#kingliamrhys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Drake! It's me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

Drake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," he sobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...He’s the King."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Zeke—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 38 - A Path We All Must Take

Stepping to the towering glass doors of her balcony, Emilia pressed her hand against the cool pane, her warm breath immediately blossoming into a delicate cloud of mist on the glass. She blinked against the clean, blinding glare of the white landscape. It was a winter wonderland, breathtakingly beautiful, offering a quiet, clean slate that seemed to soothe the raw edges of her spirit.

Below her, the grand palace gardens had been completely transformed. The rows of frost-hardy chrysanthemums that had fought so bravely against the autumn chill were now buried beneath a thick, heavy duvet of snow, their colourful faces entirely hidden. The towering, ornate fountains, which had spent the summer splashing music into the warm air, stood completely silent, the water in their wide stone basins frozen into smooth, glittering pools of ice that caught the morning light like polished mirrors.

Further out, the great hedge maze looked like a labyrinth of sculpted marble, its high, dark green walls capped in thick, pristine ridges of white. Every perfect line and sharp angle was softened by the snow, making the maze look less like an impenetrable fortress and more like a peaceful, sleeping giant.

Adjacent to the maze, the woodland area was a study in stark contrasts. The skeletal branches of the ancient oaks, stripped bare by the autumn winds, were now outlined in delicate, sparkling ice, reaching up toward the brilliant blue heavens like fragile fingers of glass. Beside them, the dark, stoic pines bowed their heavy branches under the weight of the snow, releasing quiet, soft flurries to the ground whenever the biting winter wind dared to whisper through their needles.

Running straight through the heart of the estate, the long gravel drive was slowly being reclaimed from the winter. Below the balcony, a solitary palace gardener was already at work, the rhythmic, scraping sound of his shovel clearing a path through the heavy white powder.

Emilia watched him for a long moment, observing the steam rise from his lips as he worked. As if sensing her gaze, the gardener paused, wiping his brow before looking up toward her balcony. Emilia didn't draw back into the shadows of her room. Instead, a genuine, soft smile brushed her lips, and she raised her hand, offering a gentle wave.

The gardener's face lit up, and he quickly returned the wave with a wide, respectful smile and a small bow before returning to his work.

Emilia wrapped her heavy velvet robe tighter around her shoulders, but for the first time in months, she didn't shiver. The world outside was cold, yes, but it was blanketed in a peaceful, healing quiet. As she stared down at the snow-covered lawns directly beneath her balcony, the familiar, aching hollow in her chest felt... lighter.

She no longer hovered anxiously by her door at the sound of Rose’s morning footsteps, her pulse racing with a desperate, agonizing hope that only crashed into devastation when the silver mail tray proved empty. She had stopped checking the post with that frantic, trembling urgency. The raw, bleeding wound of those early autumn months had finally closed, leaving behind a quiet, tender ache. She still wished, with a soft and persistent sadness, that a letter would arrive. She still carried the quiet, heavy shape of Drake’s absence in every breath, a steady, physical pull in her chest that anchored her to the memory of him, and there wasn't a single day where he didn't occupy the quiet corners of her mind and heart. She still loved him with a desperate, soul-consuming intensity, and she knew she always would.

But the furious, destructive anger that had consumed her on the night of the Homecoming Ball had finally burned itself out. In its place was a quiet, sober acceptance of the silence. She had come to terms with the reality of their separate worlds. She had accepted the heart-breaking possibility that Drake had simply chosen to move on—to build a new, uncomplicated life for himself across the border that didn't involve the impossible, suffocating reach of a Cordonian princess and her crown.

It was a deep, permanent bruise on her soul, but she was learning to live with the grief. She was carrying her love for him like a warm coal beneath the winter snow, keeping her spirit alive rather than letting the sorrow freeze her completely.

Stepping away from the towering balcony doors, Emilia let the quiet warmth of her suite envelop her. She walked slowly toward the ornate mahogany vanity, her bare feet pressing into the plush, thick carpet. Sitting down on the cushioned stool, she picked up her silver-backed hairbrush, letting the rhythmic, soothing motion of the bristles sliding through her golden curls ground her in the quiet morning.

As she raised her arm, her heavy velvet robe parted slightly at her collarbone.

There, resting against the soft skin of her chest, was Drake’s silver ring, catching the pale gold of the morning sun.

Emilia’s hand paused, her breath catching in her throat—not in panic, but in a sudden, sweet wave of quiet affection. She set the brush down on the cool glass tabletop, her hand drifting instinctively to her neck. Her fingertips curled around the familiar, worn metal, and a soft, genuine smile played on her lips. She hadn't taken it off, not for a single moment, since she had gotten it back.

As the cool silver warmed against her skin, her mind drifted backward, slipping effortlessly into the memory of the morning she had reclaimed it.

Two Months Earlier

The morning after the Homecoming Ball had arrived with a sharp, crisp bite. The dew was heavy, clinging to the grass blades in the palace gardens like tiny, liquid glass beads, and a thin layer of frost dusted the stone paths.

