I’m amazed by the excitement of everyone for wanting to reboot the royal romance. So here’s some ideas 💡 but please feel free to list anything you’d like to see and/ or do.
I was thinking we could all blow up TRR on a certain day on Tumblr by everyone writing a story/ character art/ or just Reblogging to get the flow going again.
one of my favorite things was having to wait for the next chapter because the excitement that came with the curiosity. So… Do we want as a group to reread the Royal Romance book 1 and work our way up, kind of like a book club and write stories, create art, or if you only read that’s perfect because reblogging helps and gives fuel for the fun to continue.
we need to all be in this together for it to work. I’d love to see Pixelberry create a new story for TRR although it probably wouldn’t happen but should.
The biting November wind screamed past Drake’s ears as he rode along the quiet, country road away from Château Lumière. He welcomed the chill, it was the only thing sharp enough to cut through the heavy, suffocating fog of his own torturous thoughts.
He leaned into a sharp curve, the powerful rumble of his motorcycle vibrating through his thighs and up his spine as he tore along the dark, winding asphalt near the French Cordonian border. The headlights of his bike sliced a lonely path through the ink-black night, catching the skeletal branches of the frost covered trees that rushed past like reaching fingers.
Whenever he rode, his mind betrayed him, drifting backward to the only true sanctuary he had left. Emilia. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the way she had buried her face against his shoulder to escape the rushing wind. He remembered the raw, musical sound of her laughter echoing over the roar of the engine on the night of the village fair—fearless, radiant, and utterly alive.
She was perfect, he thought, a bitter, lump forming in his throat. Maybe too perfect.
A sudden, crushing wave of self-doubt washed over him, colder than the wind. She was Cordonian royalty. She was destined to wear a crown, to rule a nation. She belonged in gilded ballrooms, flanked by men in tailored suits with pristine lineages and inherited fortunes. Not on the back of a battered motorcycle, clinging to a commoner who smelled of horse sweat and leather. What did a servant have to offer a future queen?
With a low grunt, Drake forced the dark thoughts back down, throttling the engine as the faint, warm glow of a roadside tavern appeared ahead.
He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the rustic border bar, the tires crunching loudly beneath his bike, and immediately spotted the familiar, rugged silhouette of Leo’s dark truck parked under a dim, flickering yellow streetlamp. A genuine, long-absent smile tugged at the corner of Drake’s mouth, he was lucky to have such good friends, brothers in every way that mattered.
He shut off the ignition, kicked down the stand, and took a deep breath, letting the damp night air curl its way into his lungs. Walking inside, the tavern hit him with a sensory wave of warmth—the crackle of a massive stone fireplace, the rich smell of roasted meats, spilled ale, and tobacco smoke, and the low, comforting murmur of local patrons.
Max and Leo were sitting at a heavy wooden table in a dimly lit corner and the moment Drake walked over, they stood up. Without a word, Drake pulled them both into a tight, bone-crushing hug, his chest aching with a relief so intense it nearly made his knees weak.
"Hey, mate," Max said, clapping Drake firmly on the shoulder as they pulled back. "It’s been too long."
Drake let out a soft chuckle, the sound rusty in his throat. "It’s only been a few days, Max."
"I’m with Max," Leo grinned, pulling Drake in for another brief, mock-rough hug. "That’s still too long. Sit down, sit down."
"Let me grab the drinks first," Drake said, gesturing to the bar.
With a nod to his friends, he walked over to the worn mahogany counter, resting his rough, calloused hands on the wood. The French barmaid, a young woman with a mess of dark curls and a quick smile, looked up from wiping down the taps. Her eyes raked over Drake’s broad shoulders and sharp jawline, her expression shifting into something distinctly predatory.
"Good evening, handsome," she purred, leaning forward over the counter, her accent thick and playful. "What can I get for you?"
Drake offered a polite, distant smile. He didn't want to be rude, but he had absolutely no energy for the game she was playing. "Three beers, please."
"Coming right up." She said, reaching for three heavy glass steins, her eyes never leaving his face as she began to pull the draft. "You’re not from around here, are you? That is definitely not a local accent."
"No," Drake replied quietly. "I'm not."
"So, where are you from?"
"Cordonia."
"Ooh, very nice," she smiled, sliding the first foaming pint toward him. "So, what brings a Cordonian to our humble town?"
"Work, mostly."
"Ah. So, you’re just here temporarily? What a pity."
"No," Drake said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "I'm here permanently."
He hated that word. Permanently. It felt like a life sentence. But it was the brutal truth, wasn’t it? Without the King’s grace, he had no papers to cross the border. He was locked out of his own country, barred from his home, his family, and the only woman he would ever love. He was stuck.
The barmaid's eyes softened, a suggestive spark dancing in them as she leaned further over the worn wood of the counter. She reached out, her fingers slowly sliding over the back of his rough, calloused hand, tracing the line of his knuckles with a deliberate, slow touch. "Oh? In that case, if you’re looking for someone to show you around the place, I’d be more than happy to act as your guide. Personally." Her voice dropped to a sultry murmur, her gaze flicking down to his lips before rising to meet his hazel eyes. "Perhaps you could pick me up tomorrow night? From here? Say... eight?"
Drake looked down at her fingers resting on his skin, but he felt absolutely nothing. It was a familiar dance—he knew women found him attractive and he was well used to the lingering looks, the coy smiles, and the bold invitations from ‘good-time girls; who wanted a piece of him. But right now, his heart felt completely dead to the game.
Instead of the pretty barmaid's touch, his skin screamed for a different hand. He wanted Emilia. He wanted the soft, electric slip of her fingers through his, the warmth of her body pressed against his own, her perfect, unforgettable scent of summer sunshine and sweet jasmine. His chest throbbed with a hollow, agonizing ache, crying out for the only woman on the planet he was barred from ever holding again.
But beneath the crushing depression, a dark, ugly ember of anger flared in his gut. Three months. Three months of writing his soul onto paper, only to be met with a cold, mocking wall of silence. She had abandoned him. While he was rotting in this border town, working himself to the bone, she was likely spinning in gilded ballrooms, letting men in tailored suits touch her waist whilst she beamed up at them with that beautiful smile. She had ditched him for her crown—done the exact same thing her mother, Queen Eleanor, had done to his father decades ago. She had sacrificed their love on the altar of Cordonian duty, breaking the sacred promise she had whispered against his neck during their passionate nights under the moon and stars. I'll never let you go, Drake. I love you.
It had all been a lie.
He was angry, furious at the betrayal, but the rage was a fragile shield against the suffocating loneliness that threatened to drown him every single night. He wanted to hate her, but more than that, he just wanted her back.
He missed the touch of a woman, their soft skin and clean scent, but there was only one woman he wanted. And she was gone. He wasn’t about to replace her with someone else for nothing more than a shallow, physical release. He gently pulled his hand back from the barmaid's touch, offering a sad, apologetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks. But I'll have to pass."
The barmaid blinked, her fingers curling on the empty counter, momentarily taken aback by the rejection before a playful, slightly bruised smirk returned to her face. "What? You got a girl or something?"
Drake’s throat tightened, a sharp, localized pain slicing through his chest. He picked up two of the heavy glasses, his fingers tightening around the handles until his knuckles turned white. "Yeah... something like that."
He dropped some money on to the bar top, then grabbed the third beer and turned away, heading back to the corner table where Leo and Max were watching the entire exchange with knowing, amused grins.
"Everything alright over there, Romeo?" Leo teased as Drake set the beers down and slid into his seat.
"Yeah. Fine," Drake lied, offering a quick smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes.
Leo and Max exchanged a subtle, concerned look, the amusement instantly fading from their faces. Sensing Drake's heavy mood, Leo cleared his throat and smoothly changed the subject.
For the next hour, they fell into the comfortable, easy rhythm of their lifelong friendship. They caught Drake up on the gossip from Applewood and the village.
"We still check in on Bianca whenever we can, by the way," Max mentioned, taking a pull of his beer.
"I know," Drake replied softly, his voice thick with gratitude. "I call her most days from the stable phone at the château, and she told me you have both been looking out for her. Thanks, guys. Seriously. I'm just so glad you're there."
He swirled the dark amber liquid in his glass, his expression turning sombre. "Honestly, the last few times I spoke to her, she sounded... off. She kept mentioning she wasn't feeling well, and when I suggested she try to make the trip over here to the Theron farm to visit, she seemed really hesitant. She didn't seem up to traveling at all, which isn't like her."
Max and Leo exchanged a quick, subtle look before Max offered a warm, reassuring smile. "It's just a bit of a head cold, mate. There's a nasty flu going around the village right now, and she's been feeling a little under the weather. But she specifically told us not to worry you with it. She kept assuring us she's fine, and you know how stubborn she is when she doesn't want to be a burden."
"Yeah," Leo agreed, nodding. "She's just resting up. We've been bringing her groceries and keeping her company. She'll be back on her feet in no time, Drake."
Drake let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."
"Don't worry about it," Max dismissed warmly. "It’s our pleasure, honestly. Oh, and Bastien said to say hi. He keeps an eye on Bianca too when he’s off duty."
Drake smiled genuinely at that. "Good. I’m glad. She and Bastien’s wife were always close when I was a kid. It’s nice knowing she has good people nearby when I can’t be."
They talked about the Applewood stables, the horses, and Jupiter—the champion stallion Drake had poured his heart and soul into training for the Derby. But as the night wore on and the level of the beer glasses sank, the comfortable chatter began to give way to the elephant in the room.
Leo leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his expression turning serious. "Have you heard anything from her, Drake? From Emilia? Anything at all?"
"No. Nothing,” Drake replied, as his shoulders sagged, the exhaustion of the last few months settling over his features like a physical weight.
"She was so desperate for you to write," Leo continued gently. "I can't believe she wouldn't reply. Something else has to be going on."
Drake ran a heavy hand down his face, letting out a long, ragged sigh. "All I know is I’ve heard absolutely nothing. It’s... it’s killing me, Leo. I’m so lonely here."
"Hey," Max said, his voice dropping to a quiet, fierce register. "You’ve got us, mate. Always."
"I know," Drake said quickly, looking up with genuine guilt in his hazel eyes. "I know I do, and I'm incredibly grateful. For both of you. I’m sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound like that. It’s just..."
"It’s fine, mate. We get it," Leo reassured him.
"I just miss her so much," Drake whispered, staring down at the condensation pooling around his glass. "I keep myself busy all day at the Château. The work is gruelling, and it helps, but she’s never far from my mind. Or my heart. I get back to the Theron farm, and Kiara and Zeke are great, but... they’re not her. I lie awake at night just wishing she was there. Wishing I could see her again, hold her, just one more time."
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "But I’m starting to think it’s not going to happen. I’m starting to think... maybe my mother was right. Maybe our worlds are just too different. Maybe she chose the Crown over me."
"I don't believe that for a second," Leo said firmly. "Look, maybe there’s another way to reach her. What if I send a letter to Olivia? I can ask her to slip a message to Emilia or have her call you from a secure line."
"No," Drake cut in, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Absolutely not."
"Drake, it’s a simple letter—"
"No, Leo," Drake insisted, locking eyes with his friend. "I don't want either of you getting involved in this. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. I’ve contemplated calling the palace stables so many times, asking the staff there to send her a message for me. But I don’t know who the King is watching, or if he’s listening somehow. I won’t let anyone else risk themselves for me. If the King finds out you, or anyone else, is acting as a go-between, he’ll have you banished too. Or worse. I won't risk your lives or your futures. Promise me you'll leave it alone."
Leo held Drake’s gaze for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh. "Alright. But the offer stands. If you ever change your mind, just ask."
"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it."
Max, sensing the air had gotten too heavy, quickly stepped in to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "So, Kiara and Zeke are still treating you well at the farm?"
"Yeah, they’re great," Drake said, glad for the distraction. "I earn good money at the Château so I can pay my way, and I help out around the farm whenever I can. They don't ask for much from me. Kiara actually told me they like having me around—probably just because of the extra pair of hands."
He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint, appreciative smile on his face. "Kiara in particular has been really supportive. Zeke is busy with the crops and the markets a lot, so sometimes on the evenings when I get back late from the stables, she waits up for me. She makes sure there’s a warm plate of food, and we sit and eat together. It’s nice. Comforting, I guess you could call it."
Leo nodded slowly, his expression shifting to a quiet, genuine understanding. "I'm glad, Drake. Seriously. You need a good friend right now, and you shouldn't have to eat your meals alone in the dark."
"Yeah," Max agreed softly, setting his glass down with a gentle thump. "Kiara is a sweetheart. It's comforting to know someone is looking out for you over here while you're carrying all of... this. We're just glad you aren't completely isolated."
Drake offered a tired, appreciative nod, his chest warming slightly at his friends' protective concern. "Thanks, guys. She's just a really good friend, and we keep each other company. It helps keep the silence at bay. That’s all it is."
"And that's exactly what you need," Leo smiled, raising his glass.
They finished their beers, the heavy atmosphere of their earlier confession softening back into the familiar, easy warmth of their brotherhood. After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, they stood up to leave, trading firm handshakes and tight hugs with promises to meet up again in the next couple of days.
*****
The engine’s roar was a steady, vibrating thrum beneath him, but it did little to drown out the heavy thoughts spinning in Drake’s mind as he rode the dark, twisting country roads back toward the Theron farm.
The cold November air bit at the exposed skin of his neck, but he barely felt it. His mind was miles away, lingering on the conversation in the bar. Despite Max’s reassuring words and Leo’s easy nod, a persistent, uneasy knot was forming in his stomach. Just a head cold, Max had said. A nasty flu going around the village.
But Drake knew his mother. Bianca Walker was a formidable woman—strong, resilient, and fiercely independent. She was a woman who had weathered decades of quiet hardship without a single murmur of complaint. If she was admitting to feeling "under the weather," and if she was actively hesitating to make the trip to France to see him, it was far more than a simple head cold.
When he called her from the Château’s stable phone, her voice had sounded... different. Thinner. Lacking that grounded, iron-willed resonance he had known his entire life.
A heavy, suffocating wave of guilt settled over his chest. He couldn't help but feel that the sheer, exhausting turmoil of his banishment had finally taken its toll on her. She had spent her life watching him grow, watching him find a place in the world, only to see him ripped away from his home, barred from his country, and cast out like a criminal. She was carrying the weight of his exile just as heavily as he was.
He gripped the handlebars tighter, his knuckles turning white as he leaned into a long, sweeping bend. He loved Emilia. He loved her with a fierce, soul-consuming intensity that he had never felt for another living being, and he would never regret the summer they had shared. He would choose her a thousand times over. But he had never, not for a single second, intended for their love to become a destructive force. He had never wanted their happiness to be purchased at the cost of so much grief—not just for himself and Emilia, but for his mother, Max, and Leo. The collateral damage of their shattered fairy tale was a burden that pressed down on his shoulders with every beat of his heart.
As the road flattened out, the familiar, dark silhouette of the Theron farmhouse emerged from the midnight gloom. Drake slowed the bike, the tires crunching softly on the long clay driveway.
Up ahead, a warm, golden light spilled from the kitchen window, cutting a soft path across the frost-dusted grass. It was a stark, inviting contrast to the ink-black night.
Zeke’s bedroom in the front of the house was completely dark. Drake knew his friend was likely already asleep, exhausted after a gruelling, eighteen-hour day tending to the autumn crops and hauling goods to the early morning markets. But Kiara... Kiara was still awake. Just as he had told Max and Leo, she always seemed to find the quiet energy to wait up for him.
Drake cut the ignition, letting the rumble of the motorcycle die into the quiet rustle of the wind. He kicked down the stand, swung his leg over the seat, and stood in the damp grass for a moment, letting the silence of the valley settle around him.
Walking toward the porch, his boots thudding softly on the wooden steps, he looked through the window. Kiara was standing by the stove, a gentle steam rising from a small pot as she stirred whatever she was heating up.
Drake let out a soft breath, a genuine smile finally brushing his lips. I’m lucky, he thought.
When King Constantine had cast him out, Drake had expected to find nothing but cold, unforgiving isolation on this side of the border. He had expected to rot in some damp, empty room, living off scraps and silence. Instead, Kiara and Zeke had welcomed him into their lives with open arms and zero hesitation. In the three short months he had lived with them, they had become more than just landlords or saviours; they had become family. They had given him a harbour in the middle of a relentless, freezing storm, and he knew he would carry a debt of gratitude to them for the rest of his days.
He reached out, resting his hand on the brass handle, and pushed the thin wooden door open.
The immediate warmth of the house hit his face like a physical embrace, carrying the rich, savoury aroma of slow-simmered herbs and garlic. The soft creak of the door hinges broke the quiet.
Kiara immediately turned around. The moment her eyes landed on him, her face lit up, a bright, beaming smile completely erasing the tired lines around her eyes. She set her wooden spoon aside on the counter, her posture instantly relaxing. She was always so genuinely pleased to see him.
"You're back," she said, her voice a warm, soft melody in the quiet kitchen. "I was beginning to think the boys would keep you out all night."
"Nah," Drake smiled, stepping over to the wooden coat hooks by the door. He unzipped his heavy leather jacket, the silver teeth of the zipper rasping loudly in the quiet room. "They have a pretty long drive back home. Honestly, I'm just so grateful to them for making the trip over the border so often. I couldn't ask for better friends. I'm just glad they think I'm worth the trouble."
"You're more than worth the trouble," Kiara said softly, her eyes tracing the broad line of his shoulders as he hung the heavy leather on the hook. "Your friends see how incredible you are, much the same as I do..."
She caught herself, a sudden, bright heat rushing to her cheeks, and she hastily added, "...me and Zeke, of course. You've overcome so much, Drake. Everyone sees how amazingly well you're doing."
Drake smiled, but it was a tired, weary expression as he walked toward her near the stove. The golden light of the burner cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes.
"I'm not so sure about that, Ki," he murmured. "Physically, I'm back to my full strength, sure. My body is healed." He raised his hand, tapping his temple gently, before resting his palm flat against the centre of his chest. "But in here... and in here... I feel empty sometimes. Like I can’t breathe, like… like I'm drowning."
Kiara turned fully to face him, the small distance between them vanishing. As he stood close, her breath hitched. She could smell the complex, intoxicating scent that seemed to radiate from him—a potent blend of dry hay, honest sweat, cold leather, and the crisp, clean undertone of bay rum aftershave. It was rugged, masculine, and intensely real. It was a scent she had come to crave over the last three months, a smell she secretly wished she could wake up to every single morning.
"I know it’s been hard for you, Drake," she said, her voice dropping to a quiet whisper. She reached out, placing her hand gently on his solid forearm. The instant her fingertips brushed the heat of his skin, a delicious, electric jolt travelled up her arm, sending a sweet shiver through her entire body. "But in time, things will get better. And... you know I'll always be here to make you feel... less empty."
Drake’s chest warmed at her kindness. He saw her as a friend, a steady anchor in a world that had tried to tear him apart, and he was deeply touched by her devotion. "Thanks, Ki," he murmured. He leaned down, placing a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek.
Kiara froze, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. The rough, delicious scrape of his dark stubble against her sensitive skin sent a wildfire of longing through her veins. It was heaven and torture all at once. She closed her eyes, her head tilting instinctively, a desperate, silent plea screaming in her mind for him to turn his face just an inch—to capture her lips with his own and wash away the ghost of the woman who occupied his thoughts. But before she could find the courage to move, Drake pulled back, his gaze already shifting past her shoulder to the pot on the stove.
"Something smells amazing," he said, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside her.
Kiara blinked, swallowing hard as she fought to keep her composure. She quickly turned back to the stove, her cheeks burning as she grabbed a dry dishcloth to lift the lid off the steaming pot. "Yeah," she stammered, her voice a little flustered. "Zeke and I made some French onion soup for dinner. There's fresh, crusty bread to go with it. It's just what you need after that cold ride. It'll warm you right up."
"Thanks," Drake said, moving to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. "Need any help?"
"No, I've got it," Kiara said, ladle in hand. "You just sit. Take a breather."
She carefully filled two ceramic bowls with the rich, dark broth, the savoury aroma of caramelized onions, garlic, and melted gruyère cheese filling the air. She set a bowl in front of him, along with a thick, hand-torn hunk of warm bread, before taking the chair directly next to him.
They dug in, and the hot, savoury soup was an instant relief to Drake’s chilled throat. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first bite hit his tongue.
"So," Kiara asked, tearing off a piece of her own bread. "What did Leo and Max have to say? Anything new?"
"No, not really," Drake said, chewing. "Just catching up on old times. We talked about the stables we all worked in back home, about the people in the village where I grew up. Nothing much exciting, really."
"Well, I guess that means everyone is doing well."
Drake's hands slowed, his spoon hovering over his bowl. The comfortable warmth of the soup suddenly felt heavy. "I suppose. But I asked them about my mum. They go and see her every spare moment they get, and they know she's not feeling good. They assured me it's just a head cold. A flu, maybe. But... I can't shake this feeling that there's something else going on. I wish I could go home to see her myself."
Kiara looked at him, her brow furrowing with gentle, earnest curiosity. "Why can't you?"
The simple question hit Drake like a physical blow. Beneath his shirt, his heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He had never told Kiara and Zeke the full, dangerous truth of his banishment. They knew about Emilia—the girl he loved with every fibre of his being, the girl he wrote to every single day—and they knew her father had discovered their relationship and had brutally beaten Drake before throwing him out of their estate. But the royal titles? The Cordonian Crown? The fact that Emilia was a Princess, and her father was King Constantine? He had kept that entirely to himself. He had spun a protective, believable half-truth: he told them he had fled across the border because Emilia's father was an incredibly wealthy, politically ruthless tyrant who had threatened to have Drake imprisoned or killed by his personal security forces if he ever dared to set foot in their territory again.
"I'm not welcome back there, Kiara," Drake said quietly, his gaze dropping to the dark broth in his bowl. The weight of the lie, combined with the genuine sorrow of his exile, made his voice sound incredibly heavy. "You know that."
"Right. I'm sorry," Kiara said quickly, her eyes filling with instant regret for bringing it up. She reached over, gently squeezing his hand where it rested on the table. "Your mother will be fine, Drake. She's probably just feeling a little under the weather—it's that time of year, after all. The cold can make people sick. Besides, like you said, she's got good people looking out for her. I'm sure she'll be back to her old self in no time."
Drake looked up, meeting her kind, hopeful eyes, and forced a soft, grateful smile. "You're probably right."
He dipped another piece of the crusty bread into the savoury soup, letting the rich flavours ground him. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes of the old farmhouse, but inside the warm kitchen, sitting beside a friend who cared for him, the cold, suffocating weight of his secrets and heartbreak softened, if only for a little while.
