway, somehow leading deeper and further into the unknown. The area was nearly completely black and smelled incredibly moldy, with hues of cigar smoke and sweat mixing in with a plethora of other rancid scents. Drake pulled his phone out, turned the flashlight on and peeked in, but they couldn’t see anything except a long, seemingly never-ending pit of darkness. 

Liam went first but stepped slowly as his anticipation rose. Although he wanted to rush through, his anxiety multiplied as he took in the eeriness before them. His unease quadrupled, an anvil-sized chill traveling down the length of his spine and back up again. When they approached the end, the vicinity held a little more light from dim, flickering sconces, but not enough for them to see clearly. 

They made their way to the end of the hall by feeling along the cold, moistened walls, except this time, one lone, stone door with corroded metal bars awaited them at the end. Drake and Liam’s hair on the back of their necks stood straight up as they saw a chain and padlock lying on the floor, the structure slightly ajar. Liam cautiously approached and pushed it open with shaky hands, swallowing thickly to contain the vile as it rose to the back of his throat.

As they stepped over the threshold, they saw a line of what appeared to be small holding cells; three, to be exact. The boxes were small with just enough room for the few pieces of furniture. The first two were empty and the cots were perfectly made, showing no signs of anyone. They approached the last and Liam’s heart sank into the pits of his stomach as he realized it was vacant as well. However, his mind started to race as he realized this one clearly housed someone at some point; a tray of untouched food sat on a small table in between the toilet and bed, which was unmade and tousled, causing his hands to shake uncontrollably as he tried to process this scene.  

“Holy shit…” Drake gasped as he took in their surroundings. “How did we never find this?”

“I don’t know… I think the better question is, how did someone else find it?” 

“They didn’t, Li. Someone knew this shit was here and how to access it — nobody just stumbled upon this.” Drake rubbed his chin, his disbelief shining brightly as he tried to make sense of this new revelation. “There’s no fucking way.” 

Liam stepped toward the bed and lifted the pillow to his face. He inhaled a deep breath and a faint floral fragrance invaded his senses and sparked some kind of recognition, but he couldn’t pinpoint if it was Riley or not. “Do — do you think she was here?” 

Drake momentarily remained silent as he weighed his words, figuring out the best way to be honest with his best friend without completely demolishing the fragile remnants of his hope. “Clearly someone was, but it’s hard to say if it was her…” He faintly answered.

Liam nodded and returned the pillow, his heart racing while every worst-case scenario ran through his head. He shook it off and instead touched the tray of food and as he did, sweat immediately poured down his forehead, and a sudden chill swept over his entire body, as if he'd opened the door to Lythikos' keep in the middle of a snowstorm, as he realized — 

The food was still warm. 

“Drake…” His voice trembled, and he spoke quietly as his eyes surveyed the room. “Someone was here recently — like, within a few hours, maybe less… I can’t help but feel like they knew we’d come down here.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“That door was open on purpose, Drake, and this food is still warm. They wanted us to know someone was in here.” 

Drake momentarily considered it before he responded, “You’re right, but how do we know who it was?” 

“I don’t know… I need to contact Olivia and Ray to let them know about this. If my father was correct, these could be in all the duchies...” Liam trailed off with a hopeless expression. He shook his head with his hands on his hips, desperation setting in. “What am I supposed to do, Drake? I — I’m at a complete loss. No matter what we do, we still can’t seem to get ahead and now they’re taunting me, too.”

“It does seem like they’re taunting you a bit,” Drake agreed as he looked around the deserted box with barely enough for both of them to stand in. 

“Do I send out teams everywhere? How can I do that without someone knowing? They already knew we were coming here, and I didn’t even tell anyone! The investigation may as well be on the evening fucking news!” Liam shouted as his composure turned to ash and he let the tidal wave of his emotions wash over him.

“I — I wish I could answer that, Li, but I’m not the one to ask… You need to get Olivia and Ray in on this as soon as possible.” 

“I just need to see her, Drake…” Liam admitted, his lip involuntarily quivering. He stopped his steps but refused to make eye contact. His tears threatened to spill over, but he couldn’t decide if they stemmed from sadness, frustration, defeat, or all of the above.

Drake noticed Liam’s shift and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know… Everything is gonna work itself out.” 

“How can you say that? You’ve seen what’s been happening!” Liam exclaimed as he shook Drake’s palm away, his agitation returning full force. “I can’t keep doing this cat-and-mouse game. I’m canceling the tour — right now.” 

Drake’s eyes widened. “Li, I don’t think —” 

“There’s nothing else to do, Drake! I can’t keep going back and forth. Between this, and now my father, I can’t keep pretending everything is okay.” Liam shook his head as a lone tear traveled down his cheek. “I can’t.” He brokenly whispered.

Drake’s features softened. “I know this is a fucking nightmare, but you can’t do that, Liam, not until we know Brooks is safe… You can probably get away with postponing some stuff because of your dad, but you can’t outright cancel everything…” He swallowed thickly as he tried to keep his head level. He pushed aside his own desolate feelings to console Liam, but between worrying about Riley and dealing with Bastien's betrayal, he didn't know how much longer he could keep on this show. His best friend needed him to be strong and coherent, but the strength he rallied to be Liam's backbone ran sparse. They’d been through a lot together, but this situation put a whole new meaning to the term through hell and back. 

Liam didn’t answer, but deep down, he knew Drake was indeed correct. Until Riley was directly in front of him, he couldn’t do anything to further irritate whoever held these cards, as much as that infuriated him. This entire tim,e everyone kept telling him he was the king — that he was in control — but that was never true. He was merely a puppet in someone else’s scheme and he found himself helplessly stuck, even though he wanted to throw in the towel. The thought of abdication crossed his mind on more than one occasion, but again, until Riley was one hundred percent safe, he couldn’t do anything. 

“Maybe we should get ahold of Olivia and see what she thinks about this,” Drake softly suggested after a long moment of silence. 

Liam couldn’t muster a response, but he nodded and mindlessly made his way out. They headed back to the main floor of the palace to the grand staircase in complete silence, the tension looming among them thicker than ever before. Liam didn’t have any idea where he was going, nor did he register any scenery on their walk; he couldn’t think straight. 

So much ran amok through his already jumbled thoughts. Since his father told them of the hidden tunnels, he hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Leo, Regina, and now Drake. Bastien was no longer around, yet someone still beat them down there. He wanted nothing more than to believe it could have been Riley in that cell, but he didn’t know what to conclude. Nothing made sense. He felt as if the world around him was on fire, but he had no choice other than to walk through the flames with a smile. 

Drake led Liam to his office, thinking that would be the best place for them to do something productive. He stepped aside to allow him access to unlock the door, and Liam mindlessly put his key inside the lock, not noticing that it wasn’t even necessary. The structure creaked open, but Liam suddenly froze as he took in his surroundings. 

He knew when he left last he shut everything off, but a fire roared in the hearth and the TV was on a national news station, although muted. The blinds on his windows were open, the opposite of how he left them. The lamp on his desk shone brightly, and he undoubtedly knew that was the very last thing he’d turned off when he left. 

Without a shadow of uncertainty, he knew someone had been there.  

The temperature suddenly dropped, and an eerie sensation filled the air — one that was becoming all too familiar. Liam stepped over the threshold and took a couple of slow, cautious steps forward, ignoring the goosebumps coating his entire body. The anticipation of the situation multiplied until it became a tangible force — a living, breathing creature that derived from his demons, laying dormant, waiting for its next moment to rise and unleash hell upon his world. The room remained silent, but it wasn't content or peaceful; instead it felt louder than the screams of his deep anguish. For the first time in months, the whirlwind of his thoughts halted,  but it was far from a relief. A sense of dread rushed over him so viciously that it nearly took him to his knees, but he didn't falter. He stood taller to project dominance over the mythical figure of his emotions, but he knew the attempt was subpar at best, and his demons saw how close he was to breaking. 

He spun around in the middle of the room with pinched brows as he surveyed his surroundings. “What the hell?” He whispered, his voice slicing through the silence like a knife.

“Careful, Li…” Drake spoke as he followed closely, his eyes darting all around to look for any kind of threat. 

“Someone’s been here…” Liam spoke as he did the same, combing the vicinity with a dissecting gaze. 

“Yeah, but again, who?” 

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Liam acknowledged as he noticed a lit candle on the coffee table. The pool of wax was only a small circle around the wick, which led him to decide that whoever lit it did so only minutes ago. “Someone is playing with me, Drake…” He trailed off, the hair on the back of his neck rising to attention as he extinguished the flame. 

“Is there a guard close by? Maybe we need to let them handle this…” Drake suggested as his unease continued to grow. 

Liam ignored him and mustered every ounce of strength he had to calm his rising anxiety. Even though he searched the room from top to bottom, he saw no prominent threats. Other than the things he’d already noticed, nothing else stood out. There were no signs that anyone had broken in or stolen anything; it almost appeared as if someone simply wanted him to know that they were there. 

He carefully approached his desk with Drake glued to his side. He intended to grab the phone and call Olivia to see what she suggested they do next. However, as he scanned over the contents on top of the mahogany structure, he realized something he’d never seen lay directly in front of his chair. His hands trembled as he picked up the item, but when recognition swept over him, it was accompanied by anguish that resembled a dagger to the gut. 

It was a folded-up newspaper from the day Riley became the Apple Queen, but someone scratched out her face in red marker on the front-page picture of her and Liam, and covered her body in obscenities. Large, animated tears streamed from Liam’s eyes, and his smile was transformed into a large, dramatic frown. The underlining in the attached article emphasized Riley’s commoner status, while others highlighted passages about an ‘enamored prince’ and her likelihood of success. He scoured the text underneath until the passage broke off and continued on a different page, but as he went to unfold it, something dropped from inside the paper. 

Drake curiously crouched as he observed the contents meet the floor. He could tell papers or cards of some sort fell, but those became momentarily forgotten as something else dropped. It didn’t take long for him to realize it was human hair; long, silky strands of blonde mane, and a substantial amount of it. 

He swallowed thickly as he recognized Riley as the only person they knew with blonde hair — aside from Madeleine, but her locks were nowhere near as lengthy as Riley’s. He bent down and picked up a wad for himself and Liam to see along with everything else, but as he realized what else he held, he stopped breathing. 

With the hair were photos — Constantine at the hospital, Liam entering the palace that night, Penelope’s body arriving back in Portavira, Olivia and Ray investigating — all things nobody should have known anything about.  

Before he could process anything, Drake’s vision went past what he held and landed on the now-opened paper still in Liam's hands. He furrowed his brow as he spotted something scribbled on the inside and motioned to it, causing Liam to look down with confusion written on his features until he saw peeks as well. He brought it to his face with visibly shaky hands and held his breath as he prepared himself for the worst, but within seconds, any and every ounce of hope burst into flames.

Liam dropped into his office chair, and Drake watched his complexion drain until he mimicked a ghost, his breathing steadily increasing in pace and intensity. His tears fell freely until he nearly sobbed, the shift happening so fast that Drake was momentarily speechless.

He quickly sprang into action and crouched in front of Liam. “Li — calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths… Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” 

After a few seconds of stillness, he answered, “I — I don’t know if there’s a-anything left to be d-done, Drake.” Liam got out through gasps and hiccups, making no attempts to cover his deteriorating state. 

“What’re you talking about? We can’t give up now!” Drake hollered.  

Liam remained silent for a long moment, the tension thickening by the second. His tears dried and the ache in his chest expanded until it exploded, leaving nothing but agony behind. “I don’t think we have a choice in the matter…” He responded, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. 

“Bullshit. What was it? Lemme see,” Drake demanded as his irritation skyrocketed. He was not willing to let Liam give up — not now. Whatever it was, they could and would deal with it. He didn’t know how, but someone had to keep some hope flowing in an otherwise grim situation. 

Liam didn’t answer, but shook his head and stared blankly into space as he let the wave envelop him whole. His breath hitched and, although he tried to fight it, his tears flowed freely once more. He fisted his hair, and his shoulders shook with anguished sobs, the sound reverberating off the walls. Drake hastily snatched the item from his hands as his agitation got the best of him, even though he was experiencing a side of Liam he was sure nobody had ever seen. He held the paper in front of his face for only a moment before his irritation instantly dissipated, instead replaced with overwhelming anxiety as he’d never felt before. 

They concluded Riley was in the country and speculated she was being held hostage, but they didn’t know for sure. They had very little information to prove where she was or wasn’t, and they tried not to jump to conclusions without having all the facts. Of course, her sources of identification would be required to vacate the country, but it wasn’t impossible to do. It wouldn’t have been easy, but people cross borders all the time — it was a far-fetched theory, but Drake held onto every little sliver of hope that she escaped after all. 