Liam Rhys stood near the edge of the formal garden beds directly beneath Emilia’s private balcony, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his structured charcoal wool overcoat. The collar was turned up slightly against the biting breeze, and his boots crunched softly as he shifted his weight on the gravel. He wore a simple, dark green knit sweater beneath his coat, looking rugged yet effortlessly elegant in the pale morning light.

He was waiting.

When his mother had first written to him in Italy, practically commanding his return to Cordonia to attend the social season and meet Princess Emilia, Liam had let out a long, defeated sigh. He had assumed she would be like all the rest of the debutantes—hollow, pretentious, and entirely consumed by the superficial glitter of court gossip and inherited titles. He had expected to meet a fragile, porcelain doll of a girl with a practiced smile and nothing of substance behind her eyes.

But Emilia had completely shattered every single one of his expectations.

She wasn't like them at all. Over the course of the previous evening, and their quiet escape on the terrace, he had discovered a woman who was remarkable. She was smart, carrying a sharp, observant wit that kept him on his toes. She was funny, possessing a quick, feisty spark that refused to be dimmed by the stifling protocol of her father’s court. And she was so unbelievably beautiful—not with the empty, painted perfection of the other noblewomen, but with a vibrant, raw, and fiercely genuine fire.

Yet, beneath that spark, Liam had noticed a deep, quiet sadness clinging to her. It was in the way her eyes lingered on the dark horizon, and the faint, guarded tension in her shoulders. She had told him she had been through a very difficult few months. Liam hadn't pushed for details; it wasn't his business to pry, and he respected her privacy too much to demand explanations she wasn't ready to give. He suspected, more than anything, that she was profoundly lonely. In a court full of vultures and sycophants, there were only a select few she could truly trust. She could use a friend—a real, unyielding anchor who wanted nothing from her but her company. And Liam was more than happy to be that friend.

The soft rustle of dry leaves caught his attention.

Liam turned, a warm, genuine smile instantly gracing his lips as he saw Emilia walking down the gravel path toward him.

The morning chill had painted a delicate, rosy flush across her cheeks. She was dressed warmly, wearing a tailored, forest-green wrap coat that hugged her waist, with a soft cream cashmere scarf looped snugly around her neck. Her hair, free from the rigid curls of the previous night, was pinned back simply, a few loose strands framing her face and dancing in the wind. She looked breathtakingly real, a stark and lovely contrast to the cold limestone walls of the palace behind her.

As she reached him, her eyes met his, and for the first time since he had met her, the heavy shadow in her gaze seemed to lift, if only by a fraction.

"Good morning, Liam," she said, her voice soft in the quiet air.

"Good morning, Emilia," he replied, taking his hands from his pockets and bowing his head slightly in greeting. "You're exceptionally punctual for someone who survived a royal homecoming ball."

Emilia let out a small, genuine laugh, the sound clear and bright against the autumn chill. "I could say the same to you. I half-expected you to have fled back to Rome by sunrise."

"It wasn’t for want of trying," Liam joked, a playful, warm spark dancing in his ice-blue eyes. "But I was informed my flight was cancelled. High winds, apparently. Or perhaps a sudden, tragic lack of willpower."

Emilia's laugh rang out again, a lighter, happier sound than she had produced in months.

Liam watched her, his smile softening into something deeper. There was a quiet touch of longing in his gaze, a silent appreciation for the easy way she fit into the morning air. "In all honesty, Emilia... I'm actually enjoying myself here far more than I ever expected to."

Emilia met his eyes, and the sincerity she found there made a small, fragile warmth blossom in her chest. She simply smiled back, a quiet, unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Right, well," Liam said, clearing his throat gently to break the spell. "Let's find that necklace of yours."

"Let's," Emilia agreed, her smile widening.

They moved toward the garden beds directly beneath her private balcony, stepping carefully onto the damp lawn. The grass was crisp underfoot, crackling softly with the morning frost. They bent down, parting the cold, heavy leaves of the slumbering chrysanthemums and scanning the dark, damp earth.

As they searched, the silence of the morning was filled only by the rustle of dry leaves and their own steady breathing. Emilia glanced over at him, feeling a sudden, deep swell of gratitude.

"Thank you again, Liam, for offering to help me with this," she called out, brushing a stray dirt particle from her sleeve. "I'm sure there are many other ways you would have preferred to spend your first morning back in the capital."

"Not at all," Liam replied, shrugging his broad shoulders as he peered beneath a low-hanging evergreen branch. "Besides, I'll have you know that I was the undisputed champion of the family scavenger hunt as a child. I'd be highly remiss if I didn't put my legendary skills to good use for the Princess."

Emilia laughed, the sound warm and clear. "Well, I certainly hope those legendary skills are at their absolute best today. I honestly don't know what I'll do if we don't find that ring."

Liam paused, straightening up. His brow furrowed in mild, amused confusion. "Ring? I thought we were looking for a necklace."