*****
The clatter of their spoons against the ceramic bowls eventually slowed, leaving only the quiet hum of the old refrigerator and the rhythmic, hollow ticking of the wall clock to fill the warm kitchen.
"That was incredible, Ki," Drake said, leaning back in his chair with a soft sigh of appreciation. He picked up his glass of water, the movement flexing the lean, corded muscle of his forearm. "Seriously. You have no idea how much I needed that."
"I'm just glad you enjoyed it," Kiara replied softly. She offered him a warm, easy smile, but internally, she had to fight to keep her breathing steady.
As Drake drank, her eyes trailed helplessly over him. She couldn't help it. In the dim, golden light of the kitchen lamp, he looked so devastatingly handsome. Her gaze lingered on the sharp, rugged line of his jaw, shadowed with dark stubble, before drifting down to the hollow of his throat, and then further, tracing the broad expanse of his chest beneath his simple cotton shirt. He was so physically imposing, so solid and real, yet there was a profound, quiet gentleness to him that made her chest ache with a fierce, protective longing.
She clenched her hands together in her lap, pressing her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reaching across the worn pine table to touch him. She wanted to slip her fingers over his shoulders, to feel the heat of his skin again, to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his heavy weight on top of her until the empty, hollow expression in his eyes finally vanished.
She had wanted to do it from the very first moment she saw him.
Her mind drifted back to that rainy August night three months ago, when she and Zeke had found him. He had been dumped like broken trash on the muddy gravel of the roadside near the border, his face bloody, his ribs fractured, and his spirit almost entirely shattered. The men who had done it—the brutal security forces hired by this 'Emilia's' wealthy, ruthless father—had left him to rot.
Kiara had spent weeks nursing him back to health. She had cleaned his wounds, brought him broth, and watched in quiet awe as his body slowly healed, revealing the strong, resilient, and fiercely loyal man beneath the bruises. And during those quiet weeks in the guest bedroom, she had fallen. She had fallen hard, losing her heart completely to a man who didn't even realize he had stolen it.
Drake set his glass down, the heavy thump of the glass on wood snapping her back to the present. He offered her another tired, grateful smile, completely oblivious to the desperate storm raging behind her dark eyes.
"I should probably help you clear up," he murmured, starting to push his chair back.
"Don't worry about it," Kiara said quickly, reaching out to gently press her hand over his wrist. The brief contact sent a delicious, white-hot shiver straight up her spine. "You've had a long ride and a hard day at the Château. Just sit. Let me do it."
Drake hesitated, then sank back into his seat with a quiet chuckle. "If you insist. But I'm washing the dishes tomorrow, no arguments."
"Deal," she smiled.
She stood up, gathering the empty bowls and carrying them to the sink. As she turned her back to him, letting the warm tap water run over her hands, the smile slipped from her face, replaced by a tight, painful restriction in her chest.
She knew he still wrote to her. To Emilia.
Every single morning, Kiara would watch from the hallway as Drake sat at the small desk in his room, his brow furrowed, pouring his soul onto paper. She saw him slide those envelopes into his leather jacket. She knew he stopped at the village mailbox on his way to work, sending his love across the border like a prayer.
And every single day, the mailbox at the end of the Theron driveway remained empty.
With every unanswered letter, Kiara felt a dark, ugly ember of anger flare in her gut. She had never met Emilia, but she hated her. She hated her with a quiet, burning intensity that surprised even herself. How could any woman have a man like Drake—a man so incredibly protective, loyal, kind, and magnificent—and simply discard him? How could she let him rot in exile, writing his heart out every day, without sending a single word in return?
She doesn't deserve him, Kiara thought fiercely, scrubbing a bowl with a sudden, tense viciousness. If she truly loved him, she would have found a way to reach him. She wouldn't have left him to drown in this silence.
In Kiara's mind, Emilia was a spoiled, fragile girl who had played with a good man's heart before retreating back into her wealthy, sheltered world when things got difficult. She was a coward. And she didn't deserve the agonizing devotion Drake was still wasting on her memory.
But Emilia’s loss, Kiara realized with a sudden, heart-stopping thrum of hope, was her gain.
She turned the tap off, drying her hands on a dishtowel before turning back to look at Drake. He was staring quietly at the wooden grain of the table, his head tilted slightly, his thoughts clearly miles away, wandering back across the border to a ghost.
Kiara swallowed the lump of jealousy in her throat and walked back to the table, taking her seat next to him once more. She would be patient. She would be his anchor, his steady comfort in the dark. Drake was still healing, still grieving the illusion of a love that had abandoned him. But winter was coming, and with it, the cold reality that his letters would never be answered.
Soon, the silence would finally break his resolve. Soon, he would stop writing to a ghost. And when he finally looked up from his heartbreak, Kiara would be right there, waiting. She would show him what real, unyielding devotion looked like. She would make him happy. She was absolutely sure of it.
Now that she had found him, the man she was sure she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with, she was never going to let him go. Not for anyone, and certainly not for Emilia.
"You're very quiet, Ki," Drake said softly, breaking the silence as he looked up, meeting her gaze with a gentle curiosity. "Everything alright?"
Kiara reached over, letting her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve, her heart hammering a steady, triumphant rhythm against her ribs.
"Everything is perfect, Drake," she whispered, her smile soft, beautiful, and filled with a quiet promise he couldn't yet understand. "I'm just glad you're home."
As I was reading about Drake on his motorcycle, I heard one coming down the road. Then I watched it pass my house. That's a good omen right? Maybe this means that he and Emilia have some chance of regaining contact. *crosses her fingers*
The music that swirled around her felt less like a melody and more like a shackle, vibrating through the floorboards and tightening around her chest. The waltz continued, a relentless, dizzying spin of silk and pretence, but for Emilia, the notes had long since soured into a frantic, discordant pulse.
As the dance ended, she turned from Neville with a sharp, rigid movement that felt like a physical tearing of her own muscles. Her feet moved across the marble, but she felt as though she were wading through deep, suffocating water. The air in the ballroom—previously a mixture of expensive perfume and floral elegance—now tasted metallic, like blood in her throat. Every beat of the orchestra, every trill of the violins, sounded like a mockery, a soundtrack to her own undoing.
She didn't dare look back at the dance floor. If she looked at Neville, or anyone else for that matter, they would see her broken heart written all over her face. She knew the mask would fracture. She knew the tears that were stinging behind her eyes, hot and insistent, would spill over, and she would stand exposed in the middle of this vault of hollow splendour for the entire court to witness. Instead, she focused on a point in the distance—a heavy set of glass paned double doors leading to the terrace—and forced one foot in front of the other, each step a battle to keep her knees from buckling.
Behind her, Neville Vancouer stood unmoved, a jagged silhouette in the swirling crowd. He didn't follow her; not yet. Instead, he took a slow, calculated sip from a champagne flute he had plucked from a passing server, the crystal rim clinking softly against his teeth. A smirk, thin and bloodless, touched his lips as he watched the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she held her head with a defiance that was rapidly losing its foundation.
He felt a hum of triumph in his chest—a cold, oily satisfaction. He had seen the exact moment his words had punctured her, the split second where her eyes had gone vacant and then dark with a misery so profound it almost made his skin prickle with excitement.
He didn't care about the truth. The fact that Drake Walker spent his days working himself to exhaustion at the Château, his nights in a farmhouse likely pining away for her in silence, didn't matter. His words about the chambermaids were a blunt instrument, and he had wielded it perfectly. He took pleasure in the dissonance of it—that he could conjure such devastation in a royal princess within a few sentences, woven like poison into a dance.
Stable filth, he thought, his eyes tracking her retreat. He despised the very idea that she had ever looked at a servant with longing, let alone loved one. It was an insult to the station he coveted, to the royal bloodline he was determined to entwine with his own. But if she was truly in love with Drake Walker, if the man was a distraction to the princess, then Neville would simply have to be a greater one.
He adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and feline, as he watched her reach the edge of the dance floor. She disappeared into the press of moving bodies, and he felt his heartbeat steady, rhythmic and predatory. She was wounded now. And Neville knew a wounded animal was always easier to track, easier to corner, and infinitely easier to catch. He wouldn't rush. He had the entire evening, the entire season. He had the leverage of her own heart.
He allowed himself a slow, lingering look at the space where she had been, savouring the scent of her perfume that still hung in the air—a ghost of her presence. Then, he turned back to the crowd, his face settling into a mask of polite, aristocratic boredom, biding his time until he would follow her.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Neville didn't flinch; he simply shifted his gaze, his expression smoothing into a practiced, easy charm.
"What was all that about?" The voice asked, dripping with the same bored, callous curiosity that Neville himself cultivated. Neville turned, his smile broadening into something genuine for the first time that evening.
"Lord Tariq," Neville said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial register. "It’s been a long time, my friend."
The two men shook hands, a firm, calculated grip. Neville leaned in, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of sharing his new, delicious secret.
"You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he whispered, his smirk deepening. “I have so much to tell you."
*****
The gilded double doors of the ballroom loomed ahead like a mirage, but the distance between them felt infinite. Emilia’s chest heaved, her breathing shallow and frantic as she tried to navigate the sea of spinning silk and hollow laughter. Neville’s words echoed in her mind, a relentless, oily loop: making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids... the help should stick with the help.
It explained everything. The empty mail tray. The months of agonizing silence. While she had been rotting in her gilded cage, crying herself to sleep, Drake had simply moved on. He was smiling at other women. Touching them.
The heat of the room was suddenly volcanic, choking her. Tears blurred her vision, turning the massive crystal chandeliers into dizzying streaks of blinding light. Blinded by the moisture sting in her eyes, she stumbled forward, her heavy skirts twisting around her ankles.
She braced for a fall, but instead, she collided with a solid chest and arms which instantly caught her by the shoulders, steadying her.
"Em?"
Emilia gasped, looking up through a watery veil into the warm, familiar eyes of Bertrand. He looked immaculate in his House Beaumont dress suit, but his expression was creased with instant, genuine worry.
"Em, what's wrong? Has something happened?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, protective murmur.
"I... I can't..." Emilia’s voice cracked. A hot tear finally spilled over, tracking down her carefully painted cheek. She cast a panicked, desperate look around the crowded foyer, terrified that some gossiping noble or her father’s watchful eyes would see her mask crumble.
Bertrand didn't hesitate. His grip on her arm tightened gently. "Come on," he whispered.
He guided her swiftly through the heavy gilded doors and out onto the sprawling stone terrace. The moment the heavy doors shut behind them, muffling the discordant swell of the orchestra, the biting autumn air hit Emilia’s skin. She shivered, but it was an immense relief against the suffocating, perfume-choked heat of the ballroom.
Bertrand led her to a shadowed alcove near the limestone balustrade, away from the glass doors. He turned to her, his face soft with concern. "Tell me what’s happened, Em."
The dam broke. Emilia buried her face in Bertrand’s shoulder, her frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs as he wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back in a slow, soothing rhythm.
"It’s Drake," she choked out, her words muffled against his suit. "I still haven't heard from him, Bert. Not a single word. And Neville... Neville just told me that Drake has been popular with the chambermaids at Château Lumière. He's been seeing other women. I... I love him so much, Bertrand, and it’s killing me."
Bertrand let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't pull away; he just kept his hand steady on her back, absorbing her grief. "Em... look at me."
Emilia pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, utterly uncaring of what it did to her taupe eyeshadow. She looked up at him, her chest still hitching.
"Drake loves you," Bertrand said, his voice quiet but incredibly firm. "I’m sure of it. Neville Vancouer is cruel, and he is highly calculating. I do not believe for a single second that what he told you is the truth."
"Then why would he say it?" she whispered, her voice raw. "How could he even know to make up such a specific lie?"
"Because he wants you, Em," Bertrand explained, a shadow of disgust crossing his features. "You know he’s been trying to win your hand, to secure the Vancouer line’s claim to the Crown, for years. And I am certain this is just his sick way of getting under your skin, of making you feel weak and isolated."
"But he doesn't know about Drake and me," Emilia protested, shaking her head.
Bertrand offered a small, sad smile. "I wouldn't be so sure, Em. He was at the Derby, wasn't he? I’m sure he saw you and Drake together there. He would have seen the way you looked at each other. A blind man could have seen how you felt." He paused, his eyes softening with memory. "I saw it myself that very night, the night I met him. When I took him into the stable office at Applewood to speak with him... do you know what he told me?"
Emilia blinked back fresh tears. "What?"
"He told me that he would give his life for you to be happy," Bertrand said softly. "He was willing to have his own life utterly destroyed if it meant you could thrive. He didn't care about the consequences to himself, only to you."
"I would be happy if he were just with me," she sobbed, her fingers gripping Bertrand’s sleeve.
"I know, Em. I know." Bertrand squeezed her shoulder. "He loves you. But... you must understand something. While Drake loves you with everything he has, he might be keeping his distance for you. He might be realizing that your relationship... that it could destroy the Crown, and destroy you in the process. Maybe he is trying to do what he thinks is the honourable thing. Letting you go, no matter how much he destroys his own heart to do it. But that does not mean he doesn't love you."
"No, no..." Emilia shook her head, a desperate, stubborn fire flaring in her chest. "I don't want him to let go. I don't care about the Crown. I want him!"
"Shh, I know, Em," Bertrand whispered, pulling her back into a brief, comforting embrace. He looked out over the dark gardens, his own eyes suddenly turning vacant and heavy. "God, I wish things were different. I wish we could both be with whoever we want. That we could love whoever we want without consequence."
Emilia pulled back, her breath catching as she caught the profound, aching sadness reflected in her cousin's eyes. It was a mirror of her own grief, but with a different, quieter shape.
"Have... have you met someone, Bert?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Bertrand looked away, running a hand down his face as a deep, tired sigh escaped him. "I have," he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly under the moonlight. "He works for Ramsford, as part of our public relations team. He’s wonderful, Emilia. He’s handsome, and funny, and... well, he likes me."
Bertrand let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "We’ve been working closely together for the last few weeks, pulling together the communications that will come out of House Beaumont during the course of the social season. He stayed late one night, about a week ago... just to help me with some last-minute minor details for my speech tonight. And... he kissed me."
A genuine, beautiful smile broke through Emilia’s tear-stained face. "Oh, Bert," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze his hands. "I'm so happy for you."
"I didn't want to tell you right away," Bertrand said, looking down at their joined hands. "Not after everything you’ve been through. It felt selfish."
"No, Bert. I’m so glad you did," she insisted, hugging him tightly. "You deserve happiness more than anyone."
"Thanks, Em," he whispered into her hair. "But... I know nothing can ever come of it. I am the heir to House Beaumont. I must marry a woman of equal standing, produce heirs... the scandal if anyone found out about us, about two men together..."
"So, you’re stopping it?” Emilia asked, her brows furrowing with worry. “Before it goes any further?"
"No," Bertrand said, his jaw tightening with a rare, quiet defiance. "I like him, Emilia. I’ve never felt like this before. I don't want to lose him. But the path ahead is..."
"Bert, we will work this out together, okay?" Emilia cut in, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength. "You and your...?”
“Daniel,” Bertrand replied, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Dan.”
“Dan,” Emilia nodded. “If it is meant to be, we will find a way. You cannot lose hope."
Bertrand looked at her, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Then promise me, Em. Promise me you will do the same. I know it hurts now, but you’ll be alright. Okay?"
Emilia offered a small, watery smile. "Thank you, Bert. I can always rely on you."
"Always, Em. Shall we head back inside?"
"Give me a few minutes," Emilia said, gesturing to her face. "I need to compose myself, and I want to be alone for just a little while."
Bertrand nodded understandingly, giving her hands one last supportive squeeze before slipping back through the heavy doors, leaving her in the quiet sanctuary of the night.
Emilia leaned her weight against the cold limestone balustrade, gulping in the crisp autumn air. The freezing wind peppered her bare shoulders with goosebumps, but the physical chill was a welcome shock to her system, dulling the frantic, suffocating heat of the ballroom.
She looked up at the pale crescent moon, Bertrand’s words swirling in her mind. A small, fragile spark of hope began to rebuild itself in her chest, fighting against the black poison of Neville's lies.
"I love you, Drake," she whispered into the empty night, fresh, silent tears spilling over her lashes. "I'm so sorry. Please don't destroy what we had for the Crown. It was worth so much more than that..."
A sob broke from her throat, and her hand instinctively flew to her neck, her fingers reaching for the familiar, comforting weight of Drake's ring.
But her fingers grasped empty air.
Her breath hitched in sudden, violent panic. Her hand scrambled frantically against her bare skin, searching, clawing at her collarbone.
Nothing.
The realization hit her like an icy plunge into frozen water. The ring is gone.
In her blind, hysterical fury in the bedroom, she had ripped the silver chain from her neck. She had stood on her balcony and flung it—the only physical piece of Drake she had left, the token of the greatest, most honest summer of her life—into the pitch-black darkness of the gardens below.
A wave of sheer terror washed over her. What have I done?
She had to find it. She couldn't lose it forever. If Drake never came back to her, if she had to live the rest of her life as a puppet princess in a silent cage, she still needed that ring. It was her anchor. It was proof that she had once been loved by the most incredible man she had ever met.
She spun around, her mind racing. She would have to rush back through the crowded ballroom, slip past her father’s guards, run out the front doors, and search the dark, frosty garden beds beneath her balcony with her bare hands. She didn't care how undignified it was. She didn't care if the whole court saw her on her knees in the dirt.
She took a frantic step toward the terrace doors.
But before she could reach them, the heavy glass door creaked open and a tall silhouette stepped out into the moonlight, cutting off her only path of escape.
"Good evening, Your Highness," a smooth, oily voice drawled, dripping with mock-reverence. "You look as lovely as ever."
"Lord Tariq." The name left Emilia’s throat as a frozen puff of air, her voice cracking under the sudden weight of her shock.
She stood frozen as his silhouette stepped fully into the silver pool of moonlight. The handsome, symmetrical features that the Cordonian court so highly praised were twisted into a look of mocking amusement. It was a face she had hoped to never look upon again. The memory of Applewood—of his heavy weight pressing her against the door of her suite, the stinging slap she had delivered to his cheek, and the white-hot rage with which she had threatened to ruin him as she defended Drake—flashed behind her eyes.
But here he stood, his posture dripping with an intolerable, preening arrogance that proved his pride had completely swallowed whatever shame her threats had once caused him.
Tariq took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his polished leather shoes crunching softly against the frost-dusted stone of the terrace. "I saw you leave the ballroom, Princess," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, oily register that made her skin crawl. "You seemed... distressed."
Emilia instinctively tilted her chin upward, her spine snapping straight as she forced her shoulders back. She could feel the dampness of her tears cooling on her cheeks, and she was acutely aware that her carefully applied makeup was likely ruined, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. She would not let this vulture see her bleed.
"I am perfectly fine, thank you, Lord Tariq," she replied, her voice cold and sharp as a shard of glass. "I merely required some fresh air."
"Oh?" Tariq let out a soft, mocking chuckle, stepping closer until the cloying scent of his heavy clove cologne and expensive brandy invaded her senses, choking out the clean autumn breeze. "Silly me. Here I was, thinking that your sudden flight was because your beloved stable hand had left you all alone."
Emilia’s heart did not just leap; it hammered violently against her ribs, the sudden shock of his words stealing the breath from her lungs. "Excuse me?"
"I had a most illuminating conversation with Neville Vancouer this evening," Tariq sneered, his eyes gleaming with a malicious, vindictive pleasure. "He and I go way back, you know. We first met at one of these very balls, in fact. He was quite forthcoming about how your precious gutter rat is currently shovelling manure at his family’s Château in France."
He stepped closer still, crowding her personal space, his gaze dropping to the bare skin of her neckline with a predatory familiarity. "I warned you at Applewood, Princess. That degenerate Walker is not good enough for the likes of you and me. Tell me, did Daddy finally find out about your dirty little secret? Did the King not like that stable filth daring to touch what isn't his?"
A white-hot spark of rage flared through the ice of Emilia's grief, temporarily drowning out her sorrow. "How dare you speak to me like that," she hissed, her eyes flashing with a fierce, dangerous light. "Drake Walker is a far better man than you will ever be, Tariq. He has more honour in his little finger than your entire family line possesses."
Tariq’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as the insult hit home, his bruised ego from their Applewood encounter rearing its ugly head. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I very much doubt that, Your Highness. A peasant who smells of sweat and dung? You threw away your dignity for a servant and look where it got you. Alone, crying in the dark."
Disgusted and suffocated by his presence, Emilia took a sharp step forward, intending to shoulder past him. "Get out of my way."
But before she could bypass him, the heavy glass door of the terrace creaked open once more.
A second silhouette stepped out, cutting off her angle of escape. Neville Vancouer stood in the doorway, a champagne flute held loosely in his fingers, his eyes gleaming with a quiet, feline satisfaction.
"Everything alright, Princess?" Neville asked, his tone dripping with a mock concern that was entirely hollow.
"No," Emilia said, her voice rising as a cold dread began to settle in her stomach. She was trapped between the two of them, the freezing stone balustrade of the terrace pressing against her lower back. "I’m not feeling well. I need to return to my suite immediately. Let me past, please, Monsieur Vancouer."
Neville didn't move. He took a slow sip of his champagne, his smirk widening as he exchanged a dark, knowing look with Tariq. "Oh? You do look dreadfully pale, Emilia. Perhaps you need an escort? The palace halls can be so terribly dark and lonely at night."
"I do not need your escort," Emilia said, her breathing growing shallow and frantic as she tried to find a gap between them. "I wish to be alone."
Instead of stepping aside, the two men began to close the distance. They moved in unison, their bodies blocking the golden light pouring from the ballroom doors, casting long, suffocating shadows over her. Tariq’s smirk was venomous, fuelled by the memory of her rejection, while Neville’s expression was one of predatory hunger.
"There's no need to be so hostile, Your Highness," Tariq murmured, his voice low and threatening as he stepped closer, forcing her to lean back against the freezing limestone. "We only want to help you. We can be your shoulder to cry on. Your... comfort."
"Indeed," Neville chimed in, his tone smooth and predatory. "You don't need that servant, Emilia. He was a distraction. A temporary amusement. But now that he's gone, you must think of your future. We can show you what a real gentleman can provide."
The physical proximity of the two men was overwhelming. The smell of their cologne, the heat of their breath in the cold air, and the realization that they were actively, physically trapping her made Emilia’s head spin. Her hand instinctively twitched toward her collarbone, a desperate, phantom search for the ring that was no longer there.
Trapped, her back pressing hard against the freezing limestone of the balustrade, Emilia slowly slid her free hand behind her along the rough, frosty stone. Her fingers frantically clawed at the masonry, searching in vain for a loose decorative piece, a heavy stone planter, or anything she could use to defend herself in the dark.
But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving edge of the parapet.