However, as he stared down at the message left for Liam, there was no longer a need to theorize — the implications rang loud and clear. Within the blink of an eye, any semblance of hope turned to dust as they let the situation sink in. 

The paper landed on the floor in front of the lengthy window behind the desk. Outside, a storm raged on, perfectly depicting the tidal wave of emotions coursing through the room and the graveness of the situation at hand. The rain against the glass suddenly increased, turning from a light tap to a full-blown knocking sound accompanied by forceful winds, making the trees sway violently. Liam remained in his daze as he stared blankly into space, but the gentle fall of the paper echoed in his ears as it met the floor, drawing his attention there.

His gaze zeroed in on the message, the illumination from the lightning flashing over it and displaying the consequences of his denial right before his face —

You’re running out of pawns, Your Majesty. Will she be next? 

The flags of Cordonia—the golden lion and the white sail—snapped crisply in the wind on either side of the main thoroughfare leading from the palace to the city center, a perfect match to the small, colorful flags bearing the royal crest waved by the citizens. Tens of thousands of people had gathered along the streets, their faces alight with a genuine, undisguised joy and reverence. The air flowed with the festive clamor of a holiday; the laughter of children, the calls of vendors, and the cheers for the King and Queen that erupted intermittently from the crowd all wove together into a hymn for the era.

Today was the official inauguration of the Queen Eleanor National Library and Arts Center.

The magnificent building was, in itself, an emblem of Cordonia's "Golden Age." Its main structure was fashioned from traditional white marble, preserving the elegance and dignity of the ancient kingdom, while its great dome and front façade were constructed with the latest technology from Monterisso, made from a single, seamless pane of reinforced glass. Sunlight poured through unhindered, illuminating the interior as brightly as day. Tradition and modernity, history and future, achieved a perfect harmony in its design, just as in the nation itself.

At ten o'clock sharp, the royal honor guard appeared at the end of the grand avenue, and the crowd's roar reached its zenith. King Liam and Queen Aurora, riding in an open-topped royal convertible, proceeded slowly toward the plaza.

Liam was dressed in a deep blue royal uniform, its impeccable tailoring accentuating his tall and straight figure. A golden sash was draped diagonally across his chest, where various medals representing the highest honors of the crown were neatly pinned, glittering under the sun along with the ornate, tasseled epaulets on his shoulders. He wore no crown, his brilliant blond hair stirring in the breeze, making him appear at once majestic and possessed of a trustworthy approachability.

Seated beside him, Aurora had chosen a stunning floor-length gown. The dress was a fiery gradient, softening from a gentle orange-red at the shoulders to a burning crimson at the hem. With the finest golden threads, a phoenix in mid-flight—the ancient totem of her home duchy, Valtoria—was subtly and realistically embroidered onto the fabric. The ensemble perfectly merged her nobility as Queen with the pride she took in her roots, making her radiant. Her chestnut hair was coiled into an elegant bun, her ears adorned with small diamond earrings that refracted a brilliant light under the sun. Her smile was warm and infectious, and when she waved to the crowd, she always received a response more enthusiastic than any jewel could elicit.

They were not merely the rulers of this nation; they were a real and beautiful fairytale in the hearts of the people. A diligent king who loved his people, and a kind and intelligent commoner queen from a foreign land. Their love story had long become a celebrated tale, and under their joint rule, Cordonia was experiencing unprecedented prosperity and openness. The old, stubborn noble factions had been thoroughly reshuffled after the turmoil of several years past, and a new, more vibrant class was on the rise. Abroad, Cordonia actively established friendly trade relations with its neighbors; at home, it vigorously developed education and culture. The nation was affluent, the people content—the truest footnote to a "Golden Age."

The convertible came to a smooth stop in the plaza before the arts center. Liam disembarked first, then turned gracefully, extending a hand to Aurora inside the car. She placed her hand in his palm and, with his support, stepped out elegantly. This small, loving gesture once again drew benevolent cheers and applause from the onlookers.

Liam took Aurora’s hand and walked onto the temporary dais. He scanned the thousands of faces in the square, faces filled with hope and trust, and a great, weighty sense of responsibility washed over him. He cleared his throat, and his resonant, clear voice carried across the entire plaza through the microphone.

"My dear people of Cordonia," he began, and the square fell silent. "Today, we gather here not just to celebrate the completion of a building, but to witness the realization of a dream."

He paused, his gaze turning to the magnificent glass dome beside him.

"This dream began with my mother, the late Queen Eleanor. She believed that knowledge is a bridge for communication, and art is a balm for the soul. It was her lifelong wish to build a great library for Cordonia, so that every child, regardless of birth, would have the chance to know the world and explore the unknown through books. She hoped that Cordonia's culture, like our trade, would open its arms to the world—to embrace, to exchange, to prosper together."

A subtle, deep longing for his mother laced Liam's voice. Aurora could feel his hand tighten slightly around hers, and she squeezed back with equal force, lending him her silent support.

"Today, we have finally fulfilled her wish. But this building does not belong only to the past; it belongs, more importantly, to the future." Liam's gaze returned to the people, now incredibly firm. "It belongs to every one of you. It will be an ocean of wisdom for our young students, a sanctuary of inspiration for our artists, and the greatest testament to Cordonia's openness, peace, and creativity to the world!"

Thunderous applause erupted from the square. Liam raised a hand to signal for quiet, and continued:

"I know well that I could not have accomplished such a grand undertaking alone. I can stand here today because I have you—my most loyal and hardworking people. And more so, because I have her."

He turned, gazing lovingly at Aurora, his blue eyes full of devotion. "My Queen, Aurora. With her wisdom, her kindness, and her precious empathy born from the people, she constantly reminds me that the core of kingship is not to rule, but to serve. She has made me a better man, and she has made this nation a better place. Therefore, this building belongs to her as well."

Aurora's eyes moistened slightly as she returned his loving smile. The crowd cheered again, this time, shouting their Queen's name.

After the ceremony, Liam and Aurora did not leave immediately. They stepped down from the dais and walked with smiles into the secure area cordoned off by guards, interacting closely with the people.

Liam was the first to notice a veteran in a wheelchair, a medal for valor from the last border conflict pinned to his chest. "Sergeant Marcus," Liam said, walking directly to him and offering his hand, his voice filled with sincere respect. "It is good to see you here. Are you settling into your new post?"

The man, who had lost a leg in the war, flushed with emotion. He gripped the king's hand firmly and straightened his back. "Your Majesty! It is my honor! To serve my country, whether on the battlefield or in this temple of knowledge, is the greatest honor of my life. To be here, organizing the books that carry our nation's history… my heart has never known such peace."

"Your service is the pride of Cordonia, Mr. Marcus," Aurora added gently, stepping to her husband's side. "We are grateful that you are willing to continue serving the people. I hope this work brings you peace and joy."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. With you and the King, Cordonia's future is bright." Tears welled in the veteran's eyes.

Next, their attention was drawn to a young girl nervously clutching the fabric of her skirt. She was the first recipient of the newly established "Queen Eleanor Scholarship."

Aurora smiled and spoke first, her voice always having a calming effect. "Maria, isn't it? I read your application essay. Your insights on blending Cordonia's classical architecture with modern design were quite unique and very impressive."

The girl’s face turned scarlet, and she stammered, "Your Majesty… I… I can hardly believe it. Thank you, Your Majesty, Your Highness. I… I swear, I will study hard and bring the best knowledge in the world back to help… to help build a more beautiful Cordonia!"

"We have no doubt you will, Maria," Liam interjected, his smile full of encouragement. "Your success is Cordonia's success. Go and make us proud. And remember, when you return, the doors of this library will always be open to you."

On the other side of the crowd, a young mother excitedly held up her daughter of about five, a beautiful crown of daisies and baby's breath on her head. "Your Majesty! Look, Sofia, it's the Queen!"

Aurora's gaze was immediately captured, and she walked over with a smile. "Hello, Sofia. Your flower crown is so pretty. Did you make it yourself?"

The little girl hid shyly in her mother's arms, whispering proudly, "…It's for you, Your Majesty!"

"Oh?" A flicker of surprised delight crossed Aurora's face. "Thank you. This is the most beautiful gift I have received today." As she spoke, she naturally took the child from her mother's arms, placed a kiss on her chubby cheek, and then carefully handed her back.

All of this was faithfully recorded by the media's cameras. The King and Queen, beloved by their people; Cordonia, prosperous and thriving. The scene was a perfect illustration of the definition of a "Golden Age."

------

Night fell, and the clamor of the day slowly faded. A deep quiet settled over the private chambers of the royal palace.

Aurora helped Liam out of the uniform that symbolized both glory and constraint, and he changed into a soft, comfortable cashmere sweater. She, too, had shed her long gown for a simple silk robe. The faint scent of lavender, prepared by the palace staff to aid their relaxation, filled the air.

"Has Charlotte been asleep?" Liam asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. His voice carried a trace of fatigue, but far more satisfaction.

"Like a little angel," Aurora said with a smile, coming to sit beside him. "Though she insisted on sleeping with that little sword Olivia gave her. She says she wants to dream of becoming as brave as Queen Kenna."

Liam let out a low chuckle at the thought. "That's Olivia. Her gifts are always so… profound." He took Aurora's hand, caressing it gently. "You worked hard today."

"It was nothing," Aurora replied, leaning her head on his shoulder. "To see your mother's wish fulfilled, to see the people so happy… I was truly proud of you. But… today must have brought back many memories of Queen Eleanor for you, didn't it?"

Liam was silent for a moment, then nodded. He stood and walked to the terrace window, gazing out at the moonlit garden.

"Yes," he said, his voice a little distant. "I can almost remember when I was a child, she loved taking me to the library. She used to say that every book held a different world. She would hold me and, in her gentle voice, read me the old legends of knights and dragons."

A bittersweet smile touched his lips. "She always said she hoped I would become a king who protected his kingdom with wisdom, not force. That Cordonia could be a bridge, not a fortress. I have been trying… trying to live up to her vision. But I don't know if she would be pleased with me, if she could see today."

Aurora came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek against his broad back. "She would be, Liam. She would be immensely proud of you. You haven't just protected this country; you have made it better, more open, more hopeful. You have given the people prosperity and the children a future. You are the ideal king she always envisioned."

Liam turned, pulling his wife into a tight embrace. "Thank you, Aurora. Thank you for always being by my side."

They spoke of their children's future. As the first in line to the throne, Charlotte's life seemed already set in stone.

"I just want her to have a happy childhood, to be as free as possible," Aurora said softly. "We cannot choose her responsibilities for her, but we can at least pave a path for her that is less lonely."

"Yes," Liam sighed. "Beneath the crown lies endless duty. I hope she learns how to balance it all better than I have. And... I don't want her to always be so alone, Aurora." Liam's voice became even more gentle. "And Leo and me... although we had differences before, he has always been my brother. Knowing that he's there makes everything feel so different. I also hope Charlotte can have this support. A brother, or a sister... someone who can share this unique life with her."

Aurora's expression became extremely soft. She turned around and faced her husband, her amber eyes reflecting the moonlight. "I've been thinking about this all along, Liam. Seeing her playing happily with Leo, Katie's children today... I was thinking, could our home be a bit bigger? Could this palace be filled with more laughter?"

Liam's face finally broke into a genuine and warm smile, dispelling the worries that had previously clouded his brows. "More laughter might also mean more troubles," he quipped.

Aurora chuckled and kissed his lips. "As long as it's with you, I don't fear any more troubles. Maybe... we can start looking forward to it?"

Liam held her tighter in his arms. "I'm also looking forward to it, my Queen." His voice was filled with promises and hopes for the future.

------

The hour grew late, but Liam felt no desire for sleep. The day's memories of his mother were like a newly opened vintage wine, its lingering aftertaste keeping his mind from settling. Not wanting to disturb the already sleeping Aurora, he slipped on a robe and went alone to the study in the west wing of the palace.

This had once been his father's study; now, it was his. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and leather. Massive, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were neatly lined with the biographies and treatises of past monarchs.

Liam did not turn on a light, letting the moonlight stream through the large windows, casting dappled shadows on the floor. His gaze finally settled on the portrait hanging in the center of the wall.

It was his mother, Queen Eleanor, painted by the court artist when she was thirty. In the portrait, she wore a gown of silver-white, her golden hair swept up in an elegant coiffure. Her face held a gentle, slightly melancholic smile. She was beautiful, serene and saintly, like a goddess bathed in moonlight.