Emilia froze, her cheeks instantly burning with a delicate, rosy flush that had nothing to do with the autumn wind. She bit her lip, cursing her slip of the tongue, before letting out a soft, defeated sigh.

"We are. Sort of," she confessed quietly, looking down at her hands. "It's... it's a silver ring. I wear it on a chain around my neck. It's incredibly important to me."

Liam looked at her, his blue eyes soft and entirely devoid of judgment. He took in her flushed cheeks and the protective, almost fragile way her fingers had drifted to her collarbone. "I assume," he said gently, his voice carrying a quiet, respectful warmth, "whoever gave you this ring is very important to you?"

Emilia’s throat tightened. The image of Drake—his fierce hazel eyes, his rough calloused hands, and his easy, lopsided smile—flashed behind her eyelids, sending a sharp, sweet ache straight to her heart.

"He is," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the breeze. "He... he was."

Liam didn't pry. He didn't ask for a name, a status, or an explanation for why the ring was lost in the dirt. He simply offered her a reassuring, comforting smile that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket.

"We'll find it, Emilia," he promised, his voice firm and steady. "Even if I have to stay out here until the sun goes down and come back again tomorrow. I'm not leaving until it's safely back where it belongs."

Emilia’s heart swelled. The sheer, unyielding decency of his words brought a sudden sheen of tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back, offering him a brilliant, genuine smile. "Thank you, Liam."

They returned to the search with a renewed, quiet focus. Emilia felt a profound sense of relief settling over her spirit. Liam didn't look at her with the fragile, suffocating pity she had grown so tired of receiving from her friends. He simply accepted her as she was, standing by her side as a steady, quiet anchor.

They searched for another ten minutes, moving deeper into the shadows of the formal boxwood hedges, when Liam suddenly gasped.

"Ah-ha! I think I have something."

Emilia’s heart stopped. She spun around, her breath catching in her throat as she watched Liam bend low, reaching deep beneath the thick, frost-dusted branches of a large chrysanthemum bush.

When he pulled his hand back, a glint of bright silver caught the morning sun.

The delicate silver chain hung from his fingers, and dangling securely at the bottom was Drake’s worn, heavy ring.

A breathless sob of pure relief broke from Emilia's throat. Tears finally spilled over her lashes as she scrambled across the damp grass to his side. She snatched the chain from his open palm, clutching the cold metal tightly against her chest as if she could pull its warmth straight into her soul. She tipped her head back toward the brilliant blue sky, a dazzling, tear-stained smile breaking across her face.

"Oh, thank God," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Thank you, Liam. Thank you so much."

Liam stood up, brushing a few stray leaves from his knees. The sight of her radiant, tearful joy made his own chest tighten with a quiet, profound warmth.

"It was no problem at all, Emilia," he said softly, his blue eyes holding hers. "I'm here for you. Anytime."

Emilia looked down at the ring in her hand, her heart hammering a steady, triumphant rhythm. The metal was cold against her palm, but she knew that beneath her skin, the memory of Drake would always burn warm. She carefully slid the chain and the ring into the deep, secure pocket of her coat, gently patting the wool to make sure it was safe.

Then, she turned back to Liam. The sheer weight of what he had done for her—without question, without expectation—overwhelmed her defences.

Stepping forward, Emilia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight, incredibly warm hug.

Liam froze in surprise for a fraction of a second before his arms came up, wrapping securely around her waist to pull her close. He leaned into the embrace, inhaling the sweet, complex scent of jasmine and fresh linen that clung to her hair and her skin. It was a perfect, grounding moment of comfort in the quiet garden.

As they slowly pulled back, Liam offered her a soft, boyish grin.

"It was entirely worth it," he whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "just to see you smile."

Slowly, the golden-hued memory of that crisp autumn morning faded, gently pulling Emilia back to the present.

She blinked, focusing on her reflection in the heavy mahogany vanity mirror. The pale, winter-bright light of the morning poured through her balcony doors, illuminating the quiet warmth of her suite. Down in her palm, Drake’s silver ring had grown warm, absorbing the heat of her skin. She smiled softly, tracing the worn metal one last time. Slowly, she raised the band to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the familiar silver, letting its smooth shape anchor her heart. With a quiet breath, she let it rest back against her collarbone, tucking it safely beneath the soft velvet of her robe.

She picked up her hairbrush again, but her mind remained anchored in the quiet gratitude she felt for the young lord who had helped her find it.

Liam hadn't left after that day.

As the social season had swung into full, exhausting motion, it was entirely customary for the heads of the Great Houses and their eligible heirs to take up semi-permanent residence in the sprawling guest wings of the Royal Palace. It spared them the daily limo rides from their grand estates and kept them in the direct orbit of the King's favour. When Liam had quietly informed her that he had accepted her father's invitation to stay at the palace for the duration of the social season, Emilia had felt a profound, genuine wave of relief wash over her.

She had desperately needed a friend, and Liam had stepped into that empty, echoing space in her life with an effortless, unpressured grace.