Faced with her own helplessness, a fierce, primal instinct flared to life beneath her terror. She pulled her hands back, tucking them close to her chest and tight into hard, trembling fists. If they tried to touch her, she would fight. She would claw at their faces, scream until her lungs burst, and strike out with every ounce of strength left in her body. She would not go down quietly.
They were practically toe-to-toe with her now, the heat of their bodies suffocatingly close. Tariq reached a hand out toward her shoulder, his eyes gleaming, and Emilia tightened her posture, bracing herself to swing.
"What is going on here?"
A voice cut through the damp terrace air like a razor. It was deep, calm, and carrying a quiet, unmistakable authority that made both men freeze instantly.
Tariq and Neville snapped their heads around, clearly startled that their private, predatory corner had been breached. Standing in the soft golden wash of the ballroom doors was a young man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in an impeccably tailored dark dress coat that seemed to absorb the moonlight.
Tariq responded first, his lips curling into a sneer of aristocratic annoyance as he stepped back slightly from Emilia, though he still blocked her escape. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, my Lord," Tariq drawled, dripping with condescension. "We were simply having a private, friendly conversation with the Princess."
The young lord didn't look at Tariq. His piercing blue eyes bypassed both men entirely, landing squarely on Emilia.
He took in the ruined trails of her makeup, the frantic rise and fall of her chest, and the way she stood trembling in her midnight silk—trembling from far more than just the biting autumn wind. Her eyes were wide, dilated, and glittering with a mixture of raw panic and defiance, like a deer caught in the blinding headlights of an oncoming car.
The stranger’s jaw tightened, a hard, dangerous line settling over his features. He stepped fully into the dim terrace light, his boots crunching softly on the frost.
"From where I am standing," the Lord said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that sent a shiver down Emilia’s spine, "I am not at all convinced Her Highness is interested in your company. I suggest you leave. Immediately."
Neville let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping forward to flank Tariq. "And who are you to suggest anything? Do you think you can just wander out here and claim her for yourself? I think not. Who are you anyway?"
The young lord didn't offer a name. His expression remained a mask of cool, unyielding stone. "That is of no concern to you. Leave. Now."
"Or you'll do what?" Tariq spat.
Ego and brandy fuelling his aggression, Tariq took a stride forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the stranger. With a snarl of disgust, Tariq brought his hand up and pushed the lord’s shoulder angrily, trying to shove him back.
The young lord didn't even sway. He simply looked down at the hand on his coat, then up into Tariq's eyes. "Do that again," he murmured, his voice deadly quiet, "and you will find out."
Neville and Tariq exchanged a brief, mocking sneer, entirely misjudging the man before them. They turned fully away from Emilia, setting their sights on this lone interloper. Before Emilia could even scream a warning, the space between the three men vanished.
"How dare you?" Neville sneered, stepping up beside his friend. "Do you have any idea who I—"
Tariq didn't wait. He drew back his arm and threw a wild, heavy punch straight at the stranger's face.
The young lord moved with a fluid, terrifying speed.
With a practiced ease, he brought his forearm up, effortlessly deflecting Tariq’s strike outward. Before Tariq could recover his balance, the Lord pivoted, swinging his leg out in a swift, sweeping kick that caught Tariq cleanly behind the knees.
With a breathless grunt, Tariq’s legs gave out. He crashed heavily onto the stone terrace, his elegant suit scraping against the frost-bitten stone as he groaned in sudden pain.
Neville’s eyes went wide. Panicking, he lunged forward, raising his hands to strike. But the young lord was already moving. He grabbed Neville by the neck of his tailored jacket, utilizing Neville's own momentum to spin him around and slam him hard against the limestone wall of the alcove.
The thud of Neville's chest hitting the stone echoed in the quiet night. Before he could draw a breath, the Lord pinned him there, catching his right arm and wrenching it firmly up behind his back.
"It is entirely clear to me," the Lord hissed, his face inches from Neville’s ear, "that the men in this court lack the basic decency they were bred to possess."
He applied a sharp pressure to the arm lock, forcing Neville to gasp in pain, his aristocratic posture completely breaking.
"Princess Emilia clearly does not want your company," the Lord continued, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal fury. "You will leave this terrace now. And if you ever crowd her, speak to her, or so much as look in her direction again... I will make you deeply regret it."
Neville’s face went white, his breath hitching as the pain in his shoulder flared. "Okay! Okay, let go!" he whimpered, his arrogance vanishing in an instant. "You've made your point! Let me go!"
The young lord released his grip with a contemptuous shove. Neville stumbled, clutching his arm, his eyes darting frantically toward the terrace doors.
On the floor, Tariq was already scrambling back to his feet, nursing his bruised ego and looking at the stranger with a mixture of shock and sheer terror. Realizing they were utterly outmatched, both noblemen offered one last, hollow glare before turning on their heels. They scrambled past the stranger, practically running as they threw open the heavy doors and disappeared back into the protective, crowded warmth of the ballroom.
The doors creaked shut behind them, leaving the terrace in a sudden, ringing silence.
Emilia stood frozen against the balustrade, her hands still balled into fists, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as she stared at her rescuer.
The young lord turned back to her. In the biting night air, his breath was a quick, pale mist rising from his lips, catching the soft gold light spilling from the ballroom. His posture had completely relaxed, his broad shoulders dropping as the violent energy of the fight drained away.
Emilia’s eyes remained wide. She didn't move a muscle, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn't recognize this man. She had spent her entire life navigating the Cordonian court, and she had thought she knew every face, every title, and every lineage. Yet, he was completely foreign to her.
"Are you alright, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice a deep, steady baritone that carried none of the mocking cadence of Neville or Tariq.
"Y... yes," Emilia managed to whisper, her throat tight.
The lord offered a small, reassuring smile. He took a single step toward her, but as he did, Emilia instinctively flinched, her shoulders tensing as she braced for another threat.
He stopped instantly. Sensing her lingering panic, he raised his hands in a gentle, placating gesture, showing her his open palms to prove he meant no harm. "It’s alright, Princess Emilia. I’m not going to hurt you."
To prove his words, he deliberately walked away from her, crossing the stone terrace to lean his weight comfortably against the frosty balustrade several feet away. He gave her space—physical, unpressured space that let her breathe.
Emilia let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension slowly draining from her limbs. Her fingers uncurled, her trembling hands dropping back to her sides. "Thank you. Lord...?"
"Rhys. Liam Rhys," he said, his smile widening slightly in the moonlight.
"Thank you, Lord Rhys."
"Please, just Liam is fine," he said softly, looking over at her.
Emilia looked at him, her gaze lingering on his features. He was undeniably handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, with neat blonde hair that gleamed like spun gold under the crescent moon, and eyes of a striking, icy blue. But what struck her most wasn't his appearance; it was his demeanour. He wasn't polished to the extreme, hollow perfection of the other noblemen. He stood with a casual, easy grace, and his eyes held a genuine, clear warmth.
"Just Liam?" Emilia let out a small, breathless laugh, her lips curving for the first time in hours. "Forgive me, but it is rather unusual for anyone from the nobility to forgo their title. Most lords here carry theirs like a shield."
Liam chuckled, a warm, rich sound that seemed to banish the lingering chill of the terrace. "I know. But personally, I’ve always felt that a title is something that should be earned, not just inherited. And besides... Liam suits me much better."
Emilia felt the last of her defences crumble. "Well, thank you, Liam."
"You are very welcome, Your Highness," he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Please, call me Emilia," she corrected gently, warming to his easy manner.
"You're welcome, Emilia," he amended, his voice soft. "I'm just glad I came out for some fresh air when I did. Are you absolutely sure you’re okay? Those two..."
"I am fine. Thanks to you," she said, taking a cautious step closer to him, though she still kept a respectful distance. "Really. If you hadn't stepped out when you did..."
"It was nothing," Liam dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Decency demands that much, at least. Though I have to say, your fists were looking rather formidable. I think you might have given them a run for their money even without me."
Emilia laughed, a genuine, light sound that made the heavy weight in her chest feel a fraction lighter. "Me too. I was fully prepared to swing." She paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. "I’m sorry, but I don't believe we’ve ever met. And I am fairly certain I know everyone in the Cordonian court, and most of the foreign ones, too."
Liam let out a self-deprecating laugh, shifting his weight against the stone. "Yeah. I’ve been... away."
"Away?"
"I’ve been in Italy for the past few years," he explained, looking out over the dark, frosty gardens. "Studying, mostly. Working a bit, too."
"Oh?"
"I wanted to do something for myself," Liam said, his voice turning reflective. "To learn about the world outside of this sheltered, gilded life we’re expected to live. Sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful for our privilege..."
"Not at all," Emilia cut in, her voice hushed and sincere. "I find myself wishing I could do the exact same thing. Every single day."
Liam’s blue eyes locked onto hers, filled with a deep, silent understanding. "I returned only recently. My mother requested—or rather, strongly insisted—that I come back for the social season, now that my studies are officially over, and I’ve learned a bit more about politics and business outside of Cordonia."
"And how are you finding being back?" Emilia asked, leaning her own lower back against the balustrade, mirroring his relaxed posture.
Liam huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. "It is exactly as I expected."
"In what way?"
"Pretentious," he said flatly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Exhausting. That’s why I needed to slip out here for a breather. I just needed a little bit of freedom for a moment, you know?"
"Oh, I know. Believe me, I know," Emilia sighed, her gaze drifting down to her satin shoes. "That is exactly why I was out here when Tariq and Neville..."
"Yeah. They shouldn’t bother you again," Liam said, his tone turning momentarily firm, a shadow of the fierce protector crossing his features. "But if they do, you let me know. Immediately."
"I will," Emilia promised, touched by the protective instinct. "So... where did you learn to fight like that? That leg sweep was rather impressive."
"I took some self-defence classes while I was in Rome," Liam explained, a boyish grin gracing his lips. "The statesman I worked with, Signor Francesco, was a firm believer that one should always be able to protect oneself, regardless of status. So, I took some classes. To be honest, that is the very first time I’ve actually had to use any of it. I’m just glad my muscle memory kicked in."
"Me too," Emilia laughed softly.
Liam looked at her in the pale moonlight, his gaze softening. Despite the faint, ruined trails of makeup on her cheeks and the wind-blown strands of her perfect curls, she was beautiful. More beautiful than his mother had described, and far more captivating than the pristine, empty-headed debutantes currently spinning on the dance floor inside.
"So," Liam said gently, his voice dropping to a quieter register. "What was it you were trying to escape tonight, Emilia? Forgive me for asking, but you look like you’ve been through a lot more than just those two idiots." He gestured vaguely behind him toward the ballroom doors.
Emilia’s smile faltered, the cold reality of her heartache rushing back to fill the silence. "Oh. Well... it’s..."
Seeing her face fall, Liam immediately held up a hand. "I apologize. It is entirely none of my business. Please, don't feel pressured to explain."
"No, it's fine," Emilia said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She looked out over the dark gardens, her voice barely louder than the autumn wind. "I... I’ve been going through some very difficult things recently. It’s been hard for me the last few months, and I just... I needed to get out of that ballroom. I felt like I couldn't breathe in there."
"I understand," Liam said simply. There was no pity in his voice, no cloying sympathy, just a quiet, validating acceptance of her pain.
"I was actually just about to go back inside when Tariq and Neville showed up," Emilia continued, her fingers tightening around the cold stone of the balustrade. "I lost something earlier. A… a necklace of sorts... a very important necklace. I dropped it from my balcony before the ball started, and I was going to go down into the gardens to try and find it."
Liam looked out over the pitch-black lawns, the frosty hedges illuminated only by the faint silver of the crescent moon. "I'm not sure you'll have much luck in this light, Emilia. It’s freezing, and the shadows are incredibly long."
"No, perhaps not," she admitted, a heavy sadness settling over her features as she thought of Drake's ring lying lost in the cold dirt.
"Well," Liam said, turning his body fully toward her. "If you'd like, I could help you search for it tomorrow. There is a much better chance of finding something small in the daylight, and two sets of eyes are always better than one."
Emilia blinked in surprise. "Oh, I couldn't possibly ask you to do that. You hardly know me."
"You didn't ask. I offered," Liam pointed out, his blue eyes sparkling. "I would be happy to help you. Truly."
Emilia looked at his kind, open face, and felt a tiny, fragile blossom of comfort. Lord Liam Rhys was kind, and she desperately needed a friend right now. She loved Bertrand, but he was returning to Ramsford tomorrow. Olivia, Hana, and Rose loved her, but lately, they had a painful tendency to look at her with fragile pity, as if she were made of glass and might shatter at any moment.
Liam knew nothing of her broken heart. He didn't know about Drake, or his banishment, or her grief. He was just a kind stranger who offered help without expectation. It would be incredibly nice to have a friend who didn't look at her like she was broken.
"Okay," Emilia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that reached her eyes. "I would really appreciate the help. As long as you're sure you don't mind."
"Not at all," Liam smiled back, stepping closer and offering his elbow. "Now, shall we head back inside? It is getting rather freezing out here, and they will be starting those incredibly long, boring homecoming speeches soon. Personally, I would be deeply grateful to stand next to someone who hates them just as much as I do."
Emilia let out a bright laugh, the sound clear and lovely against the quiet night. She wiped her eyes quickly, trying to rescue what remained of her makeup, then reached out, her fingers resting lightly on the fine, dark wool of his sleeve. The warmth of his arm was a comforting, grounding contrast to the freezing limestone.
"That sounds wonderful," she said.
Together, they turned toward the heavy glass doors, ready to face the court side-by-side.
Hello everyone, I am an oldie who was part of this fandom group for years until too much negativity poured into it. I let go for a while and decided to come back, but seeing that the TRR fanbase has quietened down breaks my heart.
Not only was TRR fun, wild, and romantic, but it was so much fun because of the wonderful fanbase that supported it.
I MISS YOU GUYS!!!!
Some of you might roll your eyes or laugh when I say this, but coming onto Tumblr and engaging with you all was my therapy.
So..... I would like to get the ball rolling by starting a Royal Romance Writing Reboot.
Please share this post so we can reach out to everyone! Whether you enjoy reading, writing, artwork, or just like sharing your thoughts, I hope you'll jump on the train.
My hope is to get everyone involved again and launch some fun events. within the next couple of weeks.
Warnings – Language, Brief mention of sexual activity
The golden light of summer which had bathed the French countryside in a warm glow most of the season, did not dim all at once; it surrendered in slow, agonising increments. In the first few weeks of Drake’s tenure at Château Lumière, the late August sun had been a stifling, benevolent presence on his shoulders, the air thick with the scent of parched grass and the honeyed musk of wild lavender.
He had taken to the work at the Vancouer country estate with an easy confidence, grateful to be back to his full strength. He had taken Kiara and Zeke up on their offer, continuing to live at the Theron farm, which had become a sanctuary not just for him, but for those he’d left behind; Leo and Max made the trip from Applewood almost every weekend, their easy camaraderie a rowdy ghost of the life they’d once shared. Even his mother, Bianca, visited when she was up to it, her quiet presence in the farmhouse kitchen a tether to his past, though her eyes often held a knowing sadness Drake couldn't bring himself to meet.
During the weeks following his friends’ first visit to the farm, Drake’s world had felt ripe with a lingering hope, a world still full of the possibility that one of his letters to Emilia —the ones he filled with love and devotion—would finally be answered. But as the weeks bled into months, the vibrant emerald of the oaks began to fade into shades of bruised ochre and brittle, dying gold, mimicking Drake’s waning spirit.
The atmosphere at the Château Lumière stables had shifted with the changing season also. The sweet, dusty scent of sun-warmed hay was gradually being replaced by the sharp, metallic bite of encroaching frost and the smell of damp leather. Drake found himself grateful for the gruelling labour—the ache in his arms at least gave him a reason for the exhaustion that plagued his soul, the work provided a small distraction that masked the hollow throbbing in his chest. André was a fair man, treating his staff with a friendly, earned respect that Drake knew came from the man’s own humble beginnings. He was paid a wage that made his earnings at Applewood look like copper scraps, providing him with the means to pay Zeke and Kiara for his keep—home cooked meals each night, a warm bed at the Theron farm and the continued support offered by both siblings, especially Kiara—but despite the work and home life he had carved out for himself, none of it could totally silence the screaming absence of her.
Every morning, in the grey hour before the sun dared to crest the horizon, Drake sat at the small wooden desk in his room at the farmhouse. The wood was cold under his wrists as he wrote, a sharp contrast to the burning desperation which was beginning to take a hold around his heart. He told Emilia about the horses—the spirited bay mare whose fire reminded him of her own, the way the valley mist clung to the trees like a funeral shroud. He promised her, over and over, that he was waiting for her. Waiting for the day they could finally be together again. He sent the letters through the village post, watching them disappear into the mailbox with a desperate hope that felt more like a slow-acting poison in his veins.
Still there had been no reply. Still not a single word.
His mind often drifted back to a day nearly two months ago, shortly after he’d arrived at the Château. He had been pitchforking old straw when the head groom had approached, announcing that the Prime Minister was returning from a gala at the Cordonian royal palace and to prepare the horses should their master wish to ride. Drake’s heart had leaped into his throat; he silently nodded before dropping his tool and moving to the edge of the stable doors to watch. From a distance, he saw the sleek, black silhouette of the Vancouer family’s car sweeping up the long, gravel drive toward the main doors.
The sun had glinted off the polished chrome, bright and opulent, a blinding reminder of the world Emilia belonged to, and of a future he had dared to dream could be his before it was cruelly snatched away. He had watched from the shadows of the barn as André stepped out, looking every bit the aristocrat in his tailored suit. The urge to sprint across the manicured lawn, to grab the Prime Minister by the lapels and demand news of Emilia, had burned like lye in his throat. Did you see her? Is she safe? Did she ask about me?
But the questions had remained locked behind his teeth. André was a good man, but he was Constantine’s ally. To ask would be to pull a thread that could unravel the fragile refuge he had found here. If André mentioned Drake’s inquiries to the King, even in passing, the consequences could be swift and merciless. Constantine could see it as Drake trying to claw his way back, and Drake couldn't lead the King’s guard to the Château, or worse the Theron’s door. He couldn't risk making Emilia’s life even more of a prison than it already was. He couldn’t risk himself being silenced for good. Instead, he stepped back in to the shadows of the stables, vowing to keep his head down, to work hard, and to never give up on the love he knew still existed between himself and the princess.
Back in the present, Drake sighed— trying to keep his mind busy, to focus on the task in hand—whilst in the corner of the Château Lumière stable block, a battered, grease-stained radio sat atop a stack of crates, its speaker crackling with music and static. Suddenly the fuzz shifted, then stopped altogether, giving way to a slow, bluesy melody that caused Drake’s breath to catch in his lungs. He recognised the song immediately—the low, melancholic hum of the guitar and soft roll of the drums—it was the last song he and Emilia had danced to at the Starlight Swing in the village square. His hands faltered against the sleek, warm coat of a black mare. He froze, his fingers hovering just inches above the horse’s flank, as his heart began to pound against his ribs. He closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the shadowy rafters, and remembered for a moment how it had felt to hold her. For a heartbeat, the music and the phantom echo of her melodic laugh seemed to dance in the dust motes all around him, so real he almost called her name. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body pressed against his own. But then the spell broke, the memory of her presence evaporated and the rafters became silent, home only to the spiders and the low, lonely whistle of the wind through the eaves.
*****
By early October, the transformation of the land was complete. The bright and beautiful love of their shared summer, which had blossomed into something more spectacular than Drake could have dreamed, was now a ghost; replaced by a skeletal reality.
He stepped to the stable door, wiping a mixture of sweat and grime from his forehead with a trembling hand. Outside, the sky was the colour of a leaden weight, pressing down on the rolling hills. The wind picked up, whistling through the rafters and swirling a handful of dead, brittle leaves across the cobblestones. Then, the rain began—not a cleansing storm, but a cold, dreary drizzle that turned the vibrant autumn gold into a muddy, sodden grey.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the crisp edge of the letter he had written that morning. It felt anchor-heavy, like a stone he was forced to carry. As the rain intensified, blurring the line between the earth and the sky, Drake leaned his head against the cold, unforgiving stone of the doorframe.
The seasons had turned, the world had died to prepare for winter, and a darker thought, one he had tried to outrun for months, finally caught him in the damp shadows of the barn. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps their worlds were too different. Perhaps the glittering pull of the Crown—the weight of Emilia’s duty and the sheer, exhausting scale of her world—had finally eclipsed the memory of a stable boy in a summer garden. He wondered, with a heart-stopping pang of resentment, if she had simply looked at the gold of her palace and decided it was brighter than the gold of their shared sun, just the way Eleanor had when she had turned her back on his father.
*****
The transition at the Royal Palace was less an agonizing surrender and more a calculated, cold transformation. From the height of her private balcony, Emilia watched as the lush, vibrant tapestries of the gardens began to fray. The towering oaks that lined the grand promenade were no longer the deep, sheltering green of her summer at Applewood; they were turning a sharp, brittle bronze, their leaves rattling in the wind like old parchment.
Below her, the gardeners were already at work, ruthlessly uprooting the last of the summer roses. In their place, they planted rows of stiff, frost-hardy chrysanthemums—flowers that lived without the need for the sun’s warmth, much like the life she was expected to lead.
Emilia leaned against the cold limestone balustrade, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings with a restless, frantic energy. Two months. Two months since she had been torn from Drake’s arms, and every single morning had begun with the same crushing ritual. She would wait by her door, listening for the soft footfalls of Rose, only to find her silver mail tray empty of anything but formal invitations and dry diplomatic briefings.
In the beginning, the silence had been a wound that bled fresh every day. She had cried until her eyes were parched, whispering his name into her pillow, clutching the memory of his touch like a lifeline. But as the autumn air grew thinner and sharper, the raw grief in her chest was beginning to calcify. The hope that had once flickered was dying along with the summer blooms.
The sadness was being replaced by a low, simmering heat. Why haven't you written? The question echoed in the hollows of her mind, no longer a plea, but a demand. Had the distance been too much? Had he simply looked at the impossibility of their lives and decided she wasn't worth the struggle? The thought that he might have forgotten her, or worse, that he had never cared with the same soul-consuming intensity that she did, felt like a betrayal more cutting than any of her father’s commands.
A flash of light caught her eye. Over the crest of the distant hill, the first line of sleek, dark cars appeared, their headlights cutting through the deepening violet of the dusk.
The vultures were returning.
Tonight was the Homecoming Ball, the first glittering, suffocating event of the social season. During the height of the summer, the great halls of the palace had been eerily quiet as the Cordonian nobility retreated to their sprawling country estates to escape the heat and the rigid eyes of the court. Even the King’s ministers took their leave, trading their sashes and medals for the lighter burdens of family and sport. But by late September, the migration reversed. The heads of the Great Houses—Vescovi, Amaranth, and the rest—began returning to the capital, bringing with them the gossip, the schemes, and the relentless pressure of expectation.