Liam walked to the portrait and stood before it, gazing. He reached out, his fingertips lightly tracing the cold, carved flowers of the frame.

Just then, a long-forgotten, hazy childhood memory flashed through his mind without warning.

He remembered: a dim afternoon when he was nine years old. For months before that, a joyful anticipation had filled the palace, for his mother was pregnant. He remembered how she would gently stroke her swelling belly and tell him with a smile that he would soon have a little sister, and that he must learn to protect her, like a true knight.

But the memory that surfaced now was from after his sister's birth.

He was standing at the door of the royal nursery, watching his mother, Eleanor, who was seated in a rocking chair in the center of the room. In her arms, she held an infant wrapped in a thick, soft, white swaddling blanket.

The official story was that he had a sister who, shortly after birth, had tragically died due to frailty. In the royal archives, the entry for the princess named Lena was but a few brief sentences. A short, private funeral, closed to the public, had marked the end of her short life. It was known to all as a tragedy for the Rhys family.

But… the scene in his memory was somehow different.

As an eight-year-old boy, he could already clearly discern the emotions of adults. He distinctly remembered his mother holding the swaddled baby, her body trembling slightly. She wasn't crying; she even wore a faint smile, but it was incredibly stiff and did not reach her eyes. Her blue eyes, usually so full of warmth, were now filled with an emotion that he could not fully comprehend then, but which, in retrospect, sent a chill down his spine.

It wasn't the pure grief of a mother who had lost a child.

It was something else… a mixture of profound sorrow and a deeper, all-consuming fear.

That fear, it seemed, was not directed at the fragile life in her arms, but at something unseen, outside the room—something larger, more irresistible. She bent to kiss the bundle, her movements so gentle it was as if she were touching a piece of art that could shatter at any moment, but her eyes were those of a prisoner on her way to the gallows, filled with a desperate plea to hold on to something.

"No… it wasn't that simple…"

Liam muttered the words unconsciously. He shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden chill. He must have remembered it wrong. Perhaps it was a child's memory, muddled with the tragic story he heard later, that had created such an absurd association. He was a king, trained in the strictest logic and history. He believed in evidence and archives, not in a hazy, twenty-year-old childhood vision.

He looked up at the portrait again. The mother in the painting was still so serene, so gentle, haloed in saintly light.

This time, however, Liam could not tear his gaze from her beautiful eyes. He felt as if he could see through the layers of oil paint to what lay hidden behind the smile—the same bottomless sorrow and fear from his memory.

The study was utterly silent, save for the dull, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock against the wall. The sound was like a relentless countdown for a secret long since buried in dust.

Tagging everyone who showed interest from the SSS post!

Chapter Summary –As the Coronation Ball continues late in the evening, Drake continues his pursuit of Riley Brooks, a newcomer from America, which was a breath of fresh air in his world. Leo arrives with his wife, Katie, to celebrate his brother. Madeleine takes the opportunity to confront her former betrothed. Hana recognizes a connection with Madeleine.

Words: 10k

A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.

A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.

A/N3: Heartfelt thanks to @Selina012 for joining me in writing ideas and with dialogue/content for this chapter and series.

A/N4: Thank you @selina012 for pre-reading

 The splendor of the Cordonian Royal Palace was on full display tonight, reaching its zenith on the night of King Liam Rys's coronation ball.

The very air itself seemed thick and sweet from the grand celebration, filled with a heady fragrance woven from high-end perfumes, century-old antique wood wax, and the thousands of white roses air-shipped from the royal greenhouses. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like a frozen, falling river of stars from the vaulted ceiling, which was painted with myths of creation. They cast millions of soft, brilliant rays of light onto the gleaming white marble floor below, illuminating the magnificent attire and glittering jewels of every guest.

This evening, Cordonia’s elite—those with influence, riches, and noble heritage—assembled together. As the orchestra performed, guests exchanged hushed conversations about politics, commerce, and upcoming ambitions before heading to the dance floor.

In the centre of the ballroom, Liam stood tall and confident, but his composure softened instantly when he glanced at the woman beside him.

Sophia Taylor, his newly betrothed fiancée and the future Queen of Cordonia, stood charmingly at his side. Her auburn hair was swept up into an elegant yet slightly informal chignon, with a few wisps framing her face and accentuating the swan-like grace of her neck. She wore no overly extravagant jewels with her exquisite scarlet ball gown ... only the diamond engagement ring Liam had given her. It glittered on her finger, quiet yet resolute, as if announcing her new status to the world.

Sophie listened to the opening strands of the next waltz, her hand warmly enveloped in his. She could feel his fingers give her a gentle, reassuring squeeze whenever a guest's gaze lingered on her for too long. It was his silent way of telling her, "Don't be nervous. I'm here." She would return a soft smile, and in that silent exchange lay a bond of love and understanding more eloquent than any grand declaration. One possessed a dignified and composed nature, whereas the other embodied grace and resolve; together, they made an ideal match when the king chose his queen.

Sophie had to admit, as she glanced up at her handsome fiancé, that she felt a sense of pride as the center of attention ... but her heart still fluttered in her chest. Her reality forever changed from this day forward.

How could anyone live up to these expectations? She knew everyone was looking to her to make the right impression, but what if she couldn’t?

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

‘You can do this and know what needs to be done.’ Sophie chided to herself silently.

"If I may say, your majesty," a voice said, drawing Liam's attention. A distinguished-looking older man bowed his head to Liam. "We all look forward to your, and the future queen's rule."

"Thank you," Liam smiled, nodding graciously.

"If I may, your Majesty..." A young, attractive woman spoke up. "It would be my honor if you saved a dance for me tonight." She batted her eyes, smiling sweetly at him.

Sophie's heart skipped a beat, but she stayed calm. She could tell that the woman's intentions were nothing but professional and was not a threat to her relationship. She knew how to read people, and the woman was simply a politician with aspirations for the crown, and that was nothing new.

Liam glanced at Sophie. "I would, but I've promised all of my dances tonight to Lady Sophia," he said, giving Sophie's hand another squeeze. "I'm sure you'll find many other eligible suitors, though."

"Ah, of course, your majesty. Congratulations on your engagement." She turned to Sophie, giving her a polite smile and bow.

Sophie returned with a polite nod and responded, "Thank you."

As soon as the woman had left, Liam leaned closer and whispered into Sophie's ear, "She's married, by the way."

"I had a feeling," Sophie replied dryly.

Liam gave her a wry grin. "She's also a member of the royal family in a neighboring kingdom, which might cause an incident. Not to mention, her husband is the prime minister. It would be political suicide."

Sophie couldn't help but laugh. "Then, it's a good thing you're a one-woman man," she replied, and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Liam grinned. "Always."

"Your Majesty," another man spoke up. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you plan on taking an official engagement portrait together soon? I'd love to get a copy for my own collection."

"I do, yes. We've got a photographer coming to the palace soon. I'm sure we could get you a copy."

"Thank you. That would be wonderful. You two make such a fine couple."

"You're too kind," Sophie said, giving him a smile.

On the other side of the ballroom, near the long tables laden with exquisite desserts, Maxwell Beaumont, a camera in one hand and a bubbling cocktail in the other, weaved through his circle of friends.

"...So, I told him, if you have a problem with my taste in party music, you are more than welcome to go listen to classical symphonies in Bertrand's study all night. I guarantee the atmosphere there is sufficiently 'solemn'!" he recounted with dramatic flair, making everyone around him roar with laughter.

Daniel stood beside him, shaking his head in mock exasperation, though his lips were curved in an affectionate smile. He wore a chic black suit, an interesting contrast to Maxwell's slightly ostentatious suit with its silver embroidery. "Max, I'm willing to bet Duke Bertrand's study does not contain a weeping violinist who's sad because he can't comprehend your 'avant-garde' electronic music."

"Hey! That's art!" Maxwell protested, before leaning closer to Daniel and lowering his voice. "But seriously, when the old-fashioned band takes a break, would you care to try a real dance with me?"

Daniel looked into his sparkling, hopeful eyes and laughingly stuffed a macaron into his mouth. "Talk to me again when you've convinced His Majesty to turn the royal ball into a disco."

Their playful banter and laughter were the most genuine and vibrant notes in the grand symphony of the evening.

Meanwhile, near the entrance to the terrace, Drake Walker and Riley leaned against a massive Roman column, watching the glittering world before them with the detached air of outsiders. The orchestra's music rose and fell, its graceful melody filling the air around them, but their thoughts were elsewhere.

"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you'd never come to the palace?" Riley asked softly, glancing up at Drake. "I try not to."

"Why not?"

"Because I might have spent my life thinking the grass is greener somewhere else. Only to come back and realize the grass was green where I left it all along."

"Is that the truth?"

Drake turned his gaze away, "I only care about what's real," Drake said, taking a sip of his whiskey. The pungent liquid slid down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste. This coronation of King Liam, as his best friend, he should have been joyous, but his straightforward temper and candid nature made him feel out of place. Watching Liam and Sophie's tender affection, Maxwell and Daniel's flirtatious banter, he thought of Melanie and that extremely undignified breakup. He had once believed he had found someone to stand by his side, only to find out it was all a carefully calculated ruse. Only with Riley did he feel a sliver of ease. This woman from America, like him, had eyes that saw through pretense.

Riley sighed and looked down at her heels, the same pair she'd worn to the last event at the palace. She could feel Drake’s dark gaze lingering on her and felt the warmth creep up her neck.

"You should care, Drake," she said quietly. "Because no matter what, you're real. You're here, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

He paused, the words catching in his throat, then nodded. "And I don't know what I'd do without a certain smart, snarky, stubborn New Yorker."

Riley smirked. "Careful, Drake. Your heart's starting to show."

"Not much," he shrugged. "Just the part that's grateful."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, nudging his shoulder.

"Come on, Brooks. Let's grab another drink and a bite to eat."

"Lead the way."

A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne glasses, and they each took one, clinking their glasses together.

"To the new king," Drake said, raising his glass.

"To Liam. Long may he reign," Riley replied, and they both drank.

Riley watched Liam together with Sophie, who appeared comfortable in his presence.

"I was afraid it was going to end badly. But here they are, together. It's like she was born for this life." Drake responded.

"Maybe she was," Riley shrugged.

"Maybe."

"Are you alright, Drake?"

Drake shook his head and looked away. "No," he replied honestly.

"Well, I'm here for you, Drake," Riley said.

"You don't know what it means for me to hear that."

"Oh, please," she laughed.

"Brooks," Drake began, turning to her. "I think it's time we-"

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room, and they both turned their attention to the entrance.

...Except for one person.

"His Highness, Prince Leo Rys, and Lady Katie Rys."

Countess Madeleine Amaranth stood in the shadows of a grand column in the least conspicuous corner of the ballroom, nursing a glass of red wine she had barely touched. The light here was dim, the crowd sparse. It allowed her to keep a presence while avoiding, as much as possible, the probing eyes of certain members of the court.

She felt like a phantom, an anachronistic ghost from a bygone era, forced to attend the grand celebration of her own burial.

The expensive, custom-made hunter-green velvet gown she wore felt like a heavy shroud. The emeralds dotting the fabric glittered coldly in the dim light, mirroring the state of her heart.

All of this should have been hers.

This ball, this celebration, the coveted spot beside the King. She should have been the heroine of the evening, accepting congratulations and envy, planning her magnificent life as the future queen. But now, she was nothing. She was merely the "former" fiancée of the "former" Crown Prince. A joke. A discarded, obsolete symbol.

Her gaze then shot like a poisoned arrow across the crowd, landing on the scarlet figure. Sophia Taylor. The orphan from America, the girl who, with a bit of luck and a pretty face, had stolen the spotlight from her. Madeleine watched the happy smile on her face, saw the undisguised love in Liam's eyes as he looked at her, and felt a fire ignite in her stomach.

She didn't love Leo, not ever. Their engagement had been a transaction from the start, an alliance for family glory and political gain. What she craved was everything the title "Queen" entailed—power, status, and supreme honor. Leo had merely been the ladder to that throne. But now, Leo had kicked the ladder out from under her and pushed her off the cliff for good measure.

What she couldn't bear was how those who once flocked to her now avoided her like the plague. She could feel the stares of the other noble ladies. They would glance over nonchalantly; their eyes filled with a pity that reeked of schadenfreude. Their whispers, even from across the vast ballroom, seemed to reach her ears with perfect clarity.

"Look, it's Countess Madeliene...poor thing."

"Yes, I heard Prince Leo found some commoner girlfriend abroad and gave up the throne for her."

"Tsk, tsk, and she was so magnificent then, and now..."

These words were sharper than any blade.