Over the last two months, they had become nearly inseparable. When the suffocating protocol of the court threatened to choke her, Liam was always there, offering a quiet escape.

Emilia closed her eyes, a warm, genuine smile gracing her lips as she recalled their afternoon rides. They would escape the palace gates on horseback, tearing through the crisp, leaf-strewn valley trails of the royal estate. She remembered the powerful, rhythmic stride of her horse beneath her, the biting wind stinging her cheeks and whipping her loose curls into a wild tangle. Liam would ride alongside her, his laughter rich and free, a brilliant contrast to the rigid, silent guards who trailed at a respectful distance. Up in the hills, away from the watchful eyes of the King, they would pull their horses to a halt, letting the animals breathe as they looked out over the sprawling capital, sharing a comfortable, healing silence that required no performances.

And then there were the walks. Even as the autumn gold withered into grey December frost, they would bundle up in heavy wool coats and cashmere scarves, walking the winding paths of the formal gardens. Liam would listen to her—really listen—whenever she spoke, never looking at her with the fragile, suffocating pity she had grown so tired of receiving from Hana or Olivia. Nor did he ever look at her with the hungry, predatory appraisal she so routinely endured from the other eligible bachelors of the court, who treated her like a prize to be won or an asset to be calculated for their family lines. With Liam, there were no hidden agendas, no suffocating expectations, and no prying eyes. He simply met her where she was, offering a steady, unyielding presence that helped ground her fluttering spirit.

But perhaps her favourite memories were of the endless, tedious balls.

Emilia opened her eyes, her smile widening as she recalled the sheer, ridiculousness they had managed to find in the middle of her father's glittering cage. During one particularly stuffy banquet, trapped at a table between a pompous duke and an incredibly dry minister, she had caught Liam’s icy-blue eyes from across the room. He had offered her a barely perceptible, deadpan raise of his eyebrow, nodding toward a minor count who was currently asleep in his soup.

They had taken to finding quiet corners during those long nights, standing near the heavy velvet drapes with champagne flutes in hand. In hushed, conspiratorial whispers, they would make fun of the preening nobility, sharing a private world of quiet, breathless laughter. They would dissect Lord Thorne's increasingly ridiculous, towering wigs, or predict exactly how many minutes Lady Vescovi could hold her breath while trying to look poised in her suffocating corset.

In a room full of vultures and sycophants, Liam had become her sanctuary. He had shown her that she could still laugh, that she could still find joy, and that she didn't have to carry the crushing weight of her heartbreak entirely alone.

He hadn't made her forget Drake—nothing ever could, and she still carried the quiet, heavy shape of his absence in every beat of her heart. But Liam had made the winter feel warm. He had made her existence feel like a life again, rather than a death sentence.

*****

A short while later, a soft, tentative knock rattled the heavy ornate wood of the door, breaking the quiet sanctuary of the suite.

Emilia paused, her silver hairbrush resting against her curls. "Come in," she called out, her voice calm and even.

The door groaned open, and Queen Eleanor stepped inside. She wore a beautifully tailored, slate-blue wool day dress, her posture as impeccably straight and statuesque as ever, but her eyes held a soft, searching warmth.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Eleanor said gently, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

"Good morning, Mother," Emilia smiled, turning slightly on her cushioned vanity stool to face her.

Eleanor crossed the room, her elegant heels sinking silently into the plush carpet, and stood beside her daughter, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I just wanted to see how you are. You seem to have been very busy recently. The winter social season is always a whirlwind, of course." She offered a soft, knowing smile.

"It is," Emilia laughed softly, setting her brush down on the glass-topped vanity. "But in all honesty, it's been fun. Better than usual, actually."

Eleanor watched her daughter’s face closely, noting the subtle brightness in her eyes—a light that had been missing for so many painful months. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. "Does that have anything to do with Lord Rhys?"

Emilia turned to face her mother fully, her cheeks warming with a delicate, shy flush. "It does," she admitted softly, her fingers tracing a fold of her velvet robe. "He’s a wonderful man, Mother. He’s kind, and he’s funny, and... well, he’s nothing like the other men at court. He's been an incredibly good friend to me."

"I’m glad," Eleanor murmured, her thumb gently caressing Emilia’s shoulder. She paused, her voice dropping to a tentative, delicate whisper. "Is... is that all it is, darling?"

"Yes," Emilia replied without hesitation, her gaze steady and honest. "I like him, Mother. A lot. He is a truly wonderful person. But he’s a friend, and that’s all."

Eleanor smiled, a soft knowing expression crossing her features, though she remained quiet, waiting.

"Besides," Emilia added, turning back toward the mirror to pick up her hairbrush, "I owe him a lot."

Eleanor’s brow furrowed slightly in mild confusion. "What do you mean, sweetheart? What do you owe him?"

Emilia let out a long, heavy sigh, setting the brush back down. She turned back to her mother, her expression softening into something intensely raw and honest. "Before I met him, Mother, I was drowning. The grief... it was consuming me entirely. I hadn’t heard from Drake, and my heart... it was completely broken. It still is, in many ways. I love Drake. I always will. He is the love of my life, and nothing will ever change that."