Emilia had always dreaded this ball. In years past, it had merely symbolised the end of her summer freedom, the moment the heavy velvet curtains of court life were drawn shut. But tonight, it felt like the final nail in a coffin. The arrival of the nobility meant the palace would be a fortress of eyes and ears. Any hope of a clandestine letter, any chance of a secret word from the outside world, was being extinguished by the sheer weight of protocol.
She watched the cars sweep up the drive, a procession of polished steel and hidden agendas. Her summer of love was not just over; it was being buried under the silk and lace of a world that didn't care for stable boys or summer gardens.
Emilia straightened her back, her jaw setting into a hard, regal line. If the world expected a princess, she would give them one. But as she turned away from the fading light of the gardens to face the mirror, the fire in her eyes wasn't born of loyalty to the Crown—it was the bitter, burning heat of a heart that was tired of waiting for a ghost.
She turned to the bed where Rose had laid out her gown—a structured, heavy silk that felt more like armour than clothing. She reached for the garment, the fabric cool and unyielding against her fingertips. Stepping into the voluminous skirts, she felt the sudden, suffocating weight of the Cordonian court settle over her. She reached behind her; her fingers fumbling with the intricate line of hooks and stays. She had told Rose she wanted to be alone to get dressed, but without a maid's assistance, the task was a struggle, a physical battle against the very threads that sought to bind her. She pulled the laces tight, the structured bodice forcing her shoulders back and her breath into shallow, disciplined sips. By the time the last clasp was secured, she felt encased in a cage of midnight silk.
With steady, clinical movements, she began to apply her makeup. Gone was the playful winged eyeliner and the defiant red lipstick that had defined her summer; in its place, she applied muted, neutral tones—shades of taupe and dusty rose that looked elegant, expensive, and entirely hollow. She brushed her hair until it shone with a cold lustre, pinning it back into the perfect, shoulder-length curls expected of a Cordonian royal. The volumized, messy styles she had admired in the Hollywood magazines and had worn all summer, felt like a dream she had woken up from.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
"Enter," Emilia said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears—clipped and precise.
The door groaned open, and Olivia and Hana stepped inside. They looked like strangers, draped in similar court silks and rigid bodices that seemed to hold their very souls in place. The light, airy summer dresses of Applewood were gone, replaced by the heavy, opulent fabrics of the capital.
"How are you feeling about tonight, Emilia?" Hana asked softly, her voice laced with a caution that grated on Emilia’s nerves. "We know this isn't exactly your favourite event of the year."
"You’re right about that," Emilia scoffed, the sound sharp and ugly in the quiet room.
Olivia and Hana exchanged a fleeting, worried look. They had watched the transformation in their friend—the way the fire of her initial defiance had cooled into something sharper and more dangerous. For weeks, Emilia had been a ghost of herself, devastated by Drake’s banishment. But as the empty weeks had turned into months, that sadness had evolved. She wasn't just grieving anymore; she was festering. She was angry at her father, yes, but increasingly, that heat was directed at the silence from France.
"Have you still not heard anything from him?" Hana asked, stepping closer.
"No. He’s clearly forgotten me." Emilia’s voice didn't tremble; it was flat. "Clearly he thinks what we had wasn't worth the trouble."
"Don’t say that, Em," Olivia whispered.
"Why not? It’s true, isn't it!" Emilia snapped, spinning around from the mirror. The anger flared in her eyes, hot and bright, before she saw the genuine concern on her friends' faces and her shoulders slumped slightly. "I’m sorry, Liv. Hana. I… I’m not myself. I haven't been for a while."
"We know, Em," Olivia said, her voice softening. "It’s okay."
They moved to her side, and for a moment, the three of them sat on the edge of the bed, a small island of shared history in the middle of the cold palace. Emilia reached into the neckline of her dress, pulling out the ring Drake had given her. It hung on a delicate silver chain, a secret weight she carried every day. She rolled the cold metal between her thumb and forefinger, looking down at it with a mixture of love and loathing.
"I just honestly thought I’d hear from him, you know?" she whispered.
"So did we," Olivia agreed. "Have you tried writing to him? At the Prime Minister’s estate?"
"Yes. After André told me Drake was working for him at Château Lumière, I wrote." Emilia’s grip on the ring tightened. "I told him I loved him. I told him I hadn't forgotten. I asked him—I begged him—to write back. But I’ve heard nothing. Not a single word."
Hana and Olivia sighed in unison, a heavy, synchronized sound. "I'm sorry, Em," Hana said, taking Emilia’s hand.
"Thanks," Emilia managed a small, jagged smile. "I’m sorry too. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own broken heart... I’ve been so selfish. I haven't even asked how you two are doing. It must be hard for you both as well. You haven't heard anything from Leo or Max either, have you?"
Olivia and Hana looked at each other again, a long, silent communication passing between them that made the hair on the back of Emilia’s neck stand up.
"What?" Emilia asked, her eyes darting between them. "Have you heard something?"
"No, Em," Hana said gently. "But it’s... it’s different for us."
"What do you mean?"
Olivia took a breath, her gaze steady. "We knew that it would be over with them when we left Applewood."
Emilia felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. "What? Why?"
"Because, Em... they live in Ramada. We live here." Olivia’s voice was practical, and that practicality felt like a serrated blade. "We’re from different worlds. We knew it would never work. That it would only ever be a summer romance. It was beautiful and magical, but we knew it wouldn't last."
Emilia stared at them, her mind reeling. "Did Leo and Max know this?"
"Of course," Hana said softly. "We told them, and they agreed. Like Liv says... it was wonderful, but it wasn't love."
Silence crashed over the room. For a heartbeat, Emilia could hear the distant sound of car doors slamming and the faint, regal music starting in the ballroom below. Then, she stood abruptly. The fire in her eyes was no longer simmering; it was ice-cold and furious.
"So that’s all I was to Drake as well?" her voice was a hiss.
"No! Of course not, Emilia," Hana cried, standing quickly. "What you and Drake have, it’s different!"
"If it’s so different, Hana, then why hasn't he written to me?!" Emilia shouted, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
"Em—" Olivia started.
"Is that all I was to him? Just a naïve, pathetic princess desperate for freedom who he could fuck then forget about? Just a summer fling he could boast about with his friends?"
"No, Emilia, I'm sure it’s not like—"
"You know what? If I meant nothing to him... if every word of love and devotion he said to me was a lie, then fine." Emilia’s face was a mask of cold fury. "He can go to hell!"
With a violent, sudden motion, she reached up and grabbed the silver chain around her neck. She pulled with everything she had. The metal bit into the skin of her nape for a fraction of a second before the link snapped with a sharp, sickening ping.
She didn't look at it. She marched out onto the balcony, the night air hitting her face like a slap. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the ring and the broken chain into the darkness. She didn't wait to hear it hit the ground. She didn't want to know where it landed among the frost-hardy chrysanthemums.
Emilia strode back into the room, past her stunned friends, her head held higher than it had ever been.
"Come on," she said, her voice as sharp as a diamond. "We have a ball to attend."
She flung the double doors of her suite open, the heavy wood thudding against the walls. As she marched down the long, gilded hallway toward the grand staircase, her heels clicked rhythmically against the marble—a steady, heartless beat that masked the fact that her heart had finally shattered into dust.
*****
The ballroom of the Royal Palace was a cathedral of excess. Huge chandeliers, dripping with thousands of hand-cut crystals, cast a blinding, artificial light over the room, turning the gold-leafed columns into pillars of fire. The air was thick with a cloying mixture of expensive French perfumes, the sharp scent of lilies, and the heavy, metallic musk of the Cordonian nobility.
Emilia took her place at the head of the grand staircase, flanked by King Constantine and Queen Eleanor. Her father looked every bit the formidable monarch, his chest a tapestry of medals that caught the light with every breath. Her mother, ever the picture of regal poise, wore a gown of shimmering silver that made her look like a statue carved from ice.
"Smile, Emilia," Constantine murmured, his voice low and devoid of warmth. "The people have missed their princess."
"They’ve missed the symbol, not the person " Emilia replied, her voice a razor-edged whisper, before she forced her lips into the practiced, hollow smile she had perfected since she was six years old. As the nobility began to file into the room, she stood beside her mother, offering polite pleasantries and graceful nods. Every "Wonderful to see you, Your Highness," and "You look radiant tonight, Princess," made her blood simmer. Each polite word felt like a physical weight, another stone added to the wall being built around her.
She hated this place. She hated the way the marble floors felt too cold, the way the music sounded too rehearsed, and most of all, she hated the people bowing before her. The young lords of the royal court, and sallow-faced counts from the northern provinces—all looked at her with the same hungry, predatory focus, their eyes lingering on her curves like appraisers, making her feel more like property than a person. They competed for her attention, offering pretentious compliments that felt scripted and hollow. Not one of them had an ounce of genuine personality; they were a sea of identical sashes, polished shoes, and practiced charms, each one blending into the next in a blur of privilege.
She stood there, playing the part of the dutiful princess, her mind a fortress against the thoughts of Drake. I hate him, she told herself as she nodded to a young Duke who was droning on about his family’s new vineyards. I hate him for the silence. I hate him for making me believe that our love was real. But as the words echoed in her mind, they tasted like ash. She didn't hate him; she loved him with a terrifying, soul-consuming intensity, and that love was the poison currently rotting her from the inside out.
Finally, the endless line of guests subsided, and the court moved into the banquet hall for dinner. The room was a shimmering expanse of white linen and silver candelabras. Emilia sat between her mother and a minor royal from a neighbouring kingdom, but her mind refused to engage. The entire meal became a disorienting blur of polite conversation, forced laughter, and the rhythmic clink of silver against porcelain.
The only reprieve was the wine. It flowed freely, a deep, blood-red vintage that felt heavy on her tongue. She drank thirstily, welcoming the way the alcohol began to dull the sharp edges of her anger. With every glass, the room softened. The bright lights became a warm glow, and the pretentious voices of the court receded into a manageable hum. She hoped, with a desperate fervour, that if she drank enough, the alcohol would finally soften the emotional turmoil in her chest—that it would make her forget the smell of summer grass and the feeling of Drake’s heart beating against hers, if only for one evening.
*****
The dinner ended not with a conclusion, but with a command. As King Constantine rose, the scraping of hundreds of chair legs against the marble sounded like a collective, jagged intake of breath. Emilia felt the wine—heavy and warm—settling in her limbs as she was swept along with the tide of silk and sashes toward the ballroom. The transition was a blur of golden light and the sharp, discordant screech of the orchestra tuning their instruments, a sound that grated against her raw nerves.
Then, the music swelled, a frantic, swirling waltz that felt more like a centrifuge than a celebration. Emilia was passed from one set of hands to the next, a doll in a midnight silk cage. The hands on her waist were too smooth, the skin too soft—nurtured by centuries of inherited ease.
She hated the way they moved, with a practiced, clinical perfection that left her cold. Every time a new nobleman leaned in, his breath a cloying cloud of peppermint and expensive brandy, she had to fight the urge to gag.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, seeking a sanctuary that didn't exist in this room. In the darkness of her mind, she felt the ghosts of his hands—the rough, hard-won callouses that had once grazed her skin, sending jolts of electricity through her. She missed the scent of him—not this heavy, floral rot, but the clean, sharp bite of Bay Rum and the honest musk of the stables. She remembered the way his stubble had felt against her cheek, a delicious friction that made her feel alive, grounded, and seen.
The song ended with a flourish of violins. Emilia curtsied, her movements liquid and precise, a mask of royal grace. "Thank you, Lord Bingley," she murmured, her voice a hollow chime.
She turned to flee the floor, desperate for the balcony’s biting air, when a shadow stepped into her path.
"Good evening, Princess."
Neville Vancouer stood before her, his tailored suit fitting him with a predatory sharpness. His eyes didn't meet hers; they raked up and down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips and the rise of her chest as if he were mentally calculating her value. "You look ravishing tonight. Truly a jewel in a room of common glass."
Emilia felt a familiar prickle of revulsion, like a cold wind on her spine. She straightened her back, her chin tilting upward. "Thank you, Mr. Vancouer," she replied, her smile small and brittle. It was a royal shield; one she hoped he couldn't see through.
"May I have this dance?" He offered his hand, his fingers devoid of warmth.
Emilia’s skin crawled. She wanted to scream, to shove past him and run until the palace was a distant, ugly memory. But she could feel her father’s gaze from the dais—a dark, suffocating weight that reminded her of the consequences of public defiance.
"Of course," she said, the words tasting like lead.
He led her back onto the floor as a slower, more intimate melody began. Neville didn't observe the traditional distance of the court; he pulled her closer, his hand splaying across the small of her back until she could feel the heat of his palm through the heavy silk. His breath, smelling of citrus and something sharp, fanned across her cheek.
"You know, Princess Emilia, I very much enjoyed your company at the Victory Gala," he murmured, his voice a low, oily drawl. "Jupiter was a worthy winner at the Derby. Your father should be proud of such a magnificent beast."
"Jupiter is proof that with enough hard work and training, one can overcome any obstacle," Emilia said. She meant Drake—she meant the man who had turned a spirited horse into a champion—but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
"Indeed," Neville chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. "My father was quite surprised the King allowed Mr. Walker to leave Applewood so soon after the win. It seemed... uncharacteristically generous of His Majesty."
The mention of Drake’s name hit her like a physical blow. Her breath caught, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She felt the sudden, stinging heat of tears behind her eyes and turned her head away, staring into the blur of the golden columns so he wouldn't see her composure shatter.
"Of course, my father jumped at the chance to have such a skilled horseman working at Château Lumière," Neville continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress—though in reality he was savouring every second of it. "Personally, I think one stable hand is much the same as the next. Nothing truly special about the help, is there? They are bred to serve their betters, after all."
Emilia’s anger flared, a white-hot spark in the centre of her grief. He is more of a man than you will ever be, she wanted to hiss. But the silence from France—the months of empty mail trays—smothered the fire.
"My father assures me he is doing a fine job, though," Neville added, leaning in so his lips were inches from her ear. "And I must admit, he seems to be making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids."
Emilia froze, her feet faltering for a fraction of a second. "What?"
"Oh yes," Neville said, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, feline satisfaction. "One hears the gossip in the halls. Several of the girls seem quite taken with the man. I don't see the appeal myself—he’s hardly a gentleman—but I suppose the help should stick with the help. It’s the natural order of things, wouldn't you agree?"
Emilia felt as if her heart had been gripped by a frost so deep it turned her blood to ice. The image of Drake—her Drake—smiling at another woman, touching someone else, made her feel physically ill. The room began to spin, the gold and light blurring into a sickening, chaotic swirl.
Neville watched her carefully, his thumb tracing a slow, insulting circle against her waist. He could see the devastation etched into every line of her face, the way her regal mask was finally, irrevocably cracking. It was exactly the reaction he had been fishing for.
His mind drifted back to a morning two months ago at the Château, to the moment he had found out exactly what had occurred between the princess and a stable hand…
Two Months Earlier…
Château Lumière was a monument to the Vancouer family’s ascent—a sprawling, white-stone fortress tucked into the rolling hills of the French countryside. To Neville, the estate was more than a home; it was a kingdom he intended to rule with a much firmer hand than his father ever had.
He moved through the high-vaulted hallways with a proprietary swagger, his silk-lined heels clicking against the parquetry. It had been a week since their return from the Victory Gala in Cordonia, and the air of the palace still seemed to cling to him—the smell of power, the weight of a crown he intended to draw closer to his own bloodline.
As he turned toward the east wing, a flash of white caught his eye. A maid, young and slender, was hurrying down the corridor toward the garden doors, a small wicker basket of mail tucked under her arm.
Neville slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as they tracked the sway of her hips and the way her blonde hair had escaped its cap in soft, flyaway strands. She wasn't noble-standard, of course—her skin was a bit too sun-touched, her hands likely calloused from scrubbing—but she had a certain "fuckable" quality that made him pause. He was bored, and the Château felt stiflingly quiet after the excitement of the capital.
He followed her out onto the terrace, the late summer sun hitting his face with a warmth he found irritating.
"Going somewhere in such a hurry?" he called out, his voice a low, oily drawl.
The girl jumped, spinning around so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face before she dropped into a frantic, clumsy curtsy. "Mr. Vancouer! I—I’m sorry, sir. I was just taking the post to the staff quarters."
Neville stepped closer, invading her personal space until he could smell the cheap lavender soap on her skin. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to the swell of her chest beneath the cotton bodice. He offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a calculated, predatory display of teeth. "The post can wait, can't it? Surely a girl as lovely as you has more interesting things to do with her morning than deliver bills to the help."
He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw. The girl recoiled slightly, her face flushing a deep, uncomfortable crimson. She looked flustered, her hands trembling as she tried to pull away from his touch.
"I... I really must go, sir," she stammered, her voice high and tight.
In her haste to step back, her heel caught on the edge of a stone planter. The wicker basket slipped from her fingers, hitting the gravel with a dull thud. Letters scattered like white petals across the grey stones—bills, postcards from neighbouring countries, and personal notes for the Château's army of servants.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, sir!" She dropped to her knees, frantically scrambling to gather the paper.
"No need to fret," Neville said, his voice dripping with a mock gallantry that made his own skin crawl with amusement. He knelt beside her, his movements fluid and predatory. He enjoyed the way she avoided his gaze, the way her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. He wondered if he could squeeze a quick release out of this encounter—a blowjob behind the hedgerow, perhaps, in exchange for not reporting her clumsiness to the head housekeeper.
But as he reached for a stray envelope near his foot, his hand froze.
The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and bore a distinctive, raised crest in gold wax. The Cordonian Royal Seal. And beneath it, in a graceful, flowing script: Mr. Drake Walker.
A cold, sharp interest replaced his lust. He assumed it was a letter from King Constantine—perhaps a summons for the stable hand to return to Applewood. The King was likely trying to reclaim his prized horseman now that he had heard of Drake’s success at the Chateau. Not if I can help it, Neville thought, his fingers closing over the envelope with a practiced sleight of hand. His father was quite taken with the Walker boy, and the Prime Minister didn't like to lose his assets.
He slid the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket in one smooth motion.
"There you are," he said, handing the girl a few mundane letters he’d gathered. He stood up, his interest in her vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. "Run along now. And try to be more careful. My father doesn't pay you to litter the terrace."
The maid didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her basket, offered another frantic curtsy, and fled toward the stables as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
Neville didn't watch her go. He turned back toward the house, his mind buzzing. He retreated to his private study, locking the heavy oak door behind him. He sat at his mahogany desk, the stolen letter feeling like a live coal against his chest.
He broke the seal with a silver letter opener, expecting a formal royal command.
As he scanned the first few lines, the shock he felt was physical—a jolt of pure, unadulterated revulsion.
My dearest Drake...
It wasn't from the King. It was from the Princess.
I wake up every morning with the ghost of your touch on my skin... I love you... I haven't forgotten the promise we made...
Neville slammed the letter down on the desk, his face contorting into a mask of fury. "How dare he," he hissed into the empty room. "That stable vermin. That... filth."
The thought of the Princess of Cordonia—the woman he desperately wanted to claim as his own prize, a jewel for the Vancouer bloodline—being touched by a man who smelled of manure and sweat made him feel physically ill. Every word of love she had written felt like a personal insult, a stain on the natural order of things.
He stood up, his eyes wild with a cold, focused rage. He wouldn't just keep the letter; he would ensure it never existed.
He crossed to the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling against the morning chill. He held the cream-colored paper over the dancing orange flames and, for a heartbeat, he watched the ink—Emilia’s heart poured out in elegant loops—shrivel and blacken.
He dropped it into the embers.
The paper flared bright and hot, the gold seal melting into a puddle of leaden wax before the fire consumed it entirely. Within seconds, the only evidence of Emilia’s love was a handful of grey ash swirling up the chimney.
My heart breaks for them both. As if the distance between them wasn't enough, time marches on and without the tangible connection of their letters, their promises to each other are starting to wither. I'm really hoping that Leo and Max can find a way to bridge the gap between Drake and Emilia so that they can finally communicate in some way. What about Queen Eleanor, can't she step in and help? She's advocated on Drake and Emilia's behalf before.
Ick, Neville. 🤢 How dare he read the Princess's letter to Drake. And the way he touched Em while they danced..eww, and the way he ogled the maid. Yuck, he's pure poison.
Written with permission for @angelasscribbles blog.
Fandom: The Royal Romance
Characters: Drake Walker, Liam Rys, Riley Campbell and the rest of the gang
Rating: Fun
It’s karaoke night in Cordonia. Everyone is drunk.
Drake is on his 5th whiskey. Riley keeps looking at him, puzzled.
Drake: “Something on your mind, Campbell?”
Riley: “Why are you wearing a pink oxford?? That’s not your usual color or style.”
Drake: *shrugs, but hides a smirk as he takes another sip*
The last patron on stage exits, and Drake does a quick scan of the room. Seeing that Kiara is blessedly absent, he gets up and swaggers to the stage. He whispers to the DJ, who nods and sets up the microphone stand as Drake disappears behind the stage curtain.
After a minute or two, everyone wonders where he went. At that moment, an eight-note piano riff begins as Drake slides out with his back to the audience in just the oxford, socks, and his underwear. The riff repeats again, and Drake turns around and belts out Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger. He mimics the dance from Risky Business as nearly all of the women in the club squeal.
Riley: *mortified* “Oh. My. God. What the fuck is he doing??”
Max: *wide–eyed* “He’s…he’s only had five drinks. He can’t be drunk….”
Liam: *laughing hysterically* “He’s always wanted to do that!”
The dust from the Theron farm driveway hadn't even settled before Drake was off the porch, his body protesting every step, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The familiar truck crunched to a halt, the engine cutting out with a heavy shudder, and the doors flew open almost before it had fully stopped.
It wasn’t just a reunion; it was a collision.
"Drake!" Bianca’s voice was a ragged sob, thin with a week’s worth of held-back terror. She stumbled out of the backseat, her silver-streaked hair catching the dying light.
Drake caught her in his arms, the impact sending a searing spike of agony through his cracked ribs, but he didn't care. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of home—lavender and laundry powder—as she clung to him with a desperate, trembling strength.
"I've got you, Mum. I'm okay," he whispered, his own voice breaking.
Behind them, Leo and Max stood frozen for a heartbeat, the sheer weight of the last ten days falling off their shoulders in an instant. Then they moved. It wasn’t a polite greeting; it was a rough, crushing three-way embrace. Leo’s hand clamped onto the back of Drake’s neck, his forehead pressed against Drake’s shoulder, while Max nearly lifted them both off the ground, his breath hitching in a way he’d never admit to.