Her eyes fell on Penelope and Kiara. Her former "friends," her most loyal "ladies-in-waiting." They were now laughing merrily with another, as if they had never known her. Madeleine remembered the month she'd locked herself away in her estate in Krona, refusing all visitors. She had thought they would worry, that they would persist. But they hadn't. After a few rebuffed attempts, they had given up completely. Their friendship, it turned out, was as fragile as her engagement.

Madeleine gripped her wine glass, the cool liquid doing nothing to quell the fire in her heart. She downed the crimson liquid in one go. The harsh alcohol burned her throat and ignited the last, desperate fuse of her sanity.

Just then, the orchestra's music shifted, and a slow, emotional waltz began to play. The herald announced in his magnetic voice, "And now, let us welcome with the warmest applause our esteemed King Liam, and his beautiful fiancée, Duchess Sophia Taylor, for their first dance of the evening!"

The chandeliers dimmed, and a single spotlight found Liam and Sophie in the center of the dancefloor. Liam gave Sophie an elegant bow, and she responded with a perfect curtsy. Then, they danced.

Their steps were flawless, every spin, every glance filled with love and a seamless connection. Sophie's red gown bloomed in the air like a vibrant, blossoming rose, and Liam's eyes never left her. The world seemed to stop just for them. They were the prince and princess from a fairy tale, the very embodiment of perfect love in everyone's eyes.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause and murmurs of admiration.

But for Madeleine, that applause was the death knell of her own tragedy.

She watched the perfect couple in the center of the dance floor, blessed by all, admired by all. That piercing spotlight illuminated not only their happiness but also her own inescapable, monumental failure and humiliation.

Leo Rys.

The name was like a rusty key, shoved brutally into her heart and twisted. Why was he here? Hadn't he abandoned the throne, abandoned all of this, for his ridiculous pursuit of freedom? By what right, what audacity did he show his face at his brother's coronation ball?

Madeleine instinctively turned her head toward the dancefloor. And then, saw him. And the clothes he was wearing.

In that instant, her breath caught in her throat.

That uniform. She knew it to her bones. It was the very deep blue, gold-trimmed formal attire standing for the highest authority of the Cordonian Armed Forces. The golden sash was slung across his broad chest, the tasseled epaulets glittered with authority under the chandeliers, and the medals of honor pinned to his breast—she had straightened every single one of them for him herself in the past.

For the last five years, every time they had attended a major court event together, every time they had stood side-by-side as the future King and Queen consort to receive the fealty of their subjects, Leo had worn a uniform exactly like this. That uniform was the symbol of their status, the very embodiment of their shared future, the vessel for all of Madeleine's ambitions and dreams.

But now, he was wearing that uniform, which symbolized duty and tradition, and the woman beside him was not her.

His companion, this Katie, was a stark contrast to Cordonian court fashion, dressed in a deep yellow ballgown. Her face was lit with a brilliant, guileless smile, one hand linked naturally through Leo’s arm. And Leo himself wore a genuine, unprecedentedly relaxed smile.

It was a bitter, classic proverb come to life: the setting was the same, but the players had changed. He was wearing their uniform, but for another woman. He had already abdicated, he was no longer the Crown Prince, yet he chose to wear this specific attire, turning it into a grand, personal farce directed solely at her. Was he mocking her? Was this his way of showing everyone that even without the throne, even with a new woman at his side, he could still command this world, and that she, Madeleine, was nothing more than a disposable accessory?

In Madeleine's eyes, that uniform was no longer a symbol of honor. It was a costume, the most vicious costume, worn for the sole purpose of her humiliation.

She watched Leo lean down to whisper something to Katie, and Katie threw her head back and laughed, even playfully swatting his chest—her hand landing directly on the Star of the Holy Cross medal, the one she had once believed would forever signify her status as his consort.

That happiness, that casual intimacy, was a red-hot poker pressed against Madeleine’s heart. She felt the blood freeze in her veins.

How dare he? How dare he wear that uniform, with that woman, and come here, to this stage that should have been hers, to attend his brother’s coronation.

It was a complete repudiation of the last five years of her life, a cruel trampling of all her pride.

Madeleine’s rationality was being devoured, bit by bit. She watched them walk casually into the hall, heading not for the main table, but straight toward Drake and Riley, as if drawn by a magnet. She saw Drake’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he greeted Leo with a brotherly slap on the back. She saw Riley embrace Katie warmly, as if they were old friends.

So, everyone knew.

Everyone accepted it.

Only she, Madeleine, was kept in the dark, cast out. She had become a complete and utter outsider.

Her breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving. Something inside her snapped. The string of reason and pride, stretched taut for so long, had finally broken. The storm was about to break.

To Madeleine, the spotlight on Liam and Sophie felt like public judgment. Each illuminated moment was a reminder of her defeat. Watching them dance, Sophie’s red dress stung her pride, and the applause echoed her loss.

Madeleine’s body stood rigid in the shadows of the column. The cold marble was the only thing that felt real. She forced her gaze away from the nauseatingly perfect couple, searching for an escape. She saw, in the distance, Penelope and Kiara chatting and laughing with several other ladies of the court. Kiara even gracefully covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed at some joke. They didn't look at her, not even once. It was as if she, Madeleine Amaranth, the woman who had been their inseparable companion, the one who had co-reigned over the core of the court's social circle, had simply become invisible air.

A familiar, acidic taste of betrayal rose in her throat. She remembered the month she had locked herself away in her manor, refusing to see anyone. Their visits had ceased after the third refusal. So, this was the shelf life of their friendship, its end date engraved on the back of the title "The Queen-to-be."

She took a deep breath, ordering herself to remain calm. She was still the countess of her duchy, she told herself, her bloodline still noble. She could not be defeated so easily. She needed to re-engage, to prove to everyone that even without Leo, without the title of Queen, she was still Countess Madeleine Amaranth of Fydelia, a woman not to be trifled with.

She straightened the non-existent creases on her hunter-green velvet gown, squared her shoulders, and plastered a well-rehearsed smile of detached elegance onto her face. She took a step, intending to join a circle of barons and viscounts discussing the safe and tedious topic of horses and hunting.

"Good evening, Lord Arnault," she began, her voice steady, trying to merge with their conversation.

The young baron she addressed started, as if spooked by a sudden phantom. "Oh—oh, good evening, Lady...Countess Madeleine," he stammered. The others in his circle shot her awkward, fleeting glances, and their conversation died. A suffocating silence descended upon the small group.

They were pitying her. Or rather, they were savoring her predicament.

Madeleine felt her cheeks burn. She tried to think of something to say to break the dreadful impasse, but her mind was a blank. Just then, a slight commotion at the grand entrance, followed by the herald's voice, rescued her from this invisible pillory.

She could bear it no longer.

She felt like a volcano about to erupt, the magma of her rage churning within. She set her wine glass down, the heavy crystal making a dull thud against the marble tabletop. Gathering her gown, she pushed through the crowd, step by step, making her way towards Leo.

Her gait was steady, each step landing on a shard of her own dignity. The surrounding guests sensed the unusual atmosphere, parting for her as she passed. The music seemed to fade, and all eyes focused on her, filled with curiosity, surprise, and anticipation.

She reached Leo. He had his back to her, laughing about something with Drake.

"Leo."

Madeleine spoke in a quiet, cold voice that immediately silenced the conversation.

Leo’s laughter died. He turned around slowly. When he saw Madeleine's face, twisted with fury, the smile vanished from his own, replaced by an expression of weary annoyance, as if he had been expecting this.

He said nothing.

He glanced at her briefly, his expression uninterested, then resumed talking to Drake as if Madeleine wasn’t even there.

This utter dismissal was more lethal than any vicious words could ever be. It was like an invisible hand, closing around Madeleine's throat, choking off the accusations and condemnations she had prepared.

"How dare you!" After a moment of suffocation, she finally found her voice, but it was made shriller by the humiliation of being ignored. "How dare you show up here dressed like that! At his—at your brother's coronation ball, wearing that uniform, with… her!"

Leo still did not look at her. He even turned his body slightly, shielding Katie more completely by his side, and continued his hushed conversation with his friends as if Madeleine's shriek were just an irritating bit of feedback in the background music.

"Countess Madeleine," he said simply, his tone implying, "what are you doing here?"

"How dare you," Madeleine's voice began to tremble, but she fought to control it, her eyes fixed on the medals on his chest. "How dare you show up here dressed like that. At his—at your brother's coronation ball, wearing that uniform, with… her." She used all her strength not to lose her composure on the last word.

Katie's smile faded, and she looked with confusion at this hostile woman, instinctively moving closer to Leo.

"I thought you would have at least a shred of shame, Leo," Madeleine’s voice grew louder, drawing more attention. "You abandoned your duty, your kingdom, your family… and your betrothal! You've turned the uniform that stands for Cordonia's highest honor into a costume to entertain your new lover! You've made a mockery of everyone, and then you stroll in here as if nothing happened, to celebrate your despicable 'freedom'?"

Leo's brow furrowed tightly. Not from guilt, but from sheer annoyance. "I suggest you lower your voice, Madeleine. This is Liam's coronation ball. Don't make a scene."

"A scene?" Madeleine laughed, a hysterical sound that was sharp and mournful. "I'm making a scene? Isn't my very existence right now a scene of your making?! You have turned me into the biggest joke in all of Cordonia! You have reduced me from the future queen to a cast-off woman whispered about behind cupped hands! And now you have the gall to tell me not to 'make a scene'? What right do you have?!"

Her voice echoed in the grand ballroom. Even the distant orchestra had stopped playing. The entire hall fell silent, and everyone held their breath, watching the epicenter of the royal storm.

Sophie and Liam had approached, Liam’s face grim. He started to step forward, but Sophie gently held him back. She shook her head, signaling him not to interfere. This was a reckoning between Leo and Madeleine, one that had to be seen through.

Madeleine’s chest heaved. She stared at Leo with bloodshot eyes as if she wanted to tear him apart. "You ruined everything! You never even gave me a formal apology, not a single explanation! You just vanished, and then you show up with her! Tell me, is watching me suffer, watching me be pitied and ridiculed by everyone, the most thrilling part of your 'grand adventure'?!"

Faced with her desperate accusations, Leo's expression remained utterly blank. He watched her without anger, without guilt, only with a deep, profound weariness and detachment, the way one might watch a stranger having a tantrum.

He finally spoke, his voice so calm it was cruel.

"This was never about you, Countess Madeleine."

"It was never about you. It was about me. About the person I refused to become, and the life I refused to live. You were simply a part of that life. A symbol I had to shed. And now, I have."

He paused, then delivered the final blow.

"Now, if you are finished, please step aside. We have friends to greet."

With that, he didn't spare her another glance. He put a gentle, firm hand on Katie's shoulder and guided her around Madeleine, as if she were nothing more than a pillar in his way, an inconvenient piece of furniture.

In that instant, Madeleine felt her entire world shatter.

Leo's indifference was more wounding than any vicious words could ever be. It was a complete and utter dismissal from the very core of his being. He couldn't even be bothered to argue with her, because wasting emotion on her was, to him, a superfluous effort.

She was left standing there, all alone, under the collective gaze of the entire court. Those stares were like a thousand needles, piercing her from every direction. She heard the stifled gasps, the snickers of schadenfreude, the silent looks of pity.

All her pride, all her pretense, was annihilated in that moment.

The wine glass in her hand, which she hadn't realized was empty, trembled. She tried to set it down on a passing waiter's tray, but her hand slipped.

The wine glass in her hand, which she hadn't realized was empty, trembled. She tried to set it down on a passing waiter's tray, but her hand slipped.

A choked, guttural sob, like that of a wounded animal, escaped from the depths of her throat.

She couldn't take it anymore.

She clapped her hands over her face and turned. Gathering her heavy, hunter-green skirt, she ran, heedless of her grace, bolting for the ballroom's grand doors, leaving all the glamour, all the stares, and all the humiliation behind her.

----------------

The sharp, crystalline sound of the shattering glass seemed to hang in the air, a final, jarring note that had abruptly silenced the magnificent symphony of the celebration. The entire grand hall plunged into an eerie, suffocating silence. The lilting waltz had stopped mid-bar; the musicians looked at one another, instruments in hand, then glanced helplessly at their conductor. The sounds of a successful party—the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—had all been vacuumed out of the room in an instant.

All that remained was silence. An awkward, heavy silence, thick with shock and curiosity.

Every eye was instinctively drawn to the small scene of devastation. On the mirror-like white marble floor, the scarlet wine spread like a startling pool of blood amidst the countless glittering fragments of crystal. It wasn't just a broken glass; it was Madeleine's dignity, shattered on the floor.