Eleanor’s chest tightened, a quiet pang of sorrow reflecting in her eyes, but she didn't interrupt.

"But the grief... it isn't controlling me anymore," Emilia continued, her voice gaining a quiet, mature strength. "I've accepted the reality of things. I've accepted that perhaps all of this—" she gestured around the room, “—the Crown, my title, the constant, suffocating reach of this life—perhaps it was just too much for him to carry after what Father did to him. And I can’t blame him for that. I can’t blame him for choosing a life where he can breathe. But what we had... I will never forget what it felt like to be loved by him. I'll never forget him. But the pain isn't as raw now. And I think a lot of that healing had to do with Liam. He was simply there for me when I desperately needed someone."

"I am so glad to hear it, Emilia," Eleanor whispered, her eyes shining with a rare, watery sincerity. "You deserve peace, my love."

"Plus..." Emilia started, her voice suddenly tightening as a sharp flash of anger and anxiety crossed her features. "The night of the Homecoming Ball... Liam saved me."

Eleanor’s posture instantly stiffened, her hand tightening on Emilia’s shoulder. "He saved you? From what?"

Emilia let out a ragged breath, her fingers tightening into fists in her lap. "I went out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air. I was upset, and... Lord Tariq and Neville Vancouer followed me out. They cornered me, Mother. They actively, physically backed me against the freezing stone balustrade so I couldn't escape. They were... insistent. They made disgusting, suggestive comments about how they could act as my 'comfort,' and how they could help me forget all about Drake."

Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in absolute horror. "They did what?"

"Nothing happened," Emilia said quickly, trying to soothe the sudden, violent panic in her mother’s eyes. "Thanks to Liam. He came outside for a break from the formalities just before they could do anything. He challenged them. They actually attacked him, but Liam fought them both off effortlessly. He pinned Neville against the wall and told them if they ever spoke to me, looked at me, or came near me again, he would make them deeply regret it. And they haven't bothered me since, thankfully. But... I don't know what would have happened if he hadn’t stepped onto the terrace when he did."

"Emilia..." Eleanor’s voice trembled, a mixture of terror and white-hot maternal instinct vibrating in her throat. "Why did you never say anything? Does your father know?"

Emilia let out a harsh, bitter scoff, her jaw setting into a cold, hard line of pure disdain. "No, Mother. I never told him. What would be the point?"

"What do you mean, what would be the point?!" Eleanor cried softly, her voice cracking. "You can’t allow them to get away with this!"

"I haven’t. Liam hasn’t. But you know exactly what Father is like," Emilia spat, the words dripping with a deep, permanent resentment. "That man has proven, over and over again, that all he cares about are appearances, alliances, and duty. He would have brushed my complaint off as me being 'too sensitive.' He would have told me I was overreacting, or that I had misunderstood their 'gentlemanly' advances as something more sinister. He would have protected Tariq’s family line and Neville’s standing before he ever protected me. That’s why I never told him about Applewood, either."

Eleanor froze, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. "What about Applewood, Emilia?"

Emilia looked up at her mother, her eyes entirely devoid of fear, filled only with the bitter truth of her reality. "Tariq tried to force himself on me there, too. Before you and Father even arrived at the estate. He insisted on walking me to my suite after dinner, and the moment we were alone, he pinned me against my door and kissed me. I tried to push him off, I told him no, but he completely ignored me. He thought his title gave him the right to take whatever he wanted. Luckily, I managed to knock some sense into him when I slapped him across the face and threatened to ruin his family line if he didn't leave."

"He... he did what?!"

Eleanor’s voice was no longer a royal whisper. It was a low, dangerous hiss, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The pristine, stoic queen was completely gone, shattered by the visceral, protective rage of a mother whose child had been hunted in her own home.

"It’s okay, Mother," Emilia said quietly, her voice entirely calm. "I handled it."

"It is absolutely not okay, Emilia!" Eleanor said, her chest heaving as a fierce, dangerous fire flared in her eyes. "How dare he? How dare he touch you? How dare they treat the Princess of this country—my daughter—like prey in our own palaces?!"

"Mother, please. I’m okay," Emilia insisted, reaching up to gently squeeze her mother's hand. "Neither of them have dared to look in my direction since the Homecoming Ball. Liam made sure of that. I’m safe."

Eleanor took a long, trembling breath, forcing her shoulders back as she fought to rein in the violent anger threatening to tear through her regal composure. She looked down at her daughter, her eyes softening with a fierce, protective devotion. "Well... I am endlessly glad you have Liam looking out for you. Are... are you seeing him today?"

Emilia offered a soft, genuine smile. "Yes. We’re going for a walk in the hedge maze."

"Good," Eleanor murmured, her voice tight but loving. "I will leave you to get dressed, then."

She leaned down, pulling Emilia into a tight, fierce hug, holding her as if she could shield her from the entire world. "Are you absolutely sure you are okay, Emilia?"