"Oh God, Drake," Leo choked out, his voice thick and wet. "We thought—we didn't know if..."
"I know," Drake rasped, pulling back to look at them. His eyes were stinging. "I know."
"You look like hell, man," Max whispered, taking in the yellowing bruises and the way Drake leaned slightly to the side.
"You should've seen me a week ago," Drake replied with a ghost of a smirk.
The afternoon light was descending into a soft, hazy amber, painting the farmhouse in shades of honey and gold. The air was cooling, carrying the sharp, sweet scent of wild thyme and the damp, rich earth of the nearby vineyards. Kiara and Zeke stood by the screen door, watching the scene with quiet, watery smiles.
Drake cleared his throat, turning to his saviours. "Mum, Leo, Max... I want you to meet the people who saved my life. This is Kiara and her brother, Zeke."
Bianca didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and pulled Kiara into a fierce, shaking hug, then did the same for Zeke. "Thank you," she sobbed into Kiara’s shoulder. "Thank you for bringing my boy back to me. I can never, ever repay you."
Kiara held the older woman gently; her eyes meeting Drake’s for a fleeting second. "You don't need to repay us. We're just glad he's doing well."
"Stay for dinner," Zeke called out, his voice steadying as he stepped back. "We have plenty, and Kiara just brought fresh bread from the village. It would be an honour to have you."
Leo looked at the siblings, then at the relief etched into Drake’s face, and nodded. "We’d be more than grateful. Thank you."
Zeke gave a sharp, friendly nod, clapping a hand on the doorframe. "We’ll leave you to catch up for a bit. Come on, Kiki, let’s see to that stew."
As the siblings retreated inside, the porch felt small and sacred. Max and Leo hauled a heavy duffel bag up the steps. Max reached in and pulled out Drake’s favourite worn leather jacket. Drake ran his fingers over the familiar, cracked leather, feeling like a ghost finally reclaiming his skin.
"We brought your motorcycle too. And," Max said, his voice softening as he reached further into the bag. "We thought we’d bring this."
He handed Drake a piece of heavy sketchbook paper. Drake’s breath hitched. It was the sketch Emilia had done of him by the lake. In the fading light, the charcoal lines perfectly captured the tilt of his head, the messy hair, the look in his eyes that only she ever saw. At the bottom, in her elegant, looping script, was her name: Emilia.
Drake’s vision blurred. A single, hot tear fell onto the paper as his finger traced the curves of her signature. His heart, which had been a dull ache for days, suddenly kicked into a frantic, longing beat.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long, violet shadows across the yard, Drake told them the parts he hadn't been able to say over the phone. He spoke of the heavy, suffocating silence of the utility vehicle and the moment the King’s men had dragged him to the edge of that rain-slicked ditch. He described the dull, rhythmic thud of boots against his ribs and the way the world had blurred into the grey of the gravel before the blackness took him.
"I woke up in that bed inside," Drake said, nodding toward the house. "Kiara and Zeke... they just took me in. No questions. Just kindness."
"We owe them everything," Bianca said, squeezing Drake’s hand. Her thumb traced his bruised knuckles.
Leo cleared his throat, his eyes moving from Drake’s bruised face to the empty fields beyond. "What's the plan, Drake? You're banned from Cordonian soil. You can't go back to Ramada, and you can't exactly walk back into the Applewood stables. What are you going to do for work? How are you going to survive out here?"
Drake looked down at the sketch, his jaw setting. "I've already thought about it. I’m going to write to Andre—the French Prime Minister."
Leo’s eyebrows shot up. "The PM? You think he'll remember a stable hand?"
"He didn't see me as just a stable hand at the Derby," Drake said, a spark of the old fire returning to his eyes. "He was impressed. He even made an off-hand comment about how I should come work for him if I ever found myself in France. He has a country home and breeding stables not far from here, not far from the Cordonian border either. Kiara and Zeke have said I can continue living here whilst I work there, if Andre gives me a job. I can help out here, at the Theron farm, to repay them, but I can also earn some money. Maybe give Zeke something towards my keep."
Max whistled low. "That’s bold. But it’s smart. The guy clearly saw your potential"
"Exactly," Drake said. "I’m taking him up on the offer. It’s a job, a good job. Better than I could’ve imagined. I’ve got a roof over my head here, and most importantly, it puts me within reach of Emilia. The closer I am to Cordonia, the closer I am to her. I just… I need to hear from her," Drake turned back to Leo, his intensity returning. "You're sure about the Palace? I have to be sure the letters get to her."
"Like I said, Drake," Leo replied, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "She’s back there. It’s a fortress, but she’s there. I told her you’d write, and she wants to hear from you more than anything. But she’s blind right now—she doesn't know where you are or what condition you’re in. You have to be the one to reach out."
"I will," Drake said firmly. "I’ve written every day, but I’ll start addressing them to the city tonight. Zeke gave me money for stamps. I’m not stopping."
A heavy silence settled, filled only by the distant lowing of cattle and the first evening crickets. Bianca looked out at the horizon, where the sky was bruised with deep oranges. She looked at her son—his battered but healing face—and her heart seemed to break all over again.
"Son," she started softly. "I know you love her. I know you do."
"But?" Drake asked, sensing the shift.
"But I’m just worried," she said, her eyes swimming. "Maybe this is a sign, Drake. Maybe you and Emilia... you’re from worlds that are just far too different."
Drake felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the evening breeze. "What? What are you saying, Mum?"
"She’s the future Queen, Drake," Bianca said, her voice a diplomatic whisper, heavy with a mother’s instinct to protect. "They are a different breed to the likes of us. I just... I don't want history to repeat itself. I can't watch it happen again."
"No," Drake shook his head. "She loves me. It’s not like that."
"I’m not saying this to be mean, honey," Bianca said, a tear spilling over. "She was lovely—beautiful and kind. But your father... Jackson was broken when I met him. I spent years putting him back together, piece by piece. We were happy, but that business with Queen Eleanor... he never truly got over it. He put himself on the line for a crown that didn't care about him, and he ended up dead because of it. I can't lose you too, Drake. I can't."
Drake’s chest felt tight. "Emilia isn't Eleanor."
"Eleanor was forced to choose someone else, Drake," Bianca countered gently. "She had to put the Kingdom—and her duty—before her heart. Maybe... maybe this is Emilia being forced, too. They have rules in that court that we can't even begin to understand. She might not have a choice."
"No," Drake snapped, his voice sounding like a plea. "She’s stronger than that. She promised me."
Bianca reached out, cupping his face with a shaking hand. Her eyes drifted momentarily toward the kitchen window. Inside, she could see Kiara moving through the warm light of the kitchen. Kiara had paused, looking out at Drake with a longing so profound it made Bianca’s breath catch. It was the same look Bianca had given Jackson the day they met—the look of a woman who had saved a man and would devote her entire life to piecing him back together, if only he would let her.
Bianca looked back at her son, her heart breaking. "I know she did, Drake. And she’d be lucky to have you. But the rules for her... they’re different. I just don't want to see you destroyed trying to climb a wall that was built to keep you out."
Drake looked away, his gaze landing on the sketch in his lap. The "lighter" feeling was gone, replaced by a leaden weight of doubt. The warmth of his friends was all around him, but the shadows of the palace felt longer than ever.
*****
The Palace was a symphony of marble and glass, but to Emilia, it felt like a tomb.
It had been fourteen days since she was dragged from the Applewood estate. Fourteen sunsets she had watched from the tall, arched windows of her suite; fourteen mornings she had woken with a gasp of hope that today would be the day a letter arrived. But the silver tray on her vanity remained empty of anything but formal invitations and administrative briefs.
She stood by the window now; her forehead pressed against the cool pane. Below, in the vast limestone courtyard, the palace staff moved like a frantic colony of ants. They were laying out the long, velvet carpets and arranging towering floral displays of white lilies and gold-sprayed eucalyptus.
The gala.
It wasn't the Royal courts Homecoming Ball—that grand, suffocating event was still weeks away. No, tonight was for Jupiter. Her father had insisted on a celebration for the Crown’s victory at the Royal Derby. The irony was a jagged blade in her chest. Jupiter had won because of Drake. Every muscle in that horse, every ounce of discipline and fire, had been forged by Drake’s steady hands and soft commands in the early morning mist of the stables.
And yet, here was King Constantine, throwing a gala to claim the glory for the crown, while the man responsible was… where?
He’s alive, she told herself, her breath fogging the glass. I can feel it in my bones. He’s fighting. He’s in France. In Languedoc. In some rustic bed and breakfast, or maybe working in another stables?
But the silence was deafening. Even the letters he might have sent to Applewood should have been redirected by now. Or—and the thought was a traitorous poison in her mind—had he simply realized she wasn't worth the cost? He had seen the guards. He had felt the weight of the Crown’s shadow. Perhaps the silence was his way of letting go.
No, she whispered, closing her eyes. He said he loved me. He wouldn't leave me in the dark.
The scent of expensive floor wax and heavy lilies drifted into her room, making her stomach churn. Tonight wouldn't just be about a horse. The French Prime Minister was the guest of honour, which meant his son, Neville Vancouver, would be lurking in the corners like a predatory shadow.
Emilia loathed him. She didn't use that word lightly, but Neville was a distillation of everything she hated about this life: pretentious, self-absorbed, and possessing a gaze that made her feel like a piece of property to be appraised. He was exactly the kind of "suitable" match her father demanded she pursue.
The heavy oak doors of her suite groaned open. Emilia didn't turn. She knew the sound of those footsteps.
Rose entered with a soft, sympathetic rustle of silk. Behind her followed Olivia and Hana, their faces masks of carefully curated concern. They carried the evening's armour: a gown of shimmering midnight blue, encrusted with enough sapphires to buy a village.
"The Prime Minister is arriving soon, Your Highness," Rose said softly, her voice barely audible over the distant tuning of an orchestra downstairs. "The King is asking for you."
Olivia stepped forward, reaching out to touch Emilia’s arm. "Em? Are you ready?"
Emilia looked at the gown, then back at the window where the sun was disappearing, leaving a bruised, purple sky that reminded her far too much of the night she lost him. She felt hollow, a porcelain doll being prepared for a play she no longer wanted to act in.
She turned to them, her face pale, a small, heartbreakingly sad smile ghosting across her lips.
"As I'll ever be," she said, her voice sounding like dry parchment.
As they began the ritual of dressing her—tightening the corset until it was hard to breathe, pinning the heavy family jewels into her hair—Emilia looked at her reflection. She looked like a Princess. She looked like a Queen. But as the sapphires caught the light, she realized they were just cold stones, and she was just a girl waiting for a letter that might never come.
The rules of her father’s world were closing in, and for the first time, the silence felt like it was winning.
*****
The Great Hall was a blur of shimmering gold leaf, clinking crystal, and the suffocating scent of roasted meats and heavy perfumes. To Emilia, it was a theatre of the absurd. She sat at the long mahogany table, the weight of the Cordonian crown jewels on her tiara pressing into her scalp, listening to the monotonous drone of dukes and counts bragging about land yields and lineage.
It was everything she loathed—predictable, bland, and utterly hollow.
Her father sat at the head of the table, radiating a cold, smug satisfaction as he accepted toasts for Jupiter’s victory. Every time a guest praised the "Royal breeding" of the horse, Emilia felt a sharp pang of nausea. They were celebrating a triumph built on Drake’s sweat and late-night vigils, while Drake himself had been discarded like refuse.
Then, through the cacophony of dinner, a name cut through the noise like a lightning bolt.
"You were quite the fool to let Mr Walker go, Constantine," Andre, the French Prime Minister, said with a chuckle, swirling a glass of vintage Bordeaux. "That boy is a valuable asset. Hardworking, talented. One doesn't find horsemen of that calibre often."
Emilia’s fork clattered against her china plate. Her heart, which had felt like lead for two weeks, suddenly lurched into a frantic, uneven rhythm.
"He has requested a position in the stables of my country home, not far from the border," Andre continued, oblivious to the way the air had vanished from Emilia’s lungs. "I have contacted him, of course, and offered him the post. We all know he is the real reason for Jupiter's success. Your loss, my friend, is very much my gain."
"You’ve... spoken to him?" Emilia’s voice was a fragile thread.
Andre turned to her with a polite, Gallic nod. "Yes, Your Highness."
"How is he?" She leaned forward, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. "Is he okay?"
"He is doing well, Your Highness," Andre replied easily. "He simply said he had found himself living in France and wished to take me up on my offer. My country home is just across the border into France. It isn't far from Applewood, and the horses I breed there are of the highest quality. I suspect next year, my stable will be the one holding the Derby trophy. Mr. Walker is already settling in by all accounts."
King Constantine’s jaw tightened. "Indeed," he clipped, his eyes flashing a warning at Emilia. "A talented boy perhaps, but ultimately unreliable, he overstepped. I simply could not have that kind of person working for the crown.”
“Oh?” Andre replied, raising a brow. “On the contrary, Your Majesty. My head groom has given me nothing more than a glowing report of Drake since he arrived not two days ago. Its early days, but it appears he is already proving his worth. Perhaps you are already regretting your decision to allow him to leave Applewood,” he chuckled good naturedly.
“He is replaceable.”
“But…” Emilia began, her hands shaking violently where she clasped them together in her lap.
“Enough,” Constantine snapped. “We have far more important matters to discuss. Now, Andre, tell me more about the trade tariffs you’re proposing for the new harvest..."
The conversation moved on, but Emilia’s world had fractured. He’s okay. The relief was a tidal wave, but it was immediately followed by a freezing undertow of doubt. He was in France. He was near Applewood. He was writing letters to the Prime Minister to secure his future.
So why hasn't he written to me?
The traitorous thought she had been fighting for fourteen days finally took root. He had the means. He had the strength. But perhaps the beating he took at the hands of her father, and the guard, had beaten the love out of him, too. Perhaps, in the cold light of his banishment, he had decided that a Princess was simply not worth the trouble, no matter how much he has declared he loved her.
"You look peaked, Emilia. Perhaps a bit of colour in those cheeks?"
A hand, moist and heavy, landed on her shoulder. She flinched. Neville Vancouver leaned in, the smell of gin and expensive tobacco clinging to him like a shroud. He was a man of soft edges and hard arrogance, his eyes wandering over her neckline with a proprietary slime that made her skin crawl.
"Don't let the talk of stable boys bore you," Neville sneered, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. Emilia felt a wave of revulsion, but she was frozen, her mind still in a stable in France. "I was just telling your father that I’ve imported a new yacht. A floating palace would be a more accurate description,“ he boasted, chuckling. “We should take it out. The ocean breeze is particularly beautiful this time of year. I can get you away from all this... rural chatter and talk of servants. They’re not worth a second of your time Princess."
He laughed, a wet, self-absorbed sound, and leaned closer until his damp breath hot against her ear. "You're a prize, Emilia. The finest in the room. Even better than that horse your father is so fond of."
Emilia didn't even have the strength to snap at him. She stared at her reflection in the silver spoon on the table—distorted, warped, and small.
Drake was alive. He was working. He was moving on.
And she was sitting here, being pawed at by a man she loathed, surrounded by the gold and pretention she despised. The "love" he had whispered before the guards took him felt like a ghost story now—something beautiful that had died the moment the doors of the utility vehicle had slammed shut.
*****
The Gala didn't end so much as it dissolved into a blur of champagne-scented whispers and the rhythmic, hollow click of heels on marble. The opulence of the ballroom, once a source of wonder for Emilia, now felt like a gilded cage where the air was too thin to breathe.
"I have a headache," Emilia murmured to Constantine, her voice a practiced, lifeless mask. "I’m going to bed."
Constantine gave a stiff, formal nod, his eyes unreadable. "Very well. Rest is necessary for a future Queen I suppose. Go."
She didn't wait for a second dismissal. She moved through the corridors like a ghost, her heavy silk skirts rustling against the cold stone walls. Once inside the privacy of her suite, she didn't turn on the lamps. She let the moonlight guide her to the balcony doors that overlooked the quiet gardens.
The stars were cold and distant tonight, scattered across the black velvet sky like shards of ice. Emilia reached beneath the neckline of her gown, her fingers finding the simple metal ring hanging from a thin chain. She squeezed it so hard the edges bit into her palm—a grounding pain in a world that felt increasingly surreal.
"Please, Drake," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. "Just a word. Just a sign."
Doubts, cold and parasitic, began to coil in her chest. The memory of her conversation with Andre, the French Prime Minister, echoed in her mind. He had spoken of Drake with such casual ease—He is doing well. A remarkable young man, he had said. If he is doing well enough to work for a Prime Minister, why hasn't he written to me? The question was a jagged stone in her throat. She wanted to believe in the fire they had shared by the lake, the desperate promises made in the moonlight, but the silence was screaming louder than her memories.
"Don't give up on us," she pleaded to the empty room, her voice cracking. "I know it was real. I know it."
She looked out toward the dark horizon, unaware that the distance between her heart and Drakes wasn't miles, or even a border, but a few flights of stairs and a heavy oak door.
Two floors below, the atmosphere in the King’s private study was stifling. The scent of old parchment and expensive tobacco hung heavy in the air, undisturbed by any breeze. Constantine sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the only light provided by a single, green-shaded lamp that cast long, distorted shadows across the room.
The silence of the palace was absolute, mirroring the silence in his own marriage. Eleanor had taken to sleeping in a separate suite, her absence a cold, echoing void in their shared quarters. She spoke to him only when protocol demanded it, her eyes filled with a quiet, simmering loathing that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
But he reminded himself, as he always did, that a King’s burden was to be misunderstood. He was the architect of Cordonian stability. He was the protector of the bloodline.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Constantine pulled a heavy brass key from his vest pocket. He inserted it into the top right drawer of his desk and turned it. The mechanism gave a soft, metallic click.
The drawer slid open to reveal a stack of envelopes, neatly bundled. Each one bore a French postmark. Each one was addressed in a rugged, determined hand to Emilia Dawson. In the upper left corner, the return address was always the same: Drake Walker, Theron Farm, Languedoc, France.
He picked up the letter that had arrived that morning. He could feel the weight of it—multiple pages, likely filled with the same desperate, low-born pining as the others would be. He didn't open it. He never did. He simply placed it on top of the pile.
He had intercepted them all. The letters forwarded from the Applewood estate and the ones sent to the city palace. Every word Drake had written, every "I love you," every explanation, and every plea for her to wait for him sat trapped in this dark, cedar-lined tomb.
Constantine’s fingers lingered on the paper for a moment. He wasn't a cruel man by his own estimation; he was a necessary one. If Emilia believed Drake had abandoned her, she would eventually turn her heart toward the crown, toward another more suitable match. If she believed he had forgotten her, or he was indifferent to their love, she would heal and become the Queen Cordonia needed. The Queen duty demanded.
He pushed the drawer shut. The click of the lock sounded like a gavel in the quiet room.
The future Queen would never see these letters. And Drake Walker, for all his resilience, would remain a ghost—haunting a border he was never meant to cross.
The journey from Applewood back to the palace felt like a slow-motion suicide. Outside, the world was a blurred, weeping smear of emerald and grey, the Cordonian rain streaking horizontally across the glass. Every revolution of the tires was a jagged tally in Emilia’s mind—another mile of road, another layer of distance, another minute further from the stables where her heart had been left behind.
She pressed her shoulder against the door, her forehead resting against the constant, humming vibration of the windowpane. The glass was cold, a stark contrast to the heat of the silent tears that carved shimmering, relentless tracks down her cheeks. She didn't sob; she didn't have the strength left for sound. She simply watched the countryside whiz by, her eyes fixed on the receding horizon as if, by sheer force of will, she could summon the silhouette of the man she loved standing in the rain.
Every mile felt like a fresh, physical wound. It wasn't just an emotional ache; it was a hollow, gnawing hunger in her bones. Her skin felt raw, mourning the absence of him. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the phantom pressure of Drake’s hands—rough, calloused, and certain—against her skin. She could feel the press of his lips against hers, a memory so vivid it made her breath hitch and her heart pound against her ribs. She could almost smell him—that grounding mixture of leather, tobacco, and the faint, sweet scent of horse and hay.
The air in the limousine, by comparison, was dead. It smelled of her father’s expensive cologne, stale pipe smoke, and her mother’s soft, floral perfume—scents that felt like a suffocating shroud.
Beside her, Queen Eleanor sat like a statue of mourning. She held Emilia’s hand in her lap, her grip firm and protective, as if she were trying to hold her daughter’s very soul together. Her thumb moved in a slow, methodical rhythm across Emilia’s knuckles—a soothing, repetitive friction intended to ground her. But to Emilia, the touch felt distant, occurring to a body that no longer belonged to her. A body that had had its heart ripped out, leaving only a gaping void of pain.
"Emilia," her mother whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of the engine. "We’ll be home soon sweetheart; I can stay with you tonight if you like. Everything will be ok"
Emilia didn’t respond. She couldn't. Her throat felt as though it were filled with broken glass. She thought of the way Drake’s body had felt against hers—the passion, the all-consuming love, the promise held in the fire of his hazel eyes. Now, that heat was being replaced by the clinical chill of the palace’s reach.
With every flickering signpost, the man she loved was becoming a memory instead of a presence. The physical distance was translating into a terrifying emotional vertigo. She felt like a kite whose string had been snapped, tumbling aimlessly into a cold, dark sky.
As the car crested a hill, the distant spires of the capital began to pierce the grey clouds. The sight made Emilia’s stomach recoil. To the world, those spires represented power and tradition; to her, they were the highest towers of a prison, designed to keep her trapped. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't look at the road anymore; she couldn't bear to watch the palace grow closer with every revolution of the tires. Instead, she curled her fingers into her palms, her nails biting into her skin, trying to find a pain she could control to distract from the one she couldn't.
She wasn't just going back to the palace. She was going back to a life where Drake didn't exist, and the realization was a physical blow that left her gasping for air in the silent, moving tomb of the car.
*****
The arrival was not a homecoming; it was an imprisonment.
As the motorcade swept up the gravel drive, the afternoon sun struck the limestone façade, turning the sprawling palace estate into a blinding, magnificent monument of marble, gold and power. To the royal court, it was the jewel of the nation; to Emilia, it was a cage. A luxurious cage yes, but a cage, nonetheless.
A footman in crisp white gloves opened the door, his bow so deep it felt like a choreographed erasure of his own personhood. Stepping out, the air changed instantly. The wild, damp scent of the Applewood countryside—the smell of him, of the man who held her heart—was gone, replaced by the cloying, manicured fragrance of hothouse lilies and the sharp, metallic tang of polished bronze
"Welcome home, Your Highness," the Chamberlain murmured. His voice was a smooth, characterless silk, the sound of a man who had spent forty years perfecting the art of being seen and not heard.