A quick-witted palace attendant, his steps nearly soundless, glided over. With a silver dustpan and brush in his gloved hands, he swiftly and professionally cleared away the debris. Another attendant knelt on the floor with a soft white cloth, carefully wiping away the red stain, trying to erase this unseemly drama from the very floorboards that symbolized royal glory.

King Constantine's face was an unreadable mask, but his narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips betrayed his deep displeasure. Queen Regina sighed softly, a complex, almost pitying emotion flickering in her eyes. In the end, it was Liam, the new King, who gave the conductor a calm, reassuring nod.

As if granted a pardon, the conductor at once raised his baton. A new piece of music, more subdued and cautious than before, tentatively began to fill the hall.

The tension in the room eased, and the guests resumed their conversations in hushed tones. Their attention shifted away from the future of the new King and turned instead to the recent developments involving the former crown prince’s fiancée.

The scandal had now replaced Liam and Sophie's perfect dance as the evening's most talked-about 'entertainment.'

"Oh, my goodness..." Penelope whispered, her voice trembling. "That... that was just dreadful! I've never seen Madeleine like that. She looked... she looked as if she was going mad."

Beside her, Lady Kiara Theron, the diplomat's daughter, was far more composed. She simply raised her champagne flute and took a delicate sip, her gaze indifferent as she watched the spot where Madeleine had disappeared, as if seeing the predictable conclusion of a play she had seen many times before.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Kiara said, her voice as placid as still water. "When one's entire world is built upon the status and promises of others, a collapse is inevitable once the foundation is removed."

"But... but she was our friend!" Penelope's tone was full of a naive urgency. She tugged at Kiara's sleeve. "Shouldn't we... go and see if she's alright? She ran out all alone. What if... what if she does something foolish?"

At this, Kiara finally turned her head, fixing Penelope with a look that was almost clinical in its appraisal. "A friend?" she repeated the word, a sarcastic curve to her lips. "Penelope, have you forgotten? Who was it last month who shut herself away in her manor like an oyster, refusing even our visits? Who was it, just a few days ago in the royal gardens, who informed us in that haughty tone that she didn't need our 'pity and compassion'?"

Penelope was left speechless by the questions, stammering, "But... but she was in a bad mood then..."

"When she was in a foul mood, she pushed us away. Now that she needs comforting, are we supposed to run back to her with our tails wagging like loyal pets?" Kiara's voice remained calm, but it was edged with an undeniable sharpness. "With all due respect, Penelope, she closed that door herself. We are under no obligation to knock on it for her again."

Penelope looked into Kiara's rational, almost cold eyes, then at the crowds in the ballroom who were, indeed, resuming their chatter and laughter. The small spark of kindness and hesitation in her heart was finally extinguished by the tide of reality. She let her shoulders slump in defeat and nodded. "You... you're right."

"My word!" exclaimed Maxwell as he fiddled with his camera. "I've organised parties that caused less commotion than what's happening now. I wish I'd gotten a better shot—this is sure to be front-page news in Cordonia's society columns."*

"Max!" Daniel nudged him with his elbow, exasperated. "Can you not be so gleeful? I know that Madeleine woman isn't exactly pleasant, but she looked genuinely miserable."

"Miserable? That's called reaping what you sow," came Drake's voice from the side. He was leaning against a column, arms crossed over his chest, his expression as grim as ever. "She treated marriage like a business deal and Leo like a tool to become queen. The tool is no longer hers, so the business has gone bankrupt. There's nothing to pity."

Their analysis was cool and objective, but Sophie couldn't bring herself to be so detached. She looked at the spot on the floor, now clean but still seeming to hold an invisible stain, and said softly, "But it's just... something wrong. To want a title so badly that you lose yourself completely. To lose all your friends, and yourself..."

Her words cast a brief silence over the group.

It was then that Hana, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly spoke. Her voice was soft, yet startlingly clear.

"I think I'll go find her."

Everyone turned to look at her in surprise.

"What?" Maxwell was the first to react. "Hana, are you kidding? Why would you do that? She's like a grumpy lioness right now; she'll bite the head off anyone who gets close."

"He's right," Drake added with a frown. "This isn't your problem. You don't need to get involved."

But Hana shook her head. Her eyes, which usually held a timid light, were now shining with an unprecedented, determined glow. She turned to Sophie, as if seeking her understanding.

"Sophie," she said softly, "I have to go."

Sophie looked at her, her expression filled with concern. "Why, Hana? She's in a very unstable state of mind. I don't want you to get hurt."

Hana took a deep breath, as if summoning all the courage she possessed. She looked at Sophie, and at the other friends gathered around her, and said, word by word, "Because when she was standing there, shouting... I saw something more than just her."

Her voice trembled slightly but was incredibly sincere.

"I saw myself. A possible version of myself."

"I saw my parents, far away in Shanghai, planning my future like a precise map, telling me I must become part of the court, telling me I must pursue a wealthy man I don't even know. A business transaction. They call it the family's glory, my duty. They never once asked me what I wanted."

"I look at Madeleine, and everything she did—wasn't it also to meet her father's expectations, for the glory of the Amaranth family? She turned herself into a tool, a beautiful, polished tool for acquiring power. And now that the tool has been discarded, she is in so much pain, so desperate."

"I'm afraid," Hana's voice dropped lower, tinged with a real, undisguised vulnerability. "I'm afraid that if I keep obeying, one day, I will become just like her. So," Hana's gaze grew incredibly firm, "I want to go find her. Maybe... maybe she just needs someone to talk to who understands. Not someone who understands her failure as a 'former fiancée,' but someone who understands her pain as a 'daughter,' as a 'tool.'"

After Hana finished speaking, everyone fell silent. For the first time, they saw in this quiet, introverted girl such profound insight and such immense courage.

Sophie was touched; she didnt know Hana's background, but hadn't expected Madeleine's crisis to reflect Hana's own fate. Feeling sympathy for Hana, Sophie was also proud of her courage.

"Alright," Sophie finally said, her voice full of support and trust. "Then you should go. But promise me you'll be careful. If she's still very emotional, or if she makes you feel uncomfortable, you come right back, okay? Call me. I'll come find you immediately."

Hana nodded emphatically, a grateful, relieved smile spreading across her face. "Thank you, Sophie, and everyone. all of you. I will."

She gave her new friends one last look, then gathered her gown, turned, and walked without hesitation toward the golden doors through which Madeleine had vanished. Her figure was small, but her steps were uncommonly firm.

In the ballroom, the soothing music continued to play, and the guests had resumed their elegant chatter, as if the storm had never happened. But Sophie and her friends knew that tonight, something had quietly, irrevocably changed.

Hana slipped a shawl over her shoulders, raised her gown, and slipped out of the ballroom through the ornate doors, choosing the quiet nighttime palace gardens over the lively music and lights indoors.

Silvery moonlight streamed through the windows, casting light across the gallery and onto the gardens outside. Hana hurried past, adrenaline and resolve coursing through her, while the serious expressions of royal portraits watched her every move.

She feared confronting Madeleine, whose pride intimidated her. Yet, staying silent meant remaining trapped by her own timidity. Inspired by Sophie's courage and seeing Madeleine break down, she realised what she could become if she didn't change. This fear finally pushed her to face conflict.

She descended the marble steps. The night air, carrying the damp scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine, brushed against her face, cooling the nervous heat on her skin. The garden was much darker than the ballroom. Massive hedges, trimmed into geometric shapes, cast vast, deep shadows like silent beasts. In the distance, a three-tiered fountain tirelessly tossed jets of water into the air. The droplets shattered into a million glittering diamonds in the moonlight before falling back into the basin with a crisp, monotonous sound, like the echo of weeping.

Hana's gaze searched the winding paths paved with white gravel. Finally, behind the fountain, in the shadows of a row of Grecian statues depicting mythological figures, she found her.

Madeleine was huddled on a cold stone bench. She had kicked off one of her high heels, which lay abandoned at her feet. The magnificent hunter-green velvet gown was now wrinkled and crumpled in her lap, its hem stained with dirt and bits of grass from her desperate flight. She was no longer the lofty Countess, no longer the radiant queen-to-be. At this moment, she was just a helpless woman, abandoned by the world. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her shoulders shaking violently with silent, suppressed sobs that were somehow more heart-wrenching than any loud wail.

Hana stopped a few paces away. She looked at Madeleine's back, at the spine that was once held so straight but was now bent in sorrow, and a powerful, aching sympathy rose in her heart. She took a deep breath. The cool garden air filled her lungs and solidified her final resolve.

She took a step forward. The gravel crunched under her foot, a sound that was faint, yet startlingly clear in the stillness.

Madeleine’s body went rigid. The sobbing stopped instantly. She was like a startled, wounded animal, whipping her head around.

Her face was pale in the moonlight, her makeup smeared by tears into dark streaks. Her eyes were red and swollen, yet full of stubborn hostility and alertness.

"Who's there?" her voice was hoarse, as if scraped raw by sand.

Hana's heart leaped into her throat. She took a few more steps forward, out of the shadow of the hedge, letting the moonlight illuminate her own face.

"Madeleine... Countess Madeliene?" Hana ventured, her voice lighter, more tremulous than she’d intended.

Madeleine squinted, taking several seconds to focus on the newcomer. A flicker of confusion crossed her features, as she clearly didn't recognize this Asian face, but it was at once replaced by a sharper, more piercing anger of being intruded upon.

"Who are you?" she demanded, as if Hana's very presence was a crime. "No matter who you are, get out!"

"I..." Hana was pricked by the thorns in her tone and instinctively took half a step back, but she didn't leave.

"Didn't you hear me?!" Madeleine's voice rose sharply. She struggled to sit up straight on the bench, trying to reassemble the shattered pieces of her pride. "Were you sent to laugh at me? Was it Sophia Taylor? Or that fool, Penelope? Go back and tell them that even in my ruin, I, Madeleine Amaranth, am not a spectacle for commoners and traitors to pity! Get out!"

The word "commoner" stung Hana for a moment, but strangely, she felt no anger. Because in Madeleine's furious, defensive roar, she heard a desperate whimper.

"My name is Hana Lee," Hana said, not leaving. She simply stood there, her tone so calm it was almost stubborn. "I wasn't sent by anyone. I'm not here to pity you, or to laugh at you."

Madeleine let out a cold, shrill laugh that sounded jarring in the quiet garden. "Oh? Then what are you here for? To admire a discarded antique as it decays in the moonlight?"

"No," Hana shook her head. Her gaze drifted past Madeleine to the fountain, endlessly repeating its cycle of rising and falling. "I'm here because... when you were in the ballroom tonight... doing what you did, I think... I understood how you felt."

"You understood me?" Madeleine sounded as if she had just heard the world's most absurd joke. "You? A girl whose name I don't even know, who appeared from God knows where, you say you understand me? What do you know of five years? Do you know what it's like to be groomed from birth for a single purpose, for your life to be a single path leading to the throne of a queen? Do you know what it feels like when that path suddenly crumbles beneath your feet? You know nothing!"

Her emotions flared again, her voice turning sharp. But Hana didn't argue. She just listened quietly, waiting for her to finish.

Only when Madeleine paused, panting from the outburst, did Hana speak again. Her voice was still soft, but it carried an undeniable force.

"Perhaps I don't know what five years is like, or what it feels like to be a queen in waiting," she said slowly. "But I do know what it feels like when your parents look at you, and see not you, but their own unfulfilled ambitions and the glory of their family name. I know what it feels like to have a price tag put on your life, to be told that your worth is measured only by the benefit you can bring to your family."

Madeleine's ragged breathing stopped abruptly.

Hana did not look at her. Her gaze remained on the distant fountain, as if she were telling someone else's story.

"My parents sent me to Cordonia not because I love its history or its art, but because they felt this was the best market where I could realize my 'value.' They told me to study court etiquette, to befriend the powerful, to… to catch the eye of Prince Liam."

She gave a self-deprecating smile. "They believe that if I could become the king's consort, the Lee family name would shine in Cordonia, even across all of Europe. They planned everything for me, just as your parents planned everything for you. They told me it was my 'opportunity,' my 'destiny.'"

Madeleine was completely silent now. She sat rigidly, the hostility and anger draining from her face, replaced by a deeper, dazed sorrow. She looked at Hana as if into a mirror—a mirror that reflected the most pathetic, unacknowledged truth of her own soul.

"I'm afraid," Hana's voice dropped even lower, filled with a real, raw vulnerability. "I'm afraid that if I fail to meet their expectations, they will be disappointed in me. I'm afraid that if I mess up, I will become worthless. And I'm even more afraid that... even if I succeed, that life is not the one I want at all."