Emilia smiled against her mother’s shoulder. "Yes, Mother. I'm fine. Truly."

Eleanor pulled back, gently kissing her daughter's hair. "That is all that matters."

With a stiff, precise nod, Eleanor turned and left the suite. But the moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind her, the fragile restraint she had forced herself to maintain shattered completely.

The cold, calculated anger came flooding back, hot and merciless. She stood in the empty, gilded hallway, her breathing shallow, her hands clenching into tight, trembling fists at her sides.

They had dared to touch her daughter. Constantine had allowed this toxic, predatory behaviour to fester in his court, all for the sake of political alliances and empty sashes. He had banished the only man who had ever truly loved and protected their daughter, leaving her vulnerable to the wolves.

Turning on her heel, Eleanor did not walk. She marched. Her heavy wool skirts hissed violently against her silk stockings, and her heels struck the ground with a rhythmic, thunderous cadence of pure, unyielding fury as she headed straight toward the King's private study.

*****

The heavy oak doors of the King’s private study did not merely open; they were violently breached.

Eleanor did not wait for an invitation, nor did she heed the startled glance of the royal guard stationed at the end of the hall. She pushed through the threshold, her wool day dress rustling with a sharp, heavy cadence before she slammed the heavy door shut behind her. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet, mahogany-panelled room.

King Constantine sat behind his sprawling desk, a gold-nibbed pen suspended mid-air over a stack of state papers. He blinked, a flash of genuine surprise breaking through his formidable, carefully cultivated mask.

It had been months since she had spoken to him with anything resembling warmth. Ever since their return from Applewood—and the brutal banishment of the Walker boy—a freezing, impenetrable wall had risen between them. Eleanor had retreated entirely to her own private wing, refusing to share their marital suite, and had spoken to him only when the strict demands of public protocol required it. She had made herself a ghost in his bed, but a silent, mocking jury in his court.

But now, she was entirely, terrifyingly alive. Her chest heaved, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of a leather visitor's chair, her eyes burning with a white-hot fury that made him instinctively straighten his spine.

"Eleanor?" Constantine asked, his voice tight but attempting to maintain a calm, kingly authority. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Our daughter," Eleanor said, her voice vibrating with a low, dangerous tremor that made the crystal decanters on the sideboard hum, "has just informed me that certain members of your court have tried to force themselves on her."

Constantine’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from surprise to a dismissive, defensive annoyance. He set his pen down with a quiet tap. "Excuse me?"

"Lord Tariq attacked her at Applewood," Eleanor spat, the words cutting through the quiet room like broken glass. "He forced himself on her in the hallway. He pinned her against her own suite door and kissed her, and when she told him no, when she actively struggled against him, he completely ignored her. She had to physically push him off and slap him across the face to make him stop. And then, at the Homecoming Ball, he tried again. With Neville Vancouer in tow that time around."

Constantine stared at her for a silent, agonizing heartbeat. His jaw worked, but his expression did not soften into horror. Instead, he leaned back in his leather chair, letting out a heavy, tired sigh.

"Oh," he murmured, waving a dismissive hand. "Right."

Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, her vision temporarily blurring with a wave of sheer, unadulterated disgust. "Right? Right? Is that all you have to say to me, Constantine? Right?!"

"Eleanor, be reasonable," Constantine said, his tone flat and clinical, as if he were discussing a minor trade dispute rather than the assault of his daughter. "I am sure Emilia was mistaken. I am sure it was simply Tariq’s way of trying to court her. She is a beautiful girl, and she is the heir to the throne. Suitors will be aggressive. She must have given him some indication, however subtle, that his advances would be welcomed."

"Are you serious right now?!" Eleanor’s voice cracked, a raw, maternal scream ripping through her regal throat. She slammed her hand down on the edge of his desk, scattering several diplomatic briefs. "Constantine, if Emilia had not found the physical strength to push him off at Applewood, if Liam Rhys had not been there to physically fight them off at the Homecoming Ball, they could have raped her! Do you understand that?! They cornered her against a freezing stone balustrade and trapped her!"

"I am sure it would not have come to that," Constantine muttered, his eyes darting toward the closed door, clearly concerned that the guards outside would hear his wife's shouts.

"She is your daughter!" Eleanor cried, tears of pure rage finally spilling over her lashes. "She is the future Queen of this country, and those animals have no right touching her like that! They have no right touching any woman like that! What is wrong with you?!"

Constantine stood up abruptly, his broad chest rising as his own anger began to flare, matching her heat. He slammed his palms onto the mahogany desk, leaning forward. "They are men, Eleanor! They are noblemen of the court, and they have needs. They are young, they are wealthy, and they are navigating the traditional games of the social season."

Eleanor stepped back, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. The disgust in her stomach turned into a physical sickness, cold and oily.