Emilia didn't reply, she simply smiled sadly. Her breath felt shallow, caught in a throat raw from heartbroken cries and tortured screams. As she walked through the Great Hall, the opulence felt aggressive. The marble floors were so highly buffed they didn't just reflect her; they seemed to pull her under, mirroring her haunted expression back at her from a cold, white abyss. Above, the vaulted ceilings were encrusted with gold leaf and frescoes of ancestors who stared down with painted, judgmental eyes, their gazes heavy with the weight of "duty."
Everywhere she looked, there was gold. It shimmered on the heavy brocade curtains, glinted off the crystal chandeliers that hummed with a low electric vibrato, and ran in intricate veins through the wainscoting. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking. And it was utterly, devastatingly fake.
The sheer pretension of the space made her skin crawl. She thought of Drake—the rough, calloused texture of his palms, the smell of woodsmoke and honest sweat, the way he looked in the dim light of a stable, stripped of titles and artifice. That was real. That was life. But this? This was a museum where the exhibits were expected to smile and bleed in silence.
As she climbed the grand staircase, the walls seemed to lean in, the gold trim sharpening into points. The velvet runners swallowed the sound of her footsteps, stripping her of even the noise of her own movement, as if the palace were trying to wash away her existence before she even reached her room. She felt the weight of the crown she wasn't even wearing pressing down on her skull—a phantom heaviness that made her neck ache and her spirit bow.
I can’t do this, she thought, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. I can’t live in a world where Drake doesn’t exist. I want to run away from these walls, run until my feet bleed, back to the mud, back to the rain, back to him…
She caught the eye of a massive portrait of her great-grandmother, a woman famous for her "stoic grace." Emilia felt a sudden, hot flash of loathing. She hated the pearls, she hated the protocols, and she hated the blood that demanded this sacrifice. She wished with a violent intensity that she had been born a nobody—the daughter of a baker, a girl in a village—anyone who could wake up and choose love over a bloodline. A girl who could choose a stable hand over a crown.
Her mother’s hand remained on her arm, a silent anchor, but even Eleanor’s support couldn't stop the sense of drowning. As they reached the landing of the private quarters, Emilia stopped, her eyes fixed on the long, echoing corridor.
The heartbreak she had felt in the car had evolved. It wasn't just a longing for Drake anymore; it was the suffocating realization of her own deletion. She wasn't Emilia, the girl who screamed in delight on the back of Drake’s motorcycle; she was a piece of the architecture. She was a state asset to be polished, displayed, and eventually traded in exchange for a political alliance.
"Emilia," her father’s voice was stern behind her, echoing off the gold-leafed mouldings. It was the first time he had spoken to her since they had left Applewood. He sounded satisfied, as if the familiar luxury of the palace had restored his sense of order, indifferent to the fact that his daughter was fracturing in front of him. "I suggest you rest. We have a dinner with the Council later this week. We must look our best."
He didn't care how she felt. He cared how she would look. How she would appear.
Emilia didn't turn around. She stared at the golden door to her suite, feeling her soul being crushed under the weight of a thousand years of expectation. She stepped forward, the heavy doors closing behind her with a soft, final thud that signalled the end of her freedom.
Once inside, the grandeur of the room felt like a hollow mockery, a vast and opulent cage designed to stifle the life out of her. A fresh wave of agony crashed over her, more violent than before; her breath hitched in a jagged sob as her heart seemed to fracture all over again, the pieces sharp and cutting. Hot, stinging tears began to stream down her face once more, blurring the expensive silk wallpaper into a smear of meaningless luxury.
Her fingers clutched the ring at her neck, a symbol of the promise she and Drake had made to one another. She couldn't believe that this was the end of them. She couldn’t believe that their love was over—she refused to believe it. All she could do now was cling to the hope Rose had given her.
She had to hope that Drake would write, hope that he was safe, and hope that wherever he was, he would be looking at the same stars at night, waiting for the day when they could tear these golden walls down and be together again.
*****
The first week back at the Palace was a masterclass in erasure.
Emilia moved through the corridors like a ghost haunting her own life. The numbness she felt was her only protection; it was a thick, grey veil that muffled the sound of the ticking grandfather clocks and softened the sharp edges of her father’s expectations. She ate when a plate was placed before her, she stood when protocol demanded, and she offered the vacant, polite smiles of a doll. But behind the façade, her heart was a raw, open wound.
She wasn't giving up. She was simply mapping the walls of her cage. She couldn't go to Drake—she didn't even know where in Languedoc he was, if he was still in France at all or if he had moved on. She had no way to contact him. She couldn't slip past the gates; the King’s guards followed her with the silent, predatory grace of hounds. Most terrifying of all was the threat of the palace medics. She knew how her father and the court would handle her if she was deemed to be "difficult”. One outburst at dinner with the Council or during a charity gala, one perceived tantrum that shattered the stoic appearance, and Constantine would order a few drops of something in her tea to calm her ‘hysteria.’ She would spend her days in a drugged, compliant fog. She had to be careful. She had to be perfect until she was free to find Drake.
In the quiet of her bedroom, however, things were different. It was here that the mask slipped, that her heart broke over and over again, pulling her to the edge of despair. It was here that she lay in the dark, whispering Drake’s name into the night, as silent tears carved paths down her cheeks.
Every morning, Rose would enter the suite to help her dress, carrying a heavy silver tray. On it sat Emilia’s personal mail. Each time the latch of the door clicked, Emilia’s heart would leap into her throat, a frantic, desperate bird. Her eyes would scan the tray before Rose even reached the bed, searching for a rough envelope, a familiar scrawl, anything that didn't bear the embossed seal of a government office or a royal house.
But every morning, the result was the same. Gala invites. Requests for her to become a patron of a new charity. Formal thank-you notes from the Cordonian elite. No Drake. Her heart didn't just sink; it felt as though it were being hollowed out, bit by bit.
Rose moved through the room with a practiced, quiet efficiency, drawing the heavy velvet curtains with a synchronized swish. The morning light felt like an insult—too bright, too cheerful for a world that had ended. She turned to her friend, a soft sympathetic smile playing on her lips.
"He will write, Emilia," she whispered, her voice a low anchor in the sterile room. She sat on the edge of the bed, taking Emilia’s cold hands in hers and ignoring the pile of unopened formal invitations. "Leo and Max will find him. They’ll tell him you’re here at the Palace and he’ll write to you. Drake isn't a man who stays gone, not when he has someone like you to keep him strong. He’s alive, and he loves you. You have to hold onto that."
Emilia didn’t answer. She simply offered a small, tragic smile that didn't reach her eyes. She saw her reflection in the vanity mirror—a pale, hollowed-out version of the girl who had come alive at Applewood; the girl who had given her heart to a stable hand. In her place there was a stranger staring back at her with dark, bruised circles under her eyes from the hours spent sobbing into her silk pillows, her grief a private, midnight ritual. She felt like a shell.
But then, she felt the weight.
Hidden beneath her nightgown, resting exactly where her heart fluttered against her breast, was Drake’s ring. She hadn't taken it off since the moment he gave it to her. It was her only physical proof that the fire they’d shared wasn't a fever dream, that their love was real. She pressed her palm against the fabric, letting the hard, unforgiving metal bite into her skin. It was a grounding pain.
He is breathing the same air as me, she reminded herself. The rain in France is the same rain falling here. It’s the same moon and stars that pepper the night sky like diamonds.
The silent breaking of her heart, which only she could hear, continued throughout the week. The numbness she felt, as if her very soul had been pulled from her body, grew with each passing day that no letter from him arrived.
Whenever her path crossed with Constantine’s in the long, vaulted galleries, the air turned to ice. He spent most of the week locked in his study, but on the occasions he emerged, he tried to force a return to normalcy.
"Emilia, a word regarding the autumn gala—" he began on Wednesday, reaching out to catch her arm as she passed him toward the gardens.
Emilia pulled her arm away with a sharp, violent jerk, her eyes never meeting his. "I have nothing to say to you," she said, her voice like a closing door. She walked on, leaving him standing in the hall, his face darkening with a frantic, impotent rage. Even Queen Eleanor had joined the silent rebellion; she sat at breakfast with the King, her back perfectly straight, her eyes fixed on her tea, answering his questions with nothing but cool, monosyllabic nods that made it clear he was not forgiven.
The first week culminated in a gruelling dinner with the Royal Council. Emilia sat like a statue of granite between her mother and a senior minister.
"The trade figures from the northern ports are exceptional, Your Highness," Duke Godfrey of Karlington said, leaning toward her with a sycophantic smile. "Surely that brings some joy to the crown?"
"The prosperity of our people is always a priority, my Lord," Emilia replied. Her voice was perfectly modulated—polite, poised, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the voice of a woman speaking from a great distance.
"And your thoughts on the upcoming diplomatic mission to Berlin?" another asked.
"I shall fulfil whatever duties are required of me," she said, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall three inches above her father’s head. She didn't look at him once. Not when he cleared his throat, not when he tried to lead the conversation back to family legacy.
When the last of the guests had finally bowed out, the doors groaned shut, leaving only the three of them; Emilia, the King and Queen, in the cavernous hall. The candle flames in the silver candelabra danced in the sudden draft.
Constantine slammed his hand against the table. "Enough of this, Emilia!" his voice echoed off the high ceilings. "The Council was whispering. This pathetic pining... it ends now. You must be stoic. You are the future Queen, not some common girl crying over a boy who isn't worth the salt in your tears."
Eleanor rose slowly, her eyes flashing with a quiet, lethal disdain. "She is stoic, Constantine. She is exactly what you trained her to be. If you do not like the result, perhaps you should have considered the cost of your 'duty' sooner." Without another word, the Queen swept from the room.
Emilia rose next, her movement slow and terrifyingly deliberate. She walked toward her father, the silk of her skirts hissing against the marble floor. When she stopped, she was inches from him.
"You disgust me," she said, her voice a low, vibrating blade. "You sit here surrounded by these pretentious men and meaningless gold objects, talking about 'duty' as if it’s the only thing that keeps the world turning. You don't care about the real people. You don't care about the ones who work their fingers to the bone while you play these cruel, petty games."
"Emilia—"
"It doesn't matter how many miles or borders you put between us," she cut him off. "It doesn't matter how many guards you set at my door. My heart belongs to Drake. It has since the moment I saw him in the paddock at Applewood, and it will until the last breath leaves my lungs."
"You are being ridiculous," Constantine sneered, his grip on his wine glass tightening until his knuckles were white. "You are a child playing at romance."
"I would rather be ridiculous than cruel," she fired back.
"You have a job to do!" he roared, finally losing his composure. "You are the future Queen of Cordonia, and you will start acting like it!"
Emilia leaned in, her face inches from the man who had taken away the most important person in her life. "Oh, I know I will be Queen, Father. And you should remember this moment very clearly. Because the first thing I will do when I wear that crown is lift Drake’s banishment. I will bring him home, and I will spend the rest of my life with him by my side, putting right every single wrong you have ever done."
She didn't wait for his response. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the hall, her head held high. Constantine’s voice followed her, shouting for her to return, but she ignored him, the sound of her own heartbeat drowning him out.
Back in her room, the door locked and the world shut out, she leaned against the cool glass of the window, staring at the stars which scattered the inky sky like sparkling sequins.
"Write to me," she breathed, her breath fogging the pane. "Please, Drake. Just one word. Tell me we were real. Tell me I didn't dream you. Tell me you still love me and always will."
*****
The kitchen of the Theron farmhouse was a symphony of rural peace, a cruel irony that Drake found increasingly difficult to stomach.
Dust motes swirled in the shafts of honey-thick sunlight that pierced the window, dancing over the scrubbed pine of the small kitchen table. The air smelled of baking bread, dried herbs hanging from the rafters, and the faint, lingering scent of woodsmoke from the cast-iron stove. It was a space designed for comfort, for the slow ticking of a cuckoo clock and the warmth of a shared meal. But to Drake, the quiet was a roar.
He sat hunched over the table, his fingers white-knuckled around a ballpoint pen. He was shirtless, the heavy bandages across his ribs now replaced by smaller, cleaner dressings. The violent purples and blacks of his bruises had faded into a sickly, jaundiced yellow—a visual map of a healing body that housed a shattering soul.
With a sharp, hissed intake of breath, he shifted his weight, and a jagged spike of pain flared in his side. He didn't care. The physical agony was a tether; it reminded him he was still alive, still tethered to the world where she existed.
In front of him lay another sheet of cream-colored paper. It was the seventh. Seven days since he had first put pen to paper. Seven letters sent into the void.
My dearest Emilia, the pen hovered, the ink pooling in a tiny, dark lake on the page.
His hand shook. He set the pen down and pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to force back the hot, stinging pressure behind his lids. He felt like a man who had lost a limb—not just a metaphor, but a literal, phantom-limb sensation where part of his chest had been hollowed out and left behind in the Cordonian dirt. He was lopsided. Incomplete.
"The postman came by the end of the drive twenty minutes ago," a soft voice murmured.
Drake flinched, his head snapping up. Kiara stood in the doorway; a basket of eggs cradled against her hip. Her dark eyes were soft with a pity that Drake wanted to scream at.
"Did he... did he have anything?" Drake’s voice was a jagged wreck, stripped of its usual strength. "Anything with a Cordonian postmark?"
Kiara set the basket on the counter with a slow, deliberate care that told him the answer before she spoke. "Nothing today, Drake. I am sorry."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Drake looked back at the blank page. The excuse he’d been feeding himself—that the floodwaters had swallowed the mail vans, that the border was closed, that the world was simply too broken to carry a letter—had died two days ago when Zeke walked to the post box at the end of their driveway and brought home the local newspaper and a handful of bills. The world was moving. The mail was moving. It just wasn't bringing him her.
"She hasn't forgotten me," he whispered, more to the woodgrain of the table than to Kiara. "She wouldn't. You didn't see her face when they dragged me away. She was... she was screaming for me."
"I know," Kiara said softly, she walked towards him and sat down in wooden chair at the table, her presence grounding and calm. After a moment of watching him she tilted her head. "Tell me more about her. The woman you’re so desperate to get back to."
Drake hesitated. The truth was a dangerous thing. He looked at Kiara—her honest face, the simple cotton of her dress and something else in her expression he couldn’t quite place. If he told her he was in love with the Crown Princess of Cordonia, she’d likely think he’d taken one too many blows to the head. Or worse, she’d tell someone. And if word reached the Palace that he was openly declaring to be involved with royalty, Constantine might find him and silence him for good. Or worse, Emilia might suffer as punishment.
"Her name is Emilia," he started, his voice rasping slightly. He chose to leave out the titles, the palaces, and the heavy weight of the Cordonian crown. To him, they didn't matter. He loved the woman beneath all that, the real Emilia. "I met her at the start of the summer. The second I saw her... I just knew. It was like the world finally snapped into focus."
A small, genuine smile touched his lips—the first real one in days. "On her second night in the county, I took her to a local fair. We went on the Ferris wheel. I think I fell for her right at the top, looking at the lights below and realized she was the only thing worth looking at. We started spending time together, with friends, or just the two of us. I took her to a village dance, and it was one of the best nights of my life... she’s got this laugh, Kiara. It’s like music. She’s adventurous, stubborn, passionate. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And she loves me. God help her, she loves me."
Kiara listened, her chin resting in her hand, but as he spoke the last words, a small, puzzled frown creased her brow.
"If she loves you so much," Kiara asked softly, "then why isn't she here? Why were you left alone on the side of that road?"
The bitterness returned, sharp as vinegar. "Her father," Drake said, his voice hardening. "He found out. He didn't think I was good enough for her—doesn't think a man who works with his hands should be anywhere near his daughter. He attacked me, beat the crap out of me... then he had his men dump me where you found me."
"Why didn't she stop it?"
"She couldn't. She tried but she was outnumbered. Outmatched."
"Where is she now?"
"Still at her family’s country home," Drake sighed, his gaze drifting back to the window. "In Cordonia. She doesn't even know where I am. She probably thinks I’m dead. That’s why I need to get word to her. I’ll write to her every day until I see her again."
Kiara let out a long breath, a look of pity and something else—something sharper—flickering in her eyes. "Well, in the meantime, I’ll do anything I can to help you, Drake. I’d be more than happy to just sit and listen if you need to talk. I can be that person for you."
She reached out, placing her hand over his on the table. Her skin was warm, and her touch was meant to be purely comforting, but she lingered a second too long.
Drake looked at her and smiled, unaware of the way her heart had begun to drum against her ribs. "Thanks, Kiara. For everything."
"It’s my pleasure, Drake," she replied, her voice dropping an octave.
She looked at him then, really looked at him. Even with the fading bruising and the exhaustion of the last week, there was a rugged, masculine strength to him that she found herself drawn to. He was exactly her type—handsome, resilient, and fiercely loyal. As she leaned back in her chair, watching him, a quiet, selfish ache formed in her own chest. She had spent years waiting for someone like Drake to come into her life, someone kind, masculine, protective. Someone who made her heart flutter just with his proximity. Someone to speak about her the way Drake spoke about this 'Emilia.'
She didn't say a word, of course. She simply sat with him, her fingers curled around his on the table, secretly wishing the road to the Cordonian border was much, much longer than it actually was.
Drake gave her one more smile before pulling his hand from hers. He picked up the pen again, his movements frantic now, driven by a raw, bleeding panic.
I am still here, he wrote, the ink slashing across the paper. I am still breathing. Every morning I wake up and my first thought is the way the sunlight used to catch the gold in your hair at Applewood. I am terrified, Em. I am terrified that the silence means they’ve broken you, or that you think I’ve broken my promise. Never. I would sooner stop my own heart than stop looking for a way back to you.
He stopped, a single tear escaping and blurring the word 'promise.' He didn't wipe it away. He watched the paper drink it in.
The scent of jasmine drifted in through the open window from the vine outside. It was a sensory assault. He closed his eyes and for a split second, he wasn't in a French kitchen; he was in the stables, his face buried in the crook of her neck, the world reduced to the rhythm of her heartbeat against his.
When he opened his eyes, he was just a broken commoner in a borrowed chair, writing to a ghost.
"I actually have some good news for you," Kiara said, her voice a gentle intrusion.
“You do?” Drake’s head snapped up, his heart soaring that perhaps today was the day Emilia had replied to his letters after all.
“Yes,” Kiara smiled. “Zeke spoke to the postman this morning. The roads are clear; he will be able to drive you to town to use the phone box.”
*****
The drive into the local village was a jarring transition. After days of nothing but the rhythmic creaking of the farmhouse floorboards and the low lowing of cattle, the hum of Zeke’s old truck felt like a roar of progress.
Drake sat in the passenger seat; his hand pressed firmly against his ribs to buffer the vibration of the road. Every pothole was a reminder of his frailty, but he barely felt the physical sting. His mind was miles ahead, already standing in that cramped glass booth, hearing the click-clack of the international connection, and—God willing—the sound of her voice on the other end of the line.
Kiara sat in the middle; her shoulder pressed against his. She was quiet, her gaze fixed on the passing vineyards, but Drake could feel the heat of her presence. He was grateful for her, and her brother. They had saved him from the ditch he had been dumped in. He didn't see the way her jaw tightened every time he reached into his pocket to touch the folded letter he intended to mail.
"The village is small," Kiara said as they slowed down, the cobblestones rattling the chassis. "The phone box is near the post office. Zeke needs to pick up some feed at the far end of town, so he will drop us and come back in half an hour."
"Half an hour is plenty," Drake rasped, his eyes scanning the storefronts until he spotted the red silhouette of the booth. His heart hammered against his bruised ribs like a frantic bird.
The truck hadn't even come to a full stop before Drake was climbing out. The air in the village was crisp, smelling of roasting coffee and damp stone. He moved with a limp, his gait stiff, but his focus was absolute.
He stepped into the booth and the door pulled shut with a heavy, vacuum-like thud, momentarily cutting off the sounds of the world. It smelled of stale tobacco and old paper. With trembling fingers, he fished a handful of coins from his pocket—coins Zeke had lent him—and began to dial the one number he knew by heart. Not the Applewood main line—that would be suicide—but the private extension for the stables.
Ring... ring... ring...
Each tone was a serrated blade across his nerves.
"Pick up, Bas. Please, just pick up," he whispered, his forehead leaning against the cold glass.
Ring... ring...
"The number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please hang up and—"
The mechanical voice was like a physical blow. Drake hung up, his breath hitching. He tried again. And again. On the fourth attempt, the line didn't even ring; it just gave a flat, busy signal that sounded like a heart monitor flatlining.
He slammed the receiver down, sweat beading on his upper lip. He took a jagged breath, forced his shaking hand to feed the last of the coins into the slot, and punched the digits in one more time with a prayer.
There was a series of clicks, a burst of static, and then—the line opened.
"Applewood Stables," a tired voice said. It was harried, breathless, and so familiar it made Drake’s knees buckle.
"Leo," Drake choked out, his voice cracking. He gripped the heavy plastic receiver as if it were a lifeline. "Leo, it's me."
There was a dead, heavy silence on the other end. Drake could hear the distant sound of a horse neighing in the background.
"Drake?" Leo’s voice was a frantic whisper. "Holy shit... Max! Max, it’s Drake! Where the hell are you? Oh god, it’s so good to hear your voice, mate."
In the background, Drake heard a muffled shout and the sound of someone scrambling for the phone. "Drake? Is that really you?" Max’s voice joined in, thick with emotion. "Shit man, we’ve been looking for you for a week. Every single day we’ve been crossing the border, searching every road, every ditch... we were beginning to think we’d never find you. We thought you were gone."
"I'm here," Drake said, a tear escaping and trailing through the dust on his cheek. He looked through the glass of the booth. Kiara was standing a few feet away, watching him. When their eyes met, she smiled at him softly, that same tender look in her eyes she’d had earlier that morning. Drake offered a small, tired smile back before turning away to focus on the call.
"Constantine’s men... they dumped me at the side of the road over the border. A brother and sister found me. They took me into their home, patched me up, and they've been looking after me ever since. I wouldn't have made it without them."
"Thank God for them," Leo breathed.
Drake’s voice dropped, becoming urgent. "How is she, Leo? How is Emilia? I’ve written to her every day, but I haven't heard a word. I need to know she’s okay. Can you find her? I need to hear her voice."
There was a long pause. Drake felt the familiar icy grip of dread.
"Leo?"
"I’m sorry, mate," Leo said quietly. "She was taken back to the Palace two days after they dragged you away."
"What?" Drake’s world tilted. "No..."
"She didn’t want to go, Drake. She fought it, but she had no choice. But she came here, to the stables, right before they left. She asked me to tell you something, just in case I ever heard from you."