She finally turned her head and looked directly into Madeleine's eyes. Her own dark eyes, usually so timid, were startlingly clear.

"So, when you were standing there tonight," Hana said, enunciating each word, "shouting those things at Prince Leo, what I heard wasn't the anger of a jilted fiancée. I heard the cry of a soul that had been imprisoned for too long, using all its strength to condemn the shackles of 'expectation' and 'glory' that had pushed it into the abyss."

"You weren't grieving a lost love. You were mourning a life that was manipulated, planned, and ultimately, turned to dust."

The garden fell into a long silence once more. Only the sound of the fountain continued its tireless splashing.

Madeleine slowly lowered her head, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders no longer shook violently, but began to tremble with a silent, more hopeless kind of shudder. Hana's words, like a precise scalpel, had cut through the layers of pride and fury she had wrapped around her wound, exposing the deepest, most painful source of her agony.

She had always believed she was unique, that her suffering was singular. That she was a tragic victim chosen by fate. But now, this insignificant commoner girl, whom she had never even deigned to notice, had used the plainest language to voice the most secret, unacknowledged truth of her heart.

It turned out they were the same. Both just pawns on a board, moved by forces beyond their control.

It was unknown how long had passed before Madeleine's sobs gradually subsided. She neither raised her head nor spoke, but just sat there quietly, like a soulless statue, exuding an overwhelming sadness that seemed impossible to dispel.

Hana knew that she had said all she should. Any more words would be superfluous. She made no attempt to comfort her or get closer. She just stood there motionless, quietly watching her.

She knew she had done all she could. At this moment, Madeleine needed not more words but a space where she could face the ruins of her own heart alone. She silently gave her a barely perceptible curtsy, then prepared to turn and leave quietly.

Just then, a night breeze blew through the garden.

The wind was colder than before, carrying the damp chill of the late night, howling from the depths of the garden. It whistled through the hedges, ruffling Hana's gown and sending the mist from the fountain, like a thin, icy veil, lashing against Madeleine's bare shoulders and back.

Her expensive dark green velvet dress, though sumptuous, was not warm. After a long period of sitting still and emotional exhaustion, her body had turned cold. This sudden chill made her shiver involuntarily. She instinctively hugged her arms, trying to draw a little warmth.

And then, a sound so utterly common and undignified, shattered the night's quiet.

"Achoo!"

It was a loud, unguarded, even slightly pathetic sneeze.

Madeleine herself froze. She lifted her head abruptly, her face a mask of astonishment. It was as if the sneeze had come from a stranger inhabiting her body, a stranger who was mortal, vulnerable, and susceptible to the cold. It instantly shattered the last vestiges of her tragic, self-important pose.

Hana, who had been about to leave, stopped. She turned back and saw Madeleine’s face, a mess of tear-streaks, shock, and utter mortification. In that moment, Hana no longer saw the lofty Duke’s daughter, nor the humiliated former fiancée of the Crown Prince. She just saw a miserable lady who had been crying for too long in the cold and was about to fall ill.

Hana said nothing. She simply, silently, slipped the beige shawl from her own shoulders. It was woven from soft wool, a gift from her nanny before she left for Cordonia. It still carried the faint, warm scent of home.

She walked to the bench and gently held out the shawl, its warmth a tangible presence in the cool air.

"Put this on," she said softly, her voice full of an undeniable concern. "It's cold out. You'll get sick."

Her tone was so plain, so matter-of-fact. There was not a trace of pity or charity in it. It was the simple, primal kindness of one person seeing another in need and offering a piece of warmth.

Madeleine's eyes were fixed on the shawl.

Her first instinct was to refuse. To lash out with the sharp, proud cruelty that was her last line of defense.

"I don't need your pity!" — the words were already on the tip of her tongue. Her pride, the fractured, shard-like remnants of her pride, were screaming at her to slap away this common girl's offering. She, Madeleine Amaranth, even at her lowest, did not need charity from a nobody.

But somehow, the words wouldn't come out.

Because another gust of wind blew past, and her body, beyond her control, shivered again. She was truly cold. A cold that seeped into her bones, mixed with sorrow and dampness. It was a truth so real that her pride could no longer deceive her.

She looked at Hana. The girl's eyes were so clean in the moonlight. There was no curiosity in them, no calculation, no sympathy. Only a calm, clear concern.

Madeleine's lips parted, but the scathing refusal she had intended to utter was swallowed back down. Her hand, after a fierce internal battle, finally, slowly, hesitantly, reached out.

Her fingertips touched the shawl. The soft, warm texture was a stark contrast to the cold, smooth silk of her own gown. That warmth felt like a strange magic, traveling up from her fingertips, bit by bit, toward her frozen heart.

She took the shawl, her fingers so stiff they were clumsy.

"...Fine..."

The words were forced from her throat, so quiet they were nearly inaudible, raspy with a reluctance she couldn't hide. But she had said them.

Seeing that she had taken it, Hana lingered no longer. In that brief moment, she had keenly noticed the change in her: a barely perceptible softening at the corners of Madeleine's tightly drawn mouth. She knew that for someone like Madeleine, acceptance was already the most difficult concession. She realized that a tiny crack had appeared in the icy fortress of Madeleine's heart.

"You'd better go back inside and rest soon." She simply gave a small nod and said softly, then, she turned and left. Her light footsteps receded down the gravel path, until they vanished completely into the garden's darkness.

The entire world was silent again, and Madeleine was alone.

She sat on the cold bench, clutching the shawl that still held the warmth of another person's body. The warmth felt so foreign, so... bewildering.

Slowly, she draped the shawl over her own shoulders, which were trembling from the cold and from her weeping.

The moment that simple, rustic warmth enveloped her, Madeleine's tears, without any warning, began to stream down her face once more.

But these tears were completely different from before.

They were not tears of anger, of bitterness, of hatred. They were not tears of self-pity for her lost title or for being abandoned by Leo.

This was a new feeling, something she had never experienced.

It was... a flood of tears born from immense confusion and a faint, flickering warmth.

___________

The fire in the king’s study crackled low, the scent of smoke mingling with the sharp bite of aged scotch. Liam and Leo were each sprawled in the oversized high back chairs like two boys who had raided their father’s liquor cabinet.

Leo tipped the bottle dramatically, filling their glasses to the brim. “To the shiny new king,” he said, raising his glass.

Liam lifted his in reply. “To you, and the fact that someone actually agreed to marry you. Miracles do happen.”

Leo barked out a laugh. “Careful, little brother. I’ve still got years of embarrassing stories I could share at your wedding. Don’t tempt me.”

They drank, and for a while the room was filled only with the clink of crystal and the easy stretch of silence that belonged only to brothers.

“You ever think about how different things could’ve turned out?” Leo asked, swirling his drink lazily.

Liam shot him a dry look. “Different, how? You as king and me burning down the palace by accident?”

“Exactly,” Leo said with mock seriousness. “History’s greatest missed opportunity.”

Liam chuckled, shaking his head. “The world doesn’t run on what-ifs. Only on what comes next.”

Leo leaned back, grinning. “Then promise me one thing—we don’t let the crown turn us into grumpy old men with no sense of humor.”

“Fine,” Liam said, smirking. “As long as you promise not to make my advisors cry at every council session.”

“No guarantees,” Leo shot back, raising his glass again. “Making them cry is half the fun.”

Liam laughed, finishing the last of his scotch before setting the glass aside. He pushed up from his chair, stretching.

“Leaving already?” Leo asked, raising a brow. “The night’s still young.”

Liam’s smile turned sly. “Not for me. Sophie’s waiting.”

Leo groaned, tossing a cushion at him. “Of course she is. Go on then, Your Majesty. Don’t keep the future queen waiting.”

Liam caught the cushion, grinning as he headed for the door. Behind him, Leo’s laughter chased him into the hall, warm and familiar.

The halls of the palace were quiet at this hour, the echoes of laughter and clinking glasses from the evening’s banquet fading into memory. Liam moved with purpose, his steps light despite the weight of the crown.

He paused outside the chamber door, the golden handle warm beneath his palm. For a moment, he let the tension of the day roll off him—the speeches, the endless congratulations, the heavy scotch with Leo. Then he pushed the door open.

Sophie was already there, curled up on the edge of the bed in a silk gown the color of moonlight, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. She looked up as he entered, and the tired lines of responsibility melted from his face.

“You’re late,” she teased, though her smile gave her away.

“Leo kept me hostage with scotch,” Liam said with a laugh, closing the door behind him. “You should be grateful I made it out alive.”

Sophie arched a brow. “Hostage, hmm? Judging by your grin, you didn’t fight too hard.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, sinking onto the bed beside her. “Maybe not. But I had a better reason to escape.”

Her smile softened, her hand finding his. “And what reason is that, Your Majesty?”

Liam leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You.”

Meeting her lips, Liam’s kiss deepened, no longer careful but hungry, as though he’d spent the entire night waiting for this one moment. Sophie melted into him, her fingers sliding up into his hair, pulling him closer. The silk of her gown whispered against his skin as he drew her into his arms, holding her as though he’d never let go.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he murmured against her lips, “coming back from a day like this… and finding you here.”

Sophie smiled breathlessly, her hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Maybe I do,” she teased softly, before kissing him again—fierce this time, claiming him as much as he claimed her.

The fire cast a warm, flickering glow over the room, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising between them. Liam’s hands traced the curve of Sophie’s waist, pulling her closer, feeling her heart pound against his chest. Every brush of her skin ignited a fire he hadn’t realized had been simmering all day.

“Liam…” Sophie’s breath caught as his lips traveled from hers to her jaw, lingering, teasing, claiming.

He looked at her, his eyes dark with desire and tenderness. “I need you,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “I’ve waited all night for this.”

She smiled, hands tangling in his hair as she pressed her body into his. “Then don’t wait any longer.”

Their lips met again in a kiss that stole their breath, deep and insistent. Liam’s hands roamed over her back and shoulders, pulling her silk gown aside, revealing the warmth of her skin. Sophie’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, down his chest, feeling the strength beneath the kingly exterior, the steady heat that belonged only to her.

Every touch, every whispered word, made the world outside disappear. The crown, the court, the palace—all of it faded until there was nothing but Liam and Sophie, tangled in the sheets, in the firelight, in the sweet, desperate need of each other.

Liam’s lips trailed down her neck, across her collarbone, eliciting gasps and soft moans that made his own pulse race. “You’re everything,” he murmured against her skin. “Everything I’ve ever wanted… everything I’ve ever needed.”

Sophie pulled him back up, pressing herself against him, her mouth claiming his in a kiss that was fierce, tender, and unrelenting all at once. “And you’re mine,” she breathed, “completely.”

@choicesficwriterscreations

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Whenever he rode, his mind betrayed him, drifting backward to the only true sanctuary he had left. Emilia. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the way she had buried her face against his shoulder to escape the rushing wind. He remembered the raw, musical sound of her laughter echoing over the roar of the engine on the night of the village fair—fearless, radiant, and utterly alive.

She was perfect, he thought, a bitter, lump forming in his throat. Maybe too perfect.

A sudden, crushing wave of self-doubt washed over him, colder than the wind. She was Cordonian royalty. She was destined to wear a crown, to rule a nation. She belonged in gilded ballrooms, flanked by men in tailored suits with pristine lineages and inherited fortunes. Not on the back of a battered motorcycle, clinging to a commoner who smelled of horse sweat and leather. What did a servant have to offer a future queen?

With a low grunt, Drake forced the dark thoughts back down, throttling the engine as the faint, warm glow of a roadside tavern appeared ahead.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the rustic border bar, the tires crunching loudly beneath his bike, and immediately spotted the familiar, rugged silhouette of Leo’s dark truck parked under a dim, flickering yellow streetlamp. A genuine, long-absent smile tugged at the corner of Drake’s mouth, he was lucky to have such good friends, brothers in every way that mattered.

He shut off the ignition, kicked down the stand, and took a deep breath, letting the damp night air curl its way into his lungs. Walking inside, the tavern hit him with a sensory wave of warmth—the crackle of a massive stone fireplace, the rich smell of roasted meats, spilled ale, and tobacco smoke, and the low, comforting murmur of local patrons.

Max and Leo were sitting at a heavy wooden table in a dimly lit corner and the moment Drake walked over, they stood up. Without a word, Drake pulled them both into a tight, bone-crushing hug, his chest aching with a relief so intense it nearly made his knees weak.

"Hey, mate," Max said, clapping Drake firmly on the shoulder as they pulled back. "It’s been too long."