"How dare you," she whispered, her voice dropping to a deadly, shaking hiss. "How dare you turn this around to make it sound as if they did nothing wrong. You sit there and pardon their predatory, disgusting behaviour because... why? Because Tariq is a Lord and Neville is the son of the Prime Minister? Because punishing them would damage your precious, fragile alliances with their families? What about the damage to our daughter?!"

She took a step closer, her eyes locked onto his, refusing to let him look away.

"Are you seriously going to allow these beasts to remain at court, where she has to see them day in and day out, whilst you thought absolutely nothing of brutally beating and banishing the one man in this world who she actually loves? The one man who made her happy, and who would have protected her with his very life, simply because he lacked a noble title?!"

Constantine’s face went purple, a vein throbbing violently at his temple. "Drake Walker had no right touching her!" he roared, pointing a trembling finger at his wife. "Do not speak of that peasant in this room! He had no right being anywhere near the future Queen! He was a servant who dared to think he was our equal!"

"That man was the love of Emilia's life!" Eleanor shouted back, her voice ringing with a fierce, absolute truth. "And he has more right to a title of honour than any of the predatory cowards you choose to protect in your court! The men you insist on shielding because of your pathetic alliances! I want him gone, Constantine. Lord Tariq. I want him stripped of his title, and I want out of this palace."

Constantine let out a harsh, bitter laugh, straightening up and smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. "Eleanor, do not be hysterical. The man is a layabout, yes, and perhaps his manners are... lacking. But his family, his house, are incredibly important to the Crown."

"More important than your daughter?!" Eleanor spat, her eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying clarity. "She is the Crown, Constantine! And you have spent her entire life forcing her into the role of a monarch, never letting her forget her duty. If you insist on treating her like a chess piece, you should at least have the decency to protect her above all else! And you can start with that animal. I want Tariq gone. If you refuse, Constantine, I swear to you..."

She stepped back toward the door, her hand resting on the brass handle. Her posture was incredibly straight, her expression a mask of pure, unyielding iron.

"...I will make sure everyone in this court—every duke, every count, and every foreign diplomat—knows exactly what kind of criminals and rapists you are willing to protect to keep your crown. I will burn this court to the ground myself."

Before Constantine could speak, Eleanor turned on her heel and slipped out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her with a thunderous crack that rattled the paintings on the walls.

Constantine stood frozen behind his desk, his face red, his breathing shallow and laboured. His hands trembled slightly as he slowly sank back into his leather chair. He was furious at his wife's unprecedented outburst—outraged that she would dare threaten him, the King, with such public ruin.

But as the silence of the study slowly settled around him, and his erratic breathing began to steady, a cold, calculating pragmatism began to take hold.

He hated being dictated to, but he was a statesman first. He knew Eleanor’s threat was not empty; she was the Queen, immensely respected by the nobility and adored by the public. If she chose to expose Tariq's behaviour, the scandal would not just destroy Tariq—it would destabilize the entire monarchy, framing the King as a protector of predators.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he thought of Emilia.

He had noticed a distinct change in his daughter over the last two months. When he had first banished Drake Walker, she had been hysterical, unreasonable, and entirely difficult. She still hadn't forgiven him—she likely never would—but since the start of the social season, she had finally begun to carry herself like a princess again. She was smiling, she was attending events, and she was no longer dragging her feet.

And Constantine knew exactly why. Liam Rhys.

The young Lord of House Rhys had been a constant, steady presence by her side. Liam was a spectacular match—influential, wealthy, and brilliant. Constantine was highly pleased by the connection. But if Tariq and Neville continued to crowd Emilia, if they tried to corner her again, the resulting chaos could ruin the match entirely. It could send Emilia spiralling back into the destructive grief he had worked so hard to crush.

Perhaps this newfound, fragile peace she had found was something he needed to protect. Not out of fatherly love, but out of absolute, calculated survival for the Crown's future. Tariq was a liability.

Constantine reached out, his hand steady as he picked up the receiver of his desk phone. He dialled the downstairs office.

"Yes," the King said, his voice cold, flat, and carrying a quiet, lethal authority. "Please inform Lord Tariq Ahmad that I wish to speak with him in my study. Urgently."

He replaced the receiver with a quiet click, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he waited.

Chapter 36 - Joyeux Noël

​Drake Walker, the estate’s stable hand, is everything her royal world rejects: working class, a commoner, and utterly off-limits. Their stolen moments are a defiant fairy tale, a love that burns hotter than any royal decree.

​Their idyll is shattered when King Constantine, Emilia’s father, issues a cold, non-negotiable command: Drake is not good enough for a future queen. Driven by duty and heartbreak, Emilia watches the only man she has ever loved disappear, leaving a void the throne can never fill.

Disclaimer: Some chapters are NSFW. All characters except my OC are owned by Pixleberry. Lots of fluff. Lots of angst. 18+. Feedback is always welcome.