Drake closed his eyes, leaning his weight against the wall of the booth. "What is it?"
"She asked me to tell you she loves you. And she always will."
Drake’s heart swelled with a painful mixture of happiness and crushing sorrow. The words were a balm to his soul, but the reality was a jagged pill. She was back in the gilded cage she had been so desperate to escape—the place where Constantine had all the power.
"I told her you'd write," Leo continued. "I knew you would. But you need to send your letters to the Palace now, Drake. I’m sure the mail is forwarded from here for a while, but for anything further, send it directly to the city."
"I will," Drake promised, his jaw tightening with renewed resolve.
"Where are you staying?" Leo asked, his tone shifting to business. "Give us the address. Max and I will drive there right away. We've got all your things packed—we weren't going to let them throw your life away."
Drake looked down at the clothes he was wearing. His jeans were his own, and Kiara had washed the blood and dirt from them, but they were still tattered from the beating he'd taken. The shirt belonged to Zeke; it was a size too small, the buttons straining across his chest. He felt a sudden, sharp longing for the simple comfort of his own life.
"I'm at a farm about twenty miles past the border crossing," Drake said, relaying the directions to his friends.
"We're on our way," Max said firmly. "See you soon, brother."
The line went dead with a final click. Drake stood in the silence for a moment; the receiver still pressed to his ear. He stepped out of the phone box feeling physically lighter, the weight of the unknown finally lifted. But as he walked back toward Kiara, the thought of Emilia being even further away, trapped in the heart of the city, made the crisp village air feel thin and cold.
Special thanks to @nestledonthaveone for the huge behind the scenes support whilst I've been struggling with terrible writers block, and for pre-reading this chapter!
While New York slept, it was early morning in Cordonia. With a sigh, King Nicholas rubbed the crust from his eyes and rolled over in bed. Morning light leaked around the curtains, reminding him that his night of restless sleep was finally over. The press conference was a few hours away and his country's unanswered questions had weighed heavily on him during the night. He hoped he was prepared enough to answer them.
Although the glass of bourbon had helped knock him out, it had also been nightmare fuel. As much as he tried to forget the horrors of the train station attack by day, it still haunted him in his dreams. Last night it was Kate's bloodied body that he'd held in his arms, and not Madeleine's. Seeing her pale face and wide eyes looking up at him in shock and agony, had jolted him awake to a tangle of sheets and a cold sweat. Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a series of deep breaths to settle the bile storm brewing in his stomach, he'd tried to shake off the terrified screams and thunderous gunshots that threatened to swallow him whole all over again. Once his galloping heart had settled down to a slow trot, sleep had finally caught up to him again.
In Cordonia the King and Queen are an important symbol of strength and stability. Being the newly crowned King should be a reason to celebrate hope for the future. But the champagne had hardly dried in the flutes when the assassination of Madeleine had put the future of his reign in danger. His people would be looking to him for reassurance that the attack was an isolated incident. The royal family still being a target was a terrifying thought. No terrorist group or individual had stepped forward to claim responsibility yet, and the police were still investigating. With Bastien also injured, his personal security within the Palace was also a concern. But he couldn't let his citizens know he was afraid.
Beyond the threat to his life, the media was still buzzing about the scandal surrounding Kate and Tariq Kazim that had blown up his Coronation. He was fairly certain, based on the photos and the familiar handwriting on the envelope, that his father was behind it. But he still wasn't clear as to why Kate had been targeted.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he raked his hands through his hair. Hana and Maxwell were flying to New York today to pick up Kate and Drake. He could only guess how their few days together went, and he wondered whether or not Drake had given Kate his letter.
With a sigh he realized that Kate was lost to him now romantically.
But, despite the scandal that had sent her away, Kate was still the people's favourite to be queen. Her charisma and compassion meant she'd have no problem being an inspiration to his people. Being a commoner, she would have been offered a duchy as part of their engagement. The northern duchy of Valtoria was currently without noble representation, so his Queen could claim the manor as her own. Being an honorary member of the Beaumont family she could have claimed the Duchy of Ramsford as her own as well.
But the fantasy he'd been living in during the social season, of having the Queen he loved, had been doomed from the start. He'd stupidly trusted his best friend to look out for her and keep her safe. The end of the year was fast approaching, but he didn't physically or mentally have the capacity to entertain new suitors, so he had to consider his other options for choosing a queen:
Madeleine had been a strong political match but they'd lacked physical attraction, Olivia Nevrakis with her family's volatile history was too problematic to gain public support, Kiara Theron and her family had diplomatic and cultural influence but he worried about the opinions of her overbearing father, Penelope Ebrim has deep Cordonian ancestry but is weak on intellect and confidence. The only other noble candidate he had connected with and felt good about was Hana Lee from Shanghai.
Hana as the daughter of a Cordonian noble and a wealthy Chinese businessman is the heiress to her family's fortune. With impeccable manners and a diverse education she easily charmed commoners and nobles alike. They were like kindred spirits, He and Hana, both groomed from childhood to a structured life of diplomacy and duty. Throughout the social season and suitor competition she had quietly supported Kate as frontrunner for Queen, making herself an unofficial lady-in-waiting. In Kate and Drake's absence, she had become a surprising source of emotional support for him as well.
Getting out of bed, he thought of how she had come to comfort him. The tenderness in her touch, and the shyness in her kiss, had brought a smile to his face for the first time in days. He didn't want to rush into anything, but as soon as a suitable public mourning period for Madeleine was over, he hoped to spend more time with Hana and see where things went. For now, he wanted to test how she might be received by the public, so he planned to invite her to the press conference today.
With a newfound lightness he hadn't felt since the attack, he walked into his bathroom to get his day started.
..
On the other side of the Royal Palace the morning sun lit up Hana's room. Leaving the curtains open was her favorite way to rouse herself from sleep each day. With a sigh she stretched out her limbs and smiled. She was excited to fly to New York today to reunite with her friends and bring them back home.
Her parents had insisted she come home right after the Coronation, but she convinced them to let her stay a little longer because Madeleine's funeral was tomorrow.
Hopefully her mother would be overjoyed that she and Nicholas had become friends during the social season. God willing, they could be more than that in time. But rushing into anything serious too quickly would not reflect well on Nicholas while he's supposed to be in mourning. So for now it would mean being polite and proper around him in the eyes of the public and press.
..
Maxwell was still asleep. His thick velvet curtains cloaked his bedchamber in darkness. On his bedside table his phone screen lit up to show his notifications. He had unread text messages from a friend.
..
Later...
As the Mediterranean sun climbed higher in the sky, the shadows retreated from the rose garden outside of the breakfast room. By 8:30 am, the sun had enough power to lift the dew from the velvety petals and lush green leaves, lending a humid tropical balm to the air.
On the other side of the window glass, the golden morning illuminated the faces and warmed the shoulders of those assembled around the table for breakfast:
Hana, Nicholas, Maxwell and his older brother Bertrand.
As the only woman in the room, Hana commanded most of the attention. Maxwell was further lightening the mood by pretending his stack of pancakes could talk, making Hana laugh. From high above, the crystal chandelier caught the morning light and painted rainbows across the walls and pristine white tablecloth.
Bertrand scowled silently at them both as he sipped his tea. Nicholas watched the three of them, thoroughly amused. He missed small, informal meals like this. It reminded him of a time when he was just a crown prince spending time among friends.
Tomorrow, Breakfast with the King would be a traditional formal affair. Kate and Drake, and the rest of the court, would be joining him ahead of Madeleine's funeral.
He hadn't seen or spoken to Kate since the Coronation, and he wasn't sure how he was going to feel about seeing her and Drake together. Would they observe proper decorum in front of the royal court? Were they a couple now, after only a few days together in New York? Drake didn't make friends easily, especially with women. Did Kate really feel the same way about him?
He had to remind himself that they were both consenting adults entitled to their happiness. Kate no longer had any obligation to him as a suitor. But it wasn't going to be easy to temper his love for her against the simmering jealousy he felt towards Drake. Their long term friendship was bound to suffer because of this.
The delightful sound of Hana's laughter brought Nicholas back from his tormented reverie. He took the opportunity to mention today's press conference.
"Lady Hana, before you and Lord Maxwell depart for New York this afternoon, I have a special request if you are free."
She turned to him and smiled. "Certainly your Majesty, how can I help?"
"My first press conference as King of Cordonia is this morning, and I could use some friendly moral support."
Hana's heart swelled with pride at being chosen for such an important task. "I'd be honoured to. What time is the press conference?"
"Eleven o'clock, in the throne room. If you could meet me in the ante room at 10:30 we can discuss preparations to meet the Press?"
Hana nodded. "Certainly. I'll be there."
Nicholas nodded back and smiled, rising from his seat. "Splendid. Now if you all will please excuse me, I have an appointment to keep with Regina before the conference."
Everyone respectfully stood and then sat down again after he exited.
Maxwell finished up his pancakes, then poured himself another cup of coffee.
"So Hana, have you ever been to New York before? I bet it's beautiful this time of year."
"No, I haven't. I can't wait to reunite with Kate, and maybe bring back a souvenir."
Bertrand set his teacup down on the saucer. "You won't have much time for sightseeing, I'm afraid. After landing you need to hire a car, help Kate load up her luggage, and then return to the airport and get checked back in for the return flight."
Hana's smile faded, and she looked down at the table. "I suppose you're right. The flight there and back is going to eat up most of the day. Taking pictures en route will have to suffice as my souvenir. But that's ok, having our friends back is what matters."
Maxwell patted her on the arm. "That's my girl, always looking on the bright side. I'm so glad you decided to stay."
Maxwell's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took it out to check it. He'd received a reply text from Tariq.
Bertrand frowned at him. "Can't that wait? Or better yet, Maxwell, take it outside."
Maxwell pointed to his phone. "Actually it can't wait. It's Tariq. Drake wanted me to find him, so we could clear up this scandal for good."
Bertrand's face twisted with disgust. "That insufferable cad. I hope he's apologising for tarnishing Ms. Darling's reputation. With Walker bringing her back from New York, do you think Kate and His Majesty could reconcile? We could have another chance to put a Beaumont on the throne."
Maxwell and Hana exchanged a look, and then Hana spoke up, "When I last spoke to Kate she said that she and Drake have gotten pretty close, so unless Nicholas breaks them up, I don't see her becoming Queen."
The Duke rubbed his brow, giving his head a shake. "No, no, no..this won't do. Walker is so uncouth and common, all the etiquette training to raise Kate up to noble standards is for nothing with him dragging her down."
Pushing his seat back, Maxwell stood up to defend his friend. "Hey, Drake isn't that bad. He helped us pull together this year's Beaumont Bash, remember?"
Bertrand sighed, "So he could help himself to Kate, apparently."
Maxwell's phone vibrated again and he moved over to stand by the buffet to reply to Tariq's message.
::
Maxwell:
Hey, man. Where have you been?
He plucked a slice of bacon from a tray while he waited for a response.
Tariq:
I've been all over the place, but my parents have cut off my credit cards and now I'm stranded in New York City.
Maxwell:
Wow, what a coincidence. I'm flying to New York today! Want to catch a ride back with us?
Tariq:
Us? who are you flying with?
Maxwell:
It's going to be Me, Hana, Drake and Kate on the plane.
Tariq:
Being trapped on a plane for several hours with Drake is not going to be fun. Ever since that night at Applewood I've been dreading being anywhere near him or Kate again.
Maxwell:
I understand what you mean. Drake's likely to punch you for just looking at her wrong. You'd better have your "I'm so sorry for everything.. Please don't hurt me Drake." rehearsed and ready to go.
Tariq:
Not very reassuring. Maybe I shouldn't fly back with you then. I can call my parents and ask them to arrange a return flight for me instead.
Maxwell:
But without a credit card how will you manage in the meantime? It could be days before they get your return flight arranged.
Tariq:
I guess you're right. But only if you can promise me that Drake isn't gonna kill me.
Maxwell:
Kate knows you were set up just like she was. She's not going to let Drake seriously hurt you. Just keep a polite distance, and you should be fine.
Tariq:
Ok well if I must endure Drake's glaring at me for a few hours, I guess traveling with you all is my best option. I appreciate you reaching out to me. I could use a friend right now. The tabloid story has put a target on my back, and I didn't know who to turn to.
Maxwell:
Yeah, we all want this scandal crap to go away. As long as the weather is good, we should be there by 3pm. I'm not sure what airport we're landing at, so I'll send you a text when we arrive.
Tariq:
Ok, it's really late here in New York. I need to get some sleep. See you later.
Maxwell:
👍
::
Maxwell sat back down at the breakfast table. "So it turns out Tariq is stranded in New York. We'll be bringing him back with us."
Getting up to leave, Bertrand respectfully nodded to Hana, and then turned to Maxwell. "Well good, try not to miss your flight today brother, remember the King is counting on you."
After Bertrand left, the servants started to clear away the breakfast buffet. Maxwell followed Hana out into the hall.
"So you're doing a press conference with the King today. That's a big deal. Do you know what you're going to wear?"
Hana shrugged, taking Maxwell's arm as he escorted her back to her room. "Not quite sure. Maybe a pantsuit, or a blazer and a skirt. Wanna help me pick something out?"
Maxwell smiled. "Of course. This is your debut as Nicholas' plus one. You need to shine."
...
King Nicholas had just settled down into his chair when there was a knock at the door to his Study. He leaned back against the leather cushion and responded, "Enter."
Steve, his security guard, opened the door and then stepped aside. "Her Majesty Queen Regina, to see you, sir."
"Send her in."
Regina swept into the room, a file folder tucked under her arm. Steve pulled the door shut behind her, resuming his sentry position outside the office.
"Nicholas," Regina said, with a deferential nod of respect.
He gestured to the guest chair facing the desk. "Regina, welcome. Please sit."
She sat down, holding the folder against her lap. "Thank-you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Majesty. I thought we should meet and discuss some of the potential questions the media might lob at you today."
Nicholas appreciated her stoicism, though she was in mourning. Madeleine had been her niece, and Regina had heavily endorsed her as the Crown's favourite for Queen. Although her posture was straight, and her clothes and hair were impeccably styled, her make-up couldn't hide the puffy redness around her eyes and her hollow haunted expression. Losing Madeleine had seemingly aged her years in a few short days.
"I've already gone over my statement with the PR team regarding Madeleine's private memorial." He looked down at the folder that her delicate hands had clutched in her lap. "Is there new information I should know?"
Regina took a deep breath and then leaned forward to lay the folder on his desk. "Your father and I took the selection of your suitors for Queen very seriously. We kept detailed files on each woman, updating their information as the events progressed during the season. Kate Darling was an anomaly that we hadn't prepared for, so after asking Lord Maxwell some basic information to start her file, we put her under closer scrutiny."
Nicholas crossed his arms across his chest, and after giving the unopened folder a brief glance, he replied. "You did a background check, naturally, which anyone would. Her financial information, her education, potential criminal record and whatever I assume."
Regina nodded. "Yes, we wanted to determine her reasons for accepting Beaumont's offer. Is she deep in debt, and looking to be raised out of poverty? Did she have political aspirations or some radical anti-monarchist agenda? Or, was she here seeking a romantic fantasy with a Prince?"
Nicholas' eyebrows lifted and he opened the file. "She seemed to be taking the suitor competition seriously. And despite Olivia and Madeleine's cold reception of her, she was perfectly decent and respectful. Would it be such a bad thing if her motives were romantic? We got along very well and given more time and proper guidance Kate could have made an excellent Queen. Is it because she's an outsider? Is that why you and Father were so critical of her? What could you possibly have against her?"
"It depends on whether her lineage matters to you as much as it does to your father."
He flipped through the pages, and then landed at the last one. "You sent her DNA away for analysis? Did you ask for her consent first?"
Regina avoided looking at him directly. "The DNA testing came back showing a high probability of European ancestry, so we looked up her family tree. We were surprised to find a significant Cordonian connection."
Nicholas' brow furrowed. "A simple interview would have been sufficient. Prying into her family history secretly wasn't necessary. She's from New York, so how significant a connection could she have?"
"Your half-brother Leo is her cousin."
The paper he was holding fell from his hands, and then slid over the edge of the desk and onto the floor. "What?" He croaked.
"Laurena Allen, Leo's mother, and the former Queen of Cordonia was Kate's great aunt. Her paternal grandmother's younger sister."
Nicholas stared at her in disbelief, trying to wrap his mind around what he'd just been told. Constantine, his father, is Kate's Great Uncle? He knew very little about Leo's mother, because she had left long before Nicholas was born. He was fairly certain his own brother knew even less about his mother Laurena.
"This... is rather unsettling news. Are you quite sure there's no mistake?" He replied.
Regina shook her head. "We were able to confirm that Laurena Allen and her sister Katherine were present during the royal social season of 1983. Constantine fell in love with Laurena, and against his parents' wishes they married. She gave him an heir, and everything seemed to be perfect."
Nicholas' mind spun as he tried to imagine a young Constantine following his heart instead of being duty bound by the politics of the Crown. "If they were such a good match, then why did she leave?"
"Love alone does not make someone a suitable Queen. While she was expecting, Laurena was allowed to step away from Royal Life and focus on her health."
Nicholas leaned back in his chair. "That's understandable, she was carrying the royal heir."
"Laurena kept a journal while she was pregnant. All of her fears about motherhood and her insecurities about being Queen were in it. Shortly after Leo was born Constantine expected her to return to doing public appearances and hand off Leo into the arms of the Nanny."
Nicholas frowned. "That's rather cold hearted on his part. If he really loved her, he would have allowed her more of a grace period before returning to public life."
"Pressure from the public and from within the royal council weighed heavily on them both. Laurena was too fragile, mentally, after Leo was born and suffered from depression. Although the baby was well cared for by the Nanny, Laurena retreated completely from all royal responsibility. Including the marriage bed. Constantine was devastated, but agreed to annul the marriage based on medical advice. Laurena went back to England to seek treatment for her depression, and never came back."
Imagining a crying infant Leo being abandoned by his mother, saddened Nicholas, but he was struck by the parallel lives both mother and son shared. Laurena married for love, but ended up abdicating the throne. Leo abdicated his right to the throne so he could marry for love.
Nicholas chuckled bitterly, "Father has been married three times. So I find it hard to believe he was broken up that much by her leaving."
Regina leaned forward, her voice taking a serious tone, "But he was. He was a young King with an heir, but without a queen. He threw himself into his duties and hardened his heart. Instead of nurturing a fatherly bond with Leo as an infant and toddler, he left his son in the care of the Nanny. Leo reminded him too much of Laurena, and that tainted their relationship."
Nicholas leaned back in his chair musing on the rebellious nature of his older brother, especially his lack of respect for following his Princely duties as heir. Leo bailed on his own social season and refused to court the women the Crown had chosen as candidates for Queen. Madeleine had been one of them.
"This smear campaign implicating Kate and Tariq, was orchestrated by my father wasn't it?"
"Yes," Regina replied, making eye contact with the King at last.
"He saw how close I was getting to Kate, and he feared I would do as my brother did and shirk my duties to the Crown and marry her instead."
Regina nodded. "Was that your intention?"
"Well..yes, and no. Marry her, yes. But I take my position, and duty as King seriously. Kate wasn't trying to influence me to leave my country and citizens behind. Her connection to Leo and Father is fairly weak. Kate and I aren't related by blood, so there's no reason why we couldn't have been betrothed."
Regina continued, "Ever since we discovered Ms. Darling's connection to Laurena, Constantine has been plagued with nightmares. He's convinced that Kate's the ghost of her come back to haunt him. He didn't know how to explain his misgivings to you, so he chose to discredit her with fake evidence of infidelity. He wanted a way to eliminate her as a proper choice as queen."
Nicholas stood up and leaned forward on his desk, pointing an accusing finger at his Stepmother. "But somehow your niece was supposed to be a better choice for me? There's nothing strange about Kate, and we got along very well. We could have been good for each other. If Father wasn't already dying I'd shoot him myself for meddling so bluntly in my personal affairs."
Regina flinched back in her chair. "He was just trying to prevent you from making a bad choice."
Nicholas sat back down, his outburst leaving him raw with regret. He was mad at his father, not Regina. Leaning his elbows on his desk he rested his head in his hands and dug his fingers into his hair. With a sigh he looked up again.
"Look, I appreciate that a dossier was kept for each candidate. But all of this information should have been shared with me, so I could make the choice for myself. I'm not some besotted school boy, Father should have trusted me, as the grown man that I am, to find the Queen that was right for me. His mistrust sent Kate away, without giving her a chance to prove herself worthy. And now Madeleine is gone too. Some great plan that turned out to be."
Regina looked down at her hands. "It's a shame that Madeleine didn't get the chance to prove herself worthy to you either. She really wasn't the bad person that others at court made her out to be." She looked back up at him again, a woman hollowed out by her grief.
"Constantine's health is getting worse. He wanted to see you take the throne with a worthy Queen by your side. He wanted to see you married, and to know that something good came out of his legacy. I fear that's not going to happen now."
"Are the treatments not working?"
She shook her head, her hands wringing painfully in her lap. "The doctor says that he's reached his limit for radiation. The cancer has spread too far."
"How much time does he have?"
"A few weeks, maybe a month. A palliative care team is bringing equipment to the palace today to set up a room for his round the clock care."
Nicholas' mind spun and his chest ached. All the air had been sucked out of the room. His father had been a constant in his life. Even while apart he felt the weight of his hands on his young shoulders as they steered him through his duties. Constantine had taught him everything he knew about diplomacy. The Cordonia that Constantine had built during his fifty year reign was his now, the good and the bad, and it was up to him to shape what came next. But he'd hoped to have more time to tap into his Father's vast knowledge and experience.
Clearing the dryness that constricted his throat, Nicholas spoke up, "You've given me a lot to think about. But let's get today's press conference out of the way, first, and then we can discuss how to handle the rest. I'm counting on you to keep me well informed on Father's condition in the coming days. We'll keep that information as private as possible, for now."
Regina rose from her chair, leaning on the arms for support. With a deep steadying breath she answered, "Certainly, Your Majesty."
Nicholas busied himself by collecting all the scattered papers from Kate's file. "Oh, and see to it that any and all files you've been keeping come to me as well. I want to know more about who comprises my court."
She nodded. "Of course, so we'll meet again for the conference today?"
"Yes, and now if you'll excuse me I have preparations to make."
Regina knocked on the door and then Steve opened it to let her pass.
When he was alone, Nicholas pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and looked at his bottle of bourbon. He wanted a drink to settle his nerves, but he feared one drink wouldn't be enough. With a sigh he closed the drawer again. Putting Kate's file away in another drawer, he tidied up the rest of his desk and then stood up. He would be meeting up with Hana soon, and before he did he needed to take a walk to clear his head.
...