Drake let out a soft chuckle, the sound rusty in his throat. "It’s only been a few days, Max."

"I’m with Max," Leo grinned, pulling Drake in for another brief, mock-rough hug. "That’s still too long. Sit down, sit down."

"Let me grab the drinks first," Drake said, gesturing to the bar.

With a nod to his friends, he walked over to the worn mahogany counter, resting his rough, calloused hands on the wood. The French barmaid, a young woman with a mess of dark curls and a quick smile, looked up from wiping down the taps. Her eyes raked over Drake’s broad shoulders and sharp jawline, her expression shifting into something distinctly predatory.

"Good evening, handsome," she purred, leaning forward over the counter, her accent thick and playful. "What can I get for you?"

Drake offered a polite, distant smile. He didn't want to be rude, but he had absolutely no energy for the game she was playing. "Three beers, please."

"Coming right up." She said, reaching for three heavy glass steins, her eyes never leaving his face as she began to pull the draft. "You’re not from around here, are you? That is definitely not a local accent."

"No," Drake replied quietly. "I'm not."

"So, where are you from?"

"Cordonia."

"Ooh, very nice," she smiled, sliding the first foaming pint toward him. "So, what brings a Cordonian to our humble town?"

"Work, mostly."

"Ah. So, you’re just here temporarily? What a pity."

"No," Drake said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "I'm here permanently."

He hated that word. Permanently. It felt like a life sentence. But it was the brutal truth, wasn’t it? Without the King’s grace, he had no papers to cross the border. He was locked out of his own country, barred from his home, his family, and the only woman he would ever love. He was stuck.

The barmaid's eyes softened, a suggestive spark dancing in them as she leaned further over the worn wood of the counter. She reached out, her fingers slowly sliding over the back of his rough, calloused hand, tracing the line of his knuckles with a deliberate, slow touch. "Oh? In that case, if you’re looking for someone to show you around the place, I’d be more than happy to act as your guide. Personally." Her voice dropped to a sultry murmur, her gaze flicking down to his lips before rising to meet his hazel eyes. "Perhaps you could pick me up tomorrow night? From here? Say... eight?"

Drake looked down at her fingers resting on his skin, but he felt absolutely nothing. It was a familiar dance—he knew women found him attractive and he was well used to the lingering looks, the coy smiles, and the bold invitations from ‘good-time girls; who wanted a piece of him. But right now, his heart felt completely dead to the game.

Instead of the pretty barmaid's touch, his skin screamed for a different hand. He wanted Emilia. He wanted the soft, electric slip of her fingers through his, the warmth of her body pressed against his own, her perfect, unforgettable scent of summer sunshine and sweet jasmine. His chest throbbed with a hollow, agonizing ache, crying out for the only woman on the planet he was barred from ever holding again.

But beneath the crushing depression, a dark, ugly ember of anger flared in his gut. Three months. Three months of writing his soul onto paper, only to be met with a cold, mocking wall of silence. She had abandoned him. While he was rotting in this border town, working himself to the bone, she was likely spinning in gilded ballrooms, letting men in tailored suits touch her waist whilst she beamed up at them with that beautiful smile. She had ditched him for her crown—done the exact same thing her mother, Queen Eleanor, had done to his father decades ago. She had sacrificed their love on the altar of Cordonian duty, breaking the sacred promise she had whispered against his neck during their passionate nights under the moon and stars. I'll never let you go, Drake. I love you.

It had all been a lie.

He was angry, furious at the betrayal, but the rage was a fragile shield against the suffocating loneliness that threatened to drown him every single night. He wanted to hate her, but more than that, he just wanted her back.

He missed the touch of a woman, their soft skin and clean scent, but there was only one woman he wanted. And she was gone. He wasn’t about to replace her with someone else for nothing more than a shallow, physical release. He gently pulled his hand back from the barmaid's touch, offering a sad, apologetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks. But I'll have to pass."

The barmaid blinked, her fingers curling on the empty counter, momentarily taken aback by the rejection before a playful, slightly bruised smirk returned to her face. "What? You got a girl or something?"

Drake’s throat tightened, a sharp, localized pain slicing through his chest. He picked up two of the heavy glasses, his fingers tightening around the handles until his knuckles turned white. "Yeah... something like that."

He dropped some money on to the bar top, then grabbed the third beer and turned away, heading back to the corner table where Leo and Max were watching the entire exchange with knowing, amused grins.

"Everything alright over there, Romeo?" Leo teased as Drake set the beers down and slid into his seat.

"Yeah. Fine," Drake lied, offering a quick smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes.

Leo and Max exchanged a subtle, concerned look, the amusement instantly fading from their faces. Sensing Drake's heavy mood, Leo cleared his throat and smoothly changed the subject.

For the next hour, they fell into the comfortable, easy rhythm of their lifelong friendship. They caught Drake up on the gossip from Applewood and the village.

"We still check in on Bianca whenever we can, by the way," Max mentioned, taking a pull of his beer.

"I know," Drake replied softly, his voice thick with gratitude. "I call her most days from the stable phone at the château, and she told me you have both been looking out for her. Thanks, guys. Seriously. I'm just so glad you're there."

He swirled the dark amber liquid in his glass, his expression turning sombre. "Honestly, the last few times I spoke to her, she sounded... off. She kept mentioning she wasn't feeling well, and when I suggested she try to make the trip over here to the Theron farm to visit, she seemed really hesitant. She didn't seem up to traveling at all, which isn't like her."

Max and Leo exchanged a quick, subtle look before Max offered a warm, reassuring smile. "It's just a bit of a head cold, mate. There's a nasty flu going around the village right now, and she's been feeling a little under the weather. But she specifically told us not to worry you with it. She kept assuring us she's fine, and you know how stubborn she is when she doesn't want to be a burden."

"Yeah," Leo agreed, nodding. "She's just resting up. We've been bringing her groceries and keeping her company. She'll be back on her feet in no time, Drake."

Drake let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," Max dismissed warmly. "It’s our pleasure, honestly. Oh, and Bastien said to say hi. He keeps an eye on Bianca too when he’s off duty."

Drake smiled genuinely at that. "Good. I’m glad. She and Bastien’s wife were always close when I was a kid. It’s nice knowing she has good people nearby when I can’t be."

They talked about the Applewood stables, the horses, and Jupiter—the champion stallion Drake had poured his heart and soul into training for the Derby. But as the night wore on and the level of the beer glasses sank, the comfortable chatter began to give way to the elephant in the room.

Leo leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his expression turning serious. "Have you heard anything from her, Drake? From Emilia? Anything at all?"

"No. Nothing,” Drake replied, as his shoulders sagged, the exhaustion of the last few months settling over his features like a physical weight.

"She was so desperate for you to write," Leo continued gently. "I can't believe she wouldn't reply. Something else has to be going on."

Drake ran a heavy hand down his face, letting out a long, ragged sigh. "All I know is I’ve heard absolutely nothing. It’s... it’s killing me, Leo. I’m so lonely here."

"Hey," Max said, his voice dropping to a quiet, fierce register. "You’ve got us, mate. Always."

"I know," Drake said quickly, looking up with genuine guilt in his hazel eyes. "I know I do, and I'm incredibly grateful. For both of you. I’m sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound like that. It’s just..."

"It’s fine, mate. We get it," Leo reassured him.

"I just miss her so much," Drake whispered, staring down at the condensation pooling around his glass. "I keep myself busy all day at the Château. The work is gruelling, and it helps, but she’s never far from my mind. Or my heart. I get back to the Theron farm, and Kiara and Zeke are great, but... they’re not her. I lie awake at night just wishing she was there. Wishing I could see her again, hold her, just one more time."

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "But I’m starting to think it’s not going to happen. I’m starting to think... maybe my mother was right. Maybe our worlds are just too different. Maybe she chose the Crown over me."

"I don't believe that for a second," Leo said firmly. "Look, maybe there’s another way to reach her. What if I send a letter to Olivia? I can ask her to slip a message to Emilia or have her call you from a secure line."

"No," Drake cut in, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Absolutely not."

"Drake, it’s a simple letter—"

"No, Leo," Drake insisted, locking eyes with his friend. "I don't want either of you getting involved in this. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. I’ve contemplated calling the palace stables so many times, asking the staff there to send her a message for me. But I don’t know who the King is watching, or if he’s listening somehow. I won’t let anyone else risk themselves for me. If the King finds out you, or anyone else, is acting as a go-between, he’ll have you banished too. Or worse. I won't risk your lives or your futures. Promise me you'll leave it alone."

Leo held Drake’s gaze for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh. "Alright. But the offer stands. If you ever change your mind, just ask."

"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it."

Max, sensing the air had gotten too heavy, quickly stepped in to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "So, Kiara and Zeke are still treating you well at the farm?"

"Yeah, they’re great," Drake said, glad for the distraction. "I earn good money at the Château so I can pay my way, and I help out around the farm whenever I can. They don't ask for much from me. Kiara actually told me they like having me around—probably just because of the extra pair of hands."

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint, appreciative smile on his face. "Kiara in particular has been really supportive. Zeke is busy with the crops and the markets a lot, so sometimes on the evenings when I get back late from the stables, she waits up for me. She makes sure there’s a warm plate of food, and we sit and eat together. It’s nice. Comforting, I guess you could call it."

Leo nodded slowly, his expression shifting to a quiet, genuine understanding. "I'm glad, Drake. Seriously. You need a good friend right now, and you shouldn't have to eat your meals alone in the dark."

"Yeah," Max agreed softly, setting his glass down with a gentle thump. "Kiara is a sweetheart. It's comforting to know someone is looking out for you over here while you're carrying all of... this. We're just glad you aren't completely isolated."

Drake offered a tired, appreciative nod, his chest warming slightly at his friends' protective concern. "Thanks, guys. She's just a really good friend, and we keep each other company. It helps keep the silence at bay. That’s all it is."

"And that's exactly what you need," Leo smiled, raising his glass.

They finished their beers, the heavy atmosphere of their earlier confession softening back into the familiar, easy warmth of their brotherhood. After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, they stood up to leave, trading firm handshakes and tight hugs with promises to meet up again in the next couple of days.

*****

The engine’s roar was a steady, vibrating thrum beneath him, but it did little to drown out the heavy thoughts spinning in Drake’s mind as he rode the dark, twisting country roads back toward the Theron farm.

The cold November air bit at the exposed skin of his neck, but he barely felt it. His mind was miles away, lingering on the conversation in the bar. Despite Max’s reassuring words and Leo’s easy nod, a persistent, uneasy knot was forming in his stomach. Just a head cold, Max had said. A nasty flu going around the village.

But Drake knew his mother. Bianca Walker was a formidable woman—strong, resilient, and fiercely independent. She was a woman who had weathered decades of quiet hardship without a single murmur of complaint. If she was admitting to feeling "under the weather," and if she was actively hesitating to make the trip to France to see him, it was far more than a simple head cold.

When he called her from the Château’s stable phone, her voice had sounded... different. Thinner. Lacking that grounded, iron-willed resonance he had known his entire life.

A heavy, suffocating wave of guilt settled over his chest. He couldn't help but feel that the sheer, exhausting turmoil of his banishment had finally taken its toll on her. She had spent her life watching him grow, watching him find a place in the world, only to see him ripped away from his home, barred from his country, and cast out like a criminal. She was carrying the weight of his exile just as heavily as he was.

He gripped the handlebars tighter, his knuckles turning white as he leaned into a long, sweeping bend. He loved Emilia. He loved her with a fierce, soul-consuming intensity that he had never felt for another living being, and he would never regret the summer they had shared. He would choose her a thousand times over. But he had never, not for a single second, intended for their love to become a destructive force. He had never wanted their happiness to be purchased at the cost of so much grief—not just for himself and Emilia, but for his mother, Max, and Leo. The collateral damage of their shattered fairy tale was a burden that pressed down on his shoulders with every beat of his heart.

As the road flattened out, the familiar, dark silhouette of the Theron farmhouse emerged from the midnight gloom. Drake slowed the bike, the tires crunching softly on the long clay driveway.

Up ahead, a warm, golden light spilled from the kitchen window, cutting a soft path across the frost-dusted grass. It was a stark, inviting contrast to the ink-black night.

Zeke’s bedroom in the front of the house was completely dark. Drake knew his friend was likely already asleep, exhausted after a gruelling, eighteen-hour day tending to the autumn crops and hauling goods to the early morning markets. But Kiara... Kiara was still awake. Just as he had told Max and Leo, she always seemed to find the quiet energy to wait up for him.