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

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

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

A/N: The 1950s is a decade that has always interested me. I love the fashion, the music and the rebellion that sparked in the youth of the decade. Unfortunately, I wasn't around to experience it, I wasn't born until the late 1980s. But I have done some research to try and keep this as true as possible to youth culture and the words that would have been spoken at the time. I imagine Cordonia to have a blend of both American and British influences. If anything isn't quite right I apologise, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Prologue - A Doorway in Time

Chapter 1 – A Summer Sanctuary

Chapter 2 – Under a Canopy of Stars

Chapter 3 - A Runaway Sunbeam

Chapter 4 – The Depths of Desire (M)

Chapter 5 - More than a Season

Chapter 6 – Every Wonderful Part of You

Chapter 7 – The World Will Move Slower Without You There

Chapter 8 - What it Means to Love Someone

Chapter 9 – Crown Princess Emilia Dawson

Chapter 10 - Written in His Blood

Chapter 11 - A Visitor (M)

Chapter 12 - More than Anything (E)

Chapter 13 – There’s No Place I’d Rather Be

Chapter 14 - Suspicion

Chapter 15 – And Then There Were Two (E)

Chapter 16 - An Apparition

Chapter 17 - The Threat of a Storm

Chapter 18 - A Promise

Chapter 19 – At What Cost?

Chapter 20 – The Foundation Being Laid

Chapter 21 - Jackson Walker (V)

Chapter 22 - Dining with the King (M)

Chapter 23 – The King of My Heart

Chapter 24 - The Royal Derby

Chapter 25 - The Natural Order

Chapter 26 – Wishing On a Star (E, V)

Interlude

Chapter 27 - Persona Non Grata (V)

Authors Note - A Map of Cordonia

Chapter 28 – Broken

Chapter 29 - Leaving Applewood

Chapter 30 - Write to Me

Chapter 31 - Doubts

Chapter 32 - Silence

Chapter 33 - A Stranger

Chapter 34 - Kiara

Chapter 35 - Healing

Chapter 36 - Joyeux Noël

Chapter 37 - Love and Hate

Disclaimer: Some chapters come with warnings (see below). All main characters except my OC are owned by Pixelberry. This story loosely follows the story of The Royal Romance books 1-2, but a lot is canon divergent. Lots of fluff and angst. 18+. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcome.

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

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

Rating - Explicit (18+).

Sexually explicit chapters marked as (E), Violent chapters marked as (V), Mature chapters marked as (M).

@choicesficwriterscreations

Chapter 1 - A Spark in Hyde Park

Chapter 2 - The Price of Loyalty

Chapter 3 - Crossed Wires, Tangled Hearts

Chapter 4 - A Prince, a Promise and a Proposal

Chapter 5 - A Leap of Fate

Chapter 6 - Gilded Cages and Hidden Gazes

Chapter 7 - Masquerade of Intentions

Chapter 8 - Beneath the Princes Shadow

Chapter 9 - Caught in the Current

Chapter 10 - The Derby's Dark Horse

Chapter 11 - Beyond the Palace Walls

Chapter 12 - Unleashed Desires (E)

Chapter 13 - Games of Possession

Chapter 14 - Kissed by the Moonlight and Rain

Chapter 15 - Stars in the Snow

Chapter 16 - A Taste of Winter's Fire (M)

Chapter 17 - Beneath the Velvet and Lies

Chapter 18 - A Private Reckoning (E)

Chapter 19 - A Princes Claim

Chapter 20 - Diving into the Deep End

Chapter 21 - Against the Tide (E)

Chapter 22 - A Gilded Cage

Chapter 23 - A Serpent in the Garden (V)

Chapter 24 - The Escape Route

Chapter 25 - A Dangerous Arrangement

Chapter 26 - A Fragile Reprieve

Chapter 27 - The Unravelling

Chapter 28 - The King's Decree

Chapter 29 - A New Dawn, A New Fight

Chapter 30 - Sanctuary and Strategy (E)

Chapter 31 - The Art of War (and Wine)

Chapter 32 - Crimson Comeback

Chapter 33 - Beyond the Bloom (E)

Chapter 34 - Beneath the Orchards

Chapter 35 - The Apple and The Lens (E)

Chapter 36 - Against a Roman Sky

Chapter 37 - Echoes on the Canal

Chapter 38 - Parisian Exposures (M)

Chapter 39 - Runway Revelation

Chapter 40 - Echoes of a Hidden Past (E)

Chapter 41 - The Threads Unravel

Chapter 42 - Raising the Stakes

Chapter 43 - Dancing with Desire (E)

Chapter 44 - The Royal Flush (E)

Chapter 45 - A Father's Heart

Chapter 46 - A Different Kind of Harmony (E)

Chapter 47 - The Royal Web (M)

Chapter 48 - A Familiar Melody (E)

Chapter 49 - The Reckoning (V)

Chapter 50 - A Mother's Regret (M)

Chapter 51 - Legacy of Lies (M)

Chapter 52 - The Shot Heard Around Cordonia (V)

Chapter 53 - The Longest Night (M)

Chapter 54 - The Return to Light

Chapter 55 - The Promise Under the Pines

Epilogue - Our Kind of Forever

@kingliam2019 this is now a complete series