The marble hallway outside of the throne room was humming with activity. Security stood guard outside a pair of heavy oak doors, while reporters and photographers from various news outlets milled about checking microphones and recording equipment.
Hana Lee picked her way through the crowd, wondering which of the many heavy wooden doors along the hallway led to the King's Ante-room. Dressed in a blue blazer and skirt she blended in well and wasn't stopped by any of the reporters as she passed.
Hana recognized Nicholas', very tall and imposing, personal guard Steve, standing by himself in front of one the single oak doors. Hana took a moment to straighten the cuffs, and smooth down the lapels on her blazer, before approaching him.
"Good morning, Steven. King Nicholas is expecting me," Hana said, smiling up at him.
Steve looked her up and down, and then looked to the left and right to check that there were no reporters or photographers following her.
"Miss Hana Lee?" he asked quietly.
She nodded.
Bringing his hand down to his side he did a quiet discreet knock against the door.
His knock was answered by Nicholas' reply from the other side,
"Enter."
Steve turned the handle and swung the door inward. Hana turned and sidled her way in and then Steve pulled the door shut behind her.
Nicholas stood in the middle of the room gazing up at a large painted family portrait, hands clasped together behind his back. He turned his head when he heard the click of her heels on the polished marble.
Nicholas smiled and then stepped toward her. "Hana, at last, please do come in."
After doing a brief bob, she smiled and approached him.
"Your Majesty."
Nicholas caught a whiff of her perfume as she came near. It was something exotic with a hint of spice. He resisted the urge to breathe too deeply, he needed to keep his mind on business.
Nicholas gestured to a long velvet tufted bench along the wall. "Let's sit."
As Hana settled down on the edge of the soft cushion she looked up and around the room, appreciating the beauty of the high ceiling with its ornately arched mouldings, blue satin wall coverings and painted trim and finishes. The one tall ceiling to floor arched window was shuttered against the Mediterranean sun, and draped in green velvet. Other benches lined the room and faced a gallery wall of paintings above a tall ivory colored marble mantel.
Doors to the left and right led into other rooms.
Nicholas watched her gaze settle on each feature of the room. "The door on the gallery wall leads to the Royal Throne Room, and the door opposite leads to the Royal Council Chamber. "
Hana nodded. "For an official waiting room, this space is quite lovely."
Nicholas sat down on the bench next to her. "Usually this room is where others would wait to see the King, but today it's my quiet sanctuary instead."
Although he'd known Hana for several months, and was never awkward around her before, now that they were alone he felt like a nervous little school boy.
It's just Hana. Just charming, beautiful, incredibly scented Hana.
"So, have you attended a press conference before?" He asked.
"I've attended a few of my father's public appearances. I was instructed to sit quietly while my father or mother answered all the questions."
Nicholas reached out to take her hand. He chuckled softly, "It will probably be more of the same, today. You're here to be my oasis of peace and calm amongst the shifting clash of chaos."
Hana squeezed his hand, lost in the handsome details of his caring face. His gentle smile crinkled the corners of his sapphire blue eyes and lit them from within.
Feeling her skin flush under the adoration in his gaze she looked down at their joined hands.
"What about you, Your Maj --"
He interrupted, lifting her chin gently with the knuckle of his finger so that she looked him in the eyes.
"Please, Hana. While we're alone we can drop the formalities. Just 'Nicholas' is fine."
She blinked. "If that's what you'd prefer?"
He nodded, tilting his head and encouraging her to ask her question again. "You were saying...."
"Have you been to many press conferences before, Nicholas?"
"Only minor ones, at charitable events in the middle of the social season, usually alongside my stepmother or my Father."
Hana smiled. "So this will be your first time leading one as King. Besides me and the press, is anyone else attending in an official capacity?"
"Probably just Regina, where Madeleine was her niece. There will be the inevitable questions regarding the funeral."
Hana rested her other hand on top of his. "Is there a public memorial planned?"
He shook his head. "Her family has requested just a small private service. You, Maxwell, Kate, Drake and Bertrand are welcome to attend if you'd like."
Hana turned toward him, acutely aware that their knees were now touching too. Her voice faltered as she spoke, "Of..Of course, we'll be there."
Nicholas can't help but enjoy her scent now, breathing deeply as her body heat intensifies her perfume. He reached up to caress her cheek, and the silky softness of her hair whispered against the back of his hand. His gaze dropped from her beautiful dark eyes to her mouth as he spoke.
"If you only knew how valuable you've been as a member of my royal court this year. Such a wonderful friend to everyone."
Hana lowered her lashes, leaning into the warmth of his hand, the delicate way his thumb stroked her cheek bone sent a ripple effect across the surface of her skin. Her voice was a bare whisper as she responded, squeezing the fingers of his hand, and then looked back up. "You know I'd do anything for you.. Your -- .. sorry..I mean..Nicholas."
She was jolted by the intensity in his gaze. He moved his hand and cupped the back of her head as he leaned in closer. He whispered, his eyes dropping down to focus on her lips again. "If I may?"
She gasped, "Yes, Nich-.."
Her words were cut off as his lips met hers, applying a tender pressure that Hana eagerly returned.
A knock at the door broke the spell, and they pulled apart.
A muffled voice was heard,
"Your Majesty, the camera crew and reporters are ready for you now."
Sitting back and straightening his jacket, Nicholas answered.
"Thank-you, we're on our way."
Hana noticed the faint smear of pink lipstick on Nicholas' mouth.
She gestured, circling his lips with her finger. "Oh wait, you have a little.."
He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping at his mouth.
"Is that better?"
"Yes, much better. I'm sorry, when I did my makeup today I didn't know I'd be kissing a King."
Tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket he replied, "I'm only sorry we were interrupted. But duty calls."
They stood and he reached out for her hand. "Shall we?"
Hana nodded, letting him lead her as he opened the door to the throne room. Two Royal Guards were standing in the doorway. Nicholas tapped the left one on the shoulder and the guard nodded, touching his earpiece and spoke quietly, "Commencing royal escort."
As they entered the room, Hana noticed the many rows of people rising up to stand in front of their chairs. They were facing long tables with a podium in the middle with a microphone. Snapping shutters and flickering camera flashes followed them across the room. Nicholas led Hana to the table, pulling out a chair for her to sit to the right of the microphone. His stepmother Regina was led by a guard to sit at the table to his left. He approached the microphone, holding a hand up to acknowledge the crowd and signalling for them to sit. His guards took up a position a few paces away, their eyes keenly watching the room.
Nicholas cleared his throat and then spoke, "I'd like to thank everyone for being here today. I'm going to begin with a brief statement, and then we can proceed to the answering of questions."
Nicholas held his hand out to Regina, and she got up from her seat and stood next to him.
"As you all know, three days ago the Royal motorcade was attacked while we were retrieving Countess Madeleine at the train station. Despite the heroic efforts of the security team, casualties occurred. One of our bodyguards, Bastien Lykel, was critically wounded, as was the Countess. Bastien remains in hospital, and is expected to make a full recovery."
Nicholas paused, staring out at the expectant faces of the press. Bodies shifted in seats as they hung on his every word. Unspoken questions buzzed at the back of their throats. The King carefully pieced his thoughts together, knowing his next words would unleash chaos into the room.
He reached out and took Regina's hand. "Countess Madeleine sustained multiple gunshot wounds, and though the surgical team at Cordonian Memorial Hospital fought valiantly to save her, she did not recover."
A rumble of overlapping voices preceded the raising of hands among the assembled press. Nicholas pointed at a representative he recognized from the Cordonian Broadcasting Corporation near the front. "Yes, Mr. Brine. You have a question?"
"Your Majesty, have any hostile groups come forward to claim responsibility for the attack?"
Nicholas answered, "Not yet. But now that their attack has become successful, I expect it won't take long before we hear something. Meanwhile our investigation is ongoing."
A reporter from the Cordonian Daily News asked, "Will there be a public memorial for the Countess?"
Regina answered, "At the request of Madeleine's family we've decided to have a private memorial service. Members of the public are welcome to express their condolences by making a donation in her name to a charity of their choice."
Ana De Luca from Trend magazine spoke up, "Your Majesty, now that your engagement to the Countess has come to such a tragic end, what's next for you? Is the Monarchy stable enough without a Queen?"
Nicholas glanced at Hana then back at Ana before replying, "I'm still standing, so the Monarchy remains stable. My Reign has just begun, and when I decide to choose a new Queen I'll make an announcement."
Another reporter asked, "Speaking of potential Queens, what do you have to say about the scandal that sent Kate Darling back to New York?"
Nicholas took a sip of water before responding, "It has come to my attention that the photos taken of Kate Darling and Tariq Kazim were part of an elaborate hoax. A credible witness to the event depicted has come forward, and both Ms. Darling and Mr. Kazim have been absolved of any fault in the matter. On behalf of the Crown I would like to sincerely apologize to both of them for the incredible inconvenience this has caused."
"Does this mean that Ms. Darling is back in the running to become Queen?"
Nicholas' stern reply held a cutting edge, "Considering that the funeral of Countess Madeleine is yet to occur, and out of respect for her family member present, you may want to choose another question. As I said earlier, when I decide to choose a new Queen an announcement will be made."
The reporter sat back down, and then the journalist next to her stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, are you concerned about the recent photos taken of Kate Darling and your friend Drake Walker in New York City?"
Nicholas gripped the edges of the podium. "No, I'm not. Should I be?"
"They seemed to be rather romantic in nature. I thought she was your favourite to become Queen during the social season."
Nicholas sighed, "The suitor competition ended on Coronation night with my choosing of Madeleine, thus releasing Kate Darling of any obligation to be my Queen. In other words she's a free woman, and can be with whomever she chooses."
"Even your best friend?" She asked.
"Especially my best friend. They both deserve to be happy, and if they're happy together then so be it. And furthermore I want all pictures and stories online and in print that portray Kate Darling in a negative way taken down and destroyed. The scandal that sent her back to New York has been exposed as fake, and must not have any more power to ruin her life, or the life of my best friend Drake Walker. Any news outlet or gossip magazine that refuses to remove or retract any offensive content shall face being sanctioned by the Crown."
There's a buzz of conversation among the assembled press, and Nicholas decided to bring the press conference to an end. He raised his hands again to signal for quiet.
"We'd like to thank-you all again for coming, and that will be all the questions for today."
The Guards escorted Nicholas, Regina and Hana out of the Throne Room.
Regina looked from Hana to Nicholas, taking notice of the elegant cut of her blazer and how nicely she and Nicholas looked together. She rested her hand on Nicholas' arm.
"That could have gone better, but I'm so glad that it's over. It can be so uncomfortable to stand in front of the press. You look especially nice today Lady Hana, I trust we'll be seeing you tomorrow at the memorial service."
"Of course."
Regina smiled, patting Hana on the arm and then left them alone.
"I should go find Maxwell. I know it's still a couple of hours before our plane leaves, but I want to make sure he gets there on time." Hana said, giving Nicholas a quick hug and then heading off to her room to change.
Nicholas nodded, and then turned around to walk back to his office, realizing he'd just boldly lied to the press.
The Choices fandom may be small but it's not gone! Let's try to strengthen our community by interacting with works we may have missed or not known existed.
Join by May 2nd
The Basics:
Reblog this post (or DM me) with the links of up to 3 works you'd like to see get more attention. See below for more details on what you can submit
If you submit work, you are encouraged to interact with as many things as you can. If someone has you blocked/you have them blocked, or that user makes you uncomfortable, then you would respectfully skip them.
I'll organize all the links into a masterlist (whether it's 1 list or a few smaller ones will depend on the number of entries)
I will tag everyone when the masterlist is posted. You reblog as many as they can in the timeframe of the event. This would be on the honor system. I'm not tracking people down. I don't have time. I'm going to trust that if you submitted links that you are interacting with others in the event and trying to support people you may not normally interact with.
I will also reblog all submitted works here for additional support.
What you can submit:
Any creative work for the Choices or Pixelberry fandoms: writing, edits, art, moodboards, etc.
AI created work will not be accepted
AO3 links (we'll try this. I don't know who is joining this event and how much they use AO3, but I'm willing to try it!
This is the first event I've done like this so if I'm missing info here or if you have questions, don't hesitate to reach out! If this event is successful and helps encourage creativity in this fandom it can be something we do a couple of times a year.
⟢ PEOPLE DON'T FINISH SENTENCES! IMPORTANT! they interrupt themselves, they trail off, they start talking about eggs and somehow end up confessing their deepest fear about becoming their mother. Your dialogue should derail like a drunk train conductor took the wheel. "I was thinking we could—no wait, did you feed the cat? Because last time you said you would but—actually never mind, what I meant was—" SEE? HUMAN. Beautiful chaos.
⟢ Contractions exist??? USE THEM. Nobody says "I am going to the store" unless they're an alien spy or your grandmother leaving a voicemail. It's "I'm gonna" or even "gonna hit the store" or if they're really casual "store run, back in 20"
⟢ LISTEN TO ME! Said is NOT dead but said is also boring sometimes. Yeah yeah, "said is invisible," the writing teachers chant while burning incense. But you know what? Sometimes people mutter, snap, whisper, drawl, bite out their words. Your character just found out their partner sold their vinyl collection? They're not "saying" anything, they're HISSING like a Victorian ghost
⟢ People repeat themselves when emotional!!! "I can't believe you. I just—I can't believe you did this." Not poetic. Real. That's the point!!!
⟢ Subtext is doing heavy lifting, what people DON'T say matters more than what they do. "Fine" is never fine. "Whatever you want" means "I will remember this betrayal forever." Your readers are smart; let them read between the lines
⟢ Accents/dialects: DO NOT WRITE THEM PHONETICALLY unless you want your book thrown across the room. Do NOT write "Oi guv'na, blimey!", instead show it through word choice, rhythm, syntax. "Right then, what's all this about?" works better than "Wot's awl dis aboot guvnah"
The royal suite was entombed in a suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional, rhythmic drip-drip-drip of the brass faucet in the adjoining chamber. Inside the bathing room, the air was thick and heavy with steam that smelled of expensive jasmine and crushed rose petals, but the floral sweetness felt cloying to Emilia, almost sickening.
She sat submerged in the claw-foot tub, the water so hot it turned her skin a flush of angry pink, yet she felt a deep, internal chill that no amount of heat could reach. Her head rested against the cold porcelain rim, her eyes staring blankly at the flickering candlelight dancing on the tiled walls, before she closed them.
Slowly, her hand drifted beneath the surface, her fingers grazing the jagged ache in her hip. It was a deep, blooming purple bruise from where her father’s hand had collided with her shoulder, throwing her to the stone floor like a discarded doll so he could get to Drake. The physical pain was a dull throb, a constant reminder of the moment her world had fractured.
Rose stood by the vanity, methodically folding linen towels, but her eyes never truly left the Princess. She saw the way Emilia winced as her fingers found the bruise. She saw the hollow slope of her shoulders and the way her once-vibrant spirit seemed to have evaporated into the steam, leaving behind a fragile, translucent shell.
A single tear escaped Emilia’s closed eyelid, tracing a slow, shimmering path down her cheek before vanishing into the bathwater. Then another followed, silent and devastating.
Rose’s heart twisted. In a palace full of vipers and gilded statues, Emilia was the only soul who had ever looked at Rose as a person—as a friend—rather than a shadow in a uniform. She couldn't bear the silence a moment longer.
Setting the towels aside, Rose moved with soft, practiced steps toward the tub and sank into a crouch beside it. The ceramic was warm against her knees. Emilia opened her eyes, her lashes spiked with salt and moisture, looking at her maid with a gaze that was utterly lost.
Rose reached out, her thumb gently brushing a stray, damp lock of hair from Emilia’s forehead. "This isn't the end, you know," she said, her voice a low, steady anchor in the quiet room.
"What do you mean?" Emilia whispered, her voice sounding small and brittle, like dry leaves.
"Of you and Drake," Rose replied, her expression unwavering. "This isn't the end of your story. It’s just a dark chapter."
"How can you know that?" The question was a broken plea, and the tears began to fall with more force now, splashing into the bubbles.
"Because," Rose said, her hand lingering near Emilia’s temple to offer whatever grounded warmth she could, "I believe that some things are woven into the very fabric of the world. If it’s meant to be—if it’s written in the stars that you and Drake truly belong together—then the universe will not let this be the finale. It will find a way to stitch the pieces back together."
Emilia let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I hope so, Rose. I have to hope so."
"You have to stay positive, Emilia," Rose urged, her voice gaining a touch of fierce protective heat. "I know it’s hard. I know you feel like you’ve been shattered into a thousand pieces, but you will be okay. You and Drake... I’ve watched you. You fit together like two parts of the same puzzle. The way he looked at you—like you were the only light in a dark room—that doesn't just vanish because of a border or a King’s decree. You’ll find each other again. I feel it in my bones."
Emilia looked down at her hands beneath the water, watching the way the light refracted through the surface. "He’s everything to me, Rose. Without him, everything just feels like a very expensive cage."
"Then don't let the cage win," Rose said firmly. "That’s all you can do right now. Hope. Never give up on him. Fear and doubt... they are the guards that will hold you prisoner. But hope and love? Those are the things that will set you free. They’ll give you the strength to wait for him, and the strength to go to him when the time is right."
Emilia reached out a wet, trembling hand, grasping Rose’s tightly. The contact was a lifeline. "Thank you," she whispered, the words thick with gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You won't have to find out," Rose promised, squeezing her hand back before standing up.
She moved away to allow Emilia some privacy to finish her bath, crossing the room to sit in the velvet armchair by the window. As she watched the moon begin to rise over the palace gardens, she saw Emilia take a deep, steadying breath—the first one that didn't end in a sob. The Princess’s chin lifted just a fraction, a spark of that old, defiant fire flickering deep within her eyes.
Rose allowed herself a small, private smile. The girl was still in there, and as long as there was hope, the King hadn't truly won.
*****
Drake’s room above the stables felt empty. Wrong. The air was heavy, holding the faint, lingering scent of his aftershave and leather, but the life had been sucked out of it. It wasn't just a room anymore; it was a crime scene of a life interrupted.
Max and Leo moved through the space like ghosts. Max stood by the small wooden wardrobe, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled out Drakes heavy leather jacket. The weight of it in his arms felt like a body. He folded it awkwardly, tucking it into a canvas duffel bag alongside a few worn shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans and a roll of crumpled bills they’d found in the bedside table drawer.
"What about his motorcycle?" Max asked, his voice echoing off the rough, wooden walls.
Leo was checking under the bed, his face set in a mask of grim determination. "We can’t take it this time," he said, his voice tight. "We don't even know where he is, Max. If he hasn't found a roof over his head yet, he won't have a place to keep his bike. It’s too loud, too conspicuous."
"So, it just stays here?" Max wiped a hand across his face, looking frustrated. "It’s his pride and joy. It’s the only thing that’s really his."
"It stays here with us," Leo corrected, finally looking up. "We’ll keep the engine turned over, keep it running. Once he’s settled—once we find him—I’ll ride it out to him myself if I have to. But right now, we need to be fast. We don’t need to draw attention to ourselves."
Max nodded slowly, his eyes wandering across the bedside small table. They landed on a piece of parchment propped against a lamp. It was the sketch Emilia had done of Drake at the lake—charcoal lines capturing the sharp angle of his jaw and the hidden softness in his eyes.
"We should take this," Max said softly. He picked up the drawing, holding it by the very edges so as not to smudge the charcoal. He showed it to Leo.
Leo’s expression softened for a fleeting second, a genuine, sad smile touching his lips. "Yeah. He’d like that. It might be the only thing that keeps him going out there."
Max slid the sketch carefully between two soft shirts, nesting it in the centre of the bag so it wouldn't bend. "Is that everything?"
"Yeah," Leo sighed, zipping the duffel with a sharp thrip of metal teeth. "For now, at least. Let’s go."
The wooden stairs groaned under their boots as they descended into the heart of the stables. The smell of hay, manure, and horse-sweat rose to meet them—familiar and grounding. Bastien was there, leaning against a stall door, rhythmically stroking the nose of one of the bays. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary.
"You heading out?" he asked.
"Yeah," Leo replied. "We thought it might be best to leave once it was getting dark. We would’ve gone sooner, but we had to make sure we weren't being followed."
"No, I get it," Bastien said. He pushed off the stall, his shoulders sagging.
"Did you go and see Bianca?" Max asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Bastien’s face crumpled for a second before he regained his composure. "Yeah. She’s in bits, lads. Utterly broken. She wanted to march right up to the main house and give the King a piece of her mind—I had to practically bar the door. It isn't safe. I don't trust that man not to do something... awful. Well, more awful than he’s already done."
Leo and Max shared a look of grim agreement. The King wasn't just a monarch anymore; he was a threat they all lived under.
"But she’s a strong woman," Bastien added, trying to find a note of hope. "I promised her that the second I hear anything—anything at all—I’ll be at her door. She wanted to go to France herself, but she’s got no way to get there. I was fairly sure she was going to walk the distance at one point. She was relieved to know you two were going."
"Will you be alright here by yourself?" Leo asked, looking around the cavernous stable. "It’s a lot of work for one man."
Bastien gave a small, sad smile and patted the horse’s flank. "Of course. Some things are more important than a mucked-out stall. Besides, I can’t see any of the royals wanting to go for a casual ride any time soon, can you?"
"No," Max muttered. "I suppose not."
"I’ll look after the horses," Bastien promised. "There’s some local lads from the village I can call on if I need an extra pair of hands. You focus on Drake."
"We’re going to look tonight," Leo explained, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "It’s too late to find a place to stay, so we’ll just drive to the border. We’ll hit the late-night cafes, the petrol stations, the bars. Ask if anyone saw a man fitting Drake’s description. We’ll drive until the sun comes up, then come back, rest, and do it again tomorrow. And the day after. Until we find him."
"You know the Queen and Princess Emilia would give you the money for a hotel, right?" Bastien reminded them.
"We know," Max said.
"We’re hoping it won't come to that," Leo added. "The border isn't that far. We’re just praying he hasn't wandered too deep into the country yet. France is a big place to get lost in."
"I know," Bastien said, his voice heavy. "But he’s got to be there somewhere. He hasn't got his papers, so he can't cross into Spain or anywhere else. He’s trapped in that border zone."
Leo checked his watch and nodded to Max. "Come on. Every minute we're standing here talking is a minute he's out there alone."
"Good luck, lads," Bastien called out, his voice echoing in the rafters.
"Cheers, Bas."
They stepped out into the cool night air. The gravel crunched under their boots as they reached the old truck parked in the shadows. The engine turned over with a rough, coughing roar, vibrating through the stable floors. As they pulled out of the estate and toward the dark ribbon of the highway leading to the French border, neither of them spoke. The weight of the bag in the seat between them felt like a promise they