Drake cut the ignition, letting the rumble of the motorcycle die into the quiet rustle of the wind. He kicked down the stand, swung his leg over the seat, and stood in the damp grass for a moment, letting the silence of the valley settle around him.

Walking toward the porch, his boots thudding softly on the wooden steps, he looked through the window. Kiara was standing by the stove, a gentle steam rising from a small pot as she stirred whatever she was heating up.

Drake let out a soft breath, a genuine smile finally brushing his lips. I’m lucky, he thought.

When King Constantine had cast him out, Drake had expected to find nothing but cold, unforgiving isolation on this side of the border. He had expected to rot in some damp, empty room, living off scraps and silence. Instead, Kiara and Zeke had welcomed him into their lives with open arms and zero hesitation. In the three short months he had lived with them, they had become more than just landlords or saviours; they had become family. They had given him a harbour in the middle of a relentless, freezing storm, and he knew he would carry a debt of gratitude to them for the rest of his days.

He reached out, resting his hand on the brass handle, and pushed the thin wooden door open.

The immediate warmth of the house hit his face like a physical embrace, carrying the rich, savoury aroma of slow-simmered herbs and garlic. The soft creak of the door hinges broke the quiet.

Kiara immediately turned around. The moment her eyes landed on him, her face lit up, a bright, beaming smile completely erasing the tired lines around her eyes. She set her wooden spoon aside on the counter, her posture instantly relaxing. She was always so genuinely pleased to see him.

"You're back," she said, her voice a warm, soft melody in the quiet kitchen. "I was beginning to think the boys would keep you out all night."

"Nah," Drake smiled, stepping over to the wooden coat hooks by the door. He unzipped his heavy leather jacket, the silver teeth of the zipper rasping loudly in the quiet room. "They have a pretty long drive back home. Honestly, I'm just so grateful to them for making the trip over the border so often. I couldn't ask for better friends. I'm just glad they think I'm worth the trouble."

"You're more than worth the trouble," Kiara said softly, her eyes tracing the broad line of his shoulders as he hung the heavy leather on the hook. "Your friends see how incredible you are, much the same as I do..."

She caught herself, a sudden, bright heat rushing to her cheeks, and she hastily added, "...me and Zeke, of course. You've overcome so much, Drake. Everyone sees how amazingly well you're doing."

Drake smiled, but it was a tired, weary expression as he walked toward her near the stove. The golden light of the burner cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes.

"I'm not so sure about that, Ki," he murmured. "Physically, I'm back to my full strength, sure. My body is healed." He raised his hand, tapping his temple gently, before resting his palm flat against the centre of his chest. "But in here... and in here... I feel empty sometimes. Like I can’t breathe, like… like I'm drowning."

Kiara turned fully to face him, the small distance between them vanishing. As he stood close, her breath hitched. She could smell the complex, intoxicating scent that seemed to radiate from him—a potent blend of dry hay, honest sweat, cold leather, and the crisp, clean undertone of bay rum aftershave. It was rugged, masculine, and intensely real. It was a scent she had come to crave over the last three months, a smell she secretly wished she could wake up to every single morning.

"I know it’s been hard for you, Drake," she said, her voice dropping to a quiet whisper. She reached out, placing her hand gently on his solid forearm. The instant her fingertips brushed the heat of his skin, a delicious, electric jolt travelled up her arm, sending a sweet shiver through her entire body. "But in time, things will get better. And... you know I'll always be here to make you feel... less empty."

Drake’s chest warmed at her kindness. He saw her as a friend, a steady anchor in a world that had tried to tear him apart, and he was deeply touched by her devotion. "Thanks, Ki," he murmured. He leaned down, placing a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek.

Kiara froze, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. The rough, delicious scrape of his dark stubble against her sensitive skin sent a wildfire of longing through her veins. It was heaven and torture all at once. She closed her eyes, her head tilting instinctively, a desperate, silent plea screaming in her mind for him to turn his face just an inch—to capture her lips with his own and wash away the ghost of the woman who occupied his thoughts. But before she could find the courage to move, Drake pulled back, his gaze already shifting past her shoulder to the pot on the stove.

"Something smells amazing," he said, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside her.

Kiara blinked, swallowing hard as she fought to keep her composure. She quickly turned back to the stove, her cheeks burning as she grabbed a dry dishcloth to lift the lid off the steaming pot. "Yeah," she stammered, her voice a little flustered. "Zeke and I made some French onion soup for dinner. There's fresh, crusty bread to go with it. It's just what you need after that cold ride. It'll warm you right up."

"Thanks," Drake said, moving to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. "Need any help?"

"No, I've got it," Kiara said, ladle in hand. "You just sit. Take a breather."

She carefully filled two ceramic bowls with the rich, dark broth, the savoury aroma of caramelized onions, garlic, and melted gruyère cheese filling the air. She set a bowl in front of him, along with a thick, hand-torn hunk of warm bread, before taking the chair directly next to him.

They dug in, and the hot, savoury soup was an instant relief to Drake’s chilled throat. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first bite hit his tongue.

"So," Kiara asked, tearing off a piece of her own bread. "What did Leo and Max have to say? Anything new?"

"No, not really," Drake said, chewing. "Just catching up on old times. We talked about the stables we all worked in back home, about the people in the village where I grew up. Nothing much exciting, really."

"Well, I guess that means everyone is doing well."

Drake's hands slowed, his spoon hovering over his bowl. The comfortable warmth of the soup suddenly felt heavy. "I suppose. But I asked them about my mum. They go and see her every spare moment they get, and they know she's not feeling good. They assured me it's just a head cold. A flu, maybe. But... I can't shake this feeling that there's something else going on. I wish I could go home to see her myself."

Kiara looked at him, her brow furrowing with gentle, earnest curiosity. "Why can't you?"

The simple question hit Drake like a physical blow. Beneath his shirt, his heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He had never told Kiara and Zeke the full, dangerous truth of his banishment. They knew about Emilia—the girl he loved with every fibre of his being, the girl he wrote to every single day—and they knew her father had discovered their relationship and had brutally beaten Drake before throwing him out of their estate. But the royal titles? The Cordonian Crown? The fact that Emilia was a Princess, and her father was King Constantine? He had kept that entirely to himself. He had spun a protective, believable half-truth: he told them he had fled across the border because Emilia's father was an incredibly wealthy, politically ruthless tyrant who had threatened to have Drake imprisoned or killed by his personal security forces if he ever dared to set foot in their territory again.

"I'm not welcome back there, Kiara," Drake said quietly, his gaze dropping to the dark broth in his bowl. The weight of the lie, combined with the genuine sorrow of his exile, made his voice sound incredibly heavy. "You know that."

"Right. I'm sorry," Kiara said quickly, her eyes filling with instant regret for bringing it up. She reached over, gently squeezing his hand where it rested on the table. "Your mother will be fine, Drake. She's probably just feeling a little under the weather—it's that time of year, after all. The cold can make people sick. Besides, like you said, she's got good people looking out for her. I'm sure she'll be back to her old self in no time."

Drake looked up, meeting her kind, hopeful eyes, and forced a soft, grateful smile. "You're probably right."

He dipped another piece of the crusty bread into the savoury soup, letting the rich flavours ground him. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes of the old farmhouse, but inside the warm kitchen, sitting beside a friend who cared for him, the cold, suffocating weight of his secrets and heartbreak softened, if only for a little while.

*****

The clatter of their spoons against the ceramic bowls eventually slowed, leaving only the quiet hum of the old refrigerator and the rhythmic, hollow ticking of the wall clock to fill the warm kitchen.

"That was incredible, Ki," Drake said, leaning back in his chair with a soft sigh of appreciation. He picked up his glass of water, the movement flexing the lean, corded muscle of his forearm. "Seriously. You have no idea how much I needed that."

"I'm just glad you enjoyed it," Kiara replied softly. She offered him a warm, easy smile, but internally, she had to fight to keep her breathing steady.

As Drake drank, her eyes trailed helplessly over him. She couldn't help it. In the dim, golden light of the kitchen lamp, he looked so devastatingly handsome. Her gaze lingered on the sharp, rugged line of his jaw, shadowed with dark stubble, before drifting down to the hollow of his throat, and then further, tracing the broad expanse of his chest beneath his simple cotton shirt. He was so physically imposing, so solid and real, yet there was a profound, quiet gentleness to him that made her chest ache with a fierce, protective longing.

She clenched her hands together in her lap, pressing her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reaching across the worn pine table to touch him. She wanted to slip her fingers over his shoulders, to feel the heat of his skin again, to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his heavy weight on top of her until the empty, hollow expression in his eyes finally vanished.

She had wanted to do it from the very first moment she saw him.

Her mind drifted back to that rainy August night three months ago, when she and Zeke had found him. He had been dumped like broken trash on the muddy gravel of the roadside near the border, his face bloody, his ribs fractured, and his spirit almost entirely shattered. The men who had done it—the brutal security forces hired by this 'Emilia's' wealthy, ruthless father—had left him to rot.

Kiara had spent weeks nursing him back to health. She had cleaned his wounds, brought him broth, and watched in quiet awe as his body slowly healed, revealing the strong, resilient, and fiercely loyal man beneath the bruises. And during those quiet weeks in the guest bedroom, she had fallen. She had fallen hard, losing her heart completely to a man who didn't even realize he had stolen it.

Drake set his glass down, the heavy thump of the glass on wood snapping her back to the present. He offered her another tired, grateful smile, completely oblivious to the desperate storm raging behind her dark eyes.

"I should probably help you clear up," he murmured, starting to push his chair back.

"Don't worry about it," Kiara said quickly, reaching out to gently press her hand over his wrist. The brief contact sent a delicious, white-hot shiver straight up her spine. "You've had a long ride and a hard day at the Château. Just sit. Let me do it."

Drake hesitated, then sank back into his seat with a quiet chuckle. "If you insist. But I'm washing the dishes tomorrow, no arguments."

"Deal," she smiled.

She stood up, gathering the empty bowls and carrying them to the sink. As she turned her back to him, letting the warm tap water run over her hands, the smile slipped from her face, replaced by a tight, painful restriction in her chest.

She knew he still wrote to her. To Emilia.

Every single morning, Kiara would watch from the hallway as Drake sat at the small desk in his room, his brow furrowed, pouring his soul onto paper. She saw him slide those envelopes into his leather jacket. She knew he stopped at the village mailbox on his way to work, sending his love across the border like a prayer.

And every single day, the mailbox at the end of the Theron driveway remained empty.

With every unanswered letter, Kiara felt a dark, ugly ember of anger flare in her gut. She had never met Emilia, but she hated her. She hated her with a quiet, burning intensity that surprised even herself. How could any woman have a man like Drake—a man so incredibly protective, loyal, kind, and magnificent—and simply discard him? How could she let him rot in exile, writing his heart out every day, without sending a single word in return?

She doesn't deserve him, Kiara thought fiercely, scrubbing a bowl with a sudden, tense viciousness. If she truly loved him, she would have found a way to reach him. She wouldn't have left him to drown in this silence.

In Kiara's mind, Emilia was a spoiled, fragile girl who had played with a good man's heart before retreating back into her wealthy, sheltered world when things got difficult. She was a coward. And she didn't deserve the agonizing devotion Drake was still wasting on her memory.

But Emilia’s loss, Kiara realized with a sudden, heart-stopping thrum of hope, was her gain.

She turned the tap off, drying her hands on a dishtowel before turning back to look at Drake. He was staring quietly at the wooden grain of the table, his head tilted slightly, his thoughts clearly miles away, wandering back across the border to a ghost.

Kiara swallowed the lump of jealousy in her throat and walked back to the table, taking her seat next to him once more. She would be patient. She would be his anchor, his steady comfort in the dark. Drake was still healing, still grieving the illusion of a love that had abandoned him. But winter was coming, and with it, the cold reality that his letters would never be answered.

Soon, the silence would finally break his resolve. Soon, he would stop writing to a ghost. And when he finally looked up from his heartbreak, Kiara would be right there, waiting. She would show him what real, unyielding devotion looked like. She would make him happy. She was absolutely sure of it.

Now that she had found him, the man she was sure she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with, she was never going to let him go. Not for anyone, and certainly not for Emilia.

"You're very quiet, Ki," Drake said softly, breaking the silence as he looked up, meeting her gaze with a gentle curiosity. "Everything alright?"

Kiara reached over, letting her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve, her heart hammering a steady, triumphant rhythm against her ribs.

"Everything is perfect, Drake," she whispered, her smile soft, beautiful, and filled with a quiet promise he couldn't yet understand. "I'm just glad you're home."

Chapter 35 - Healing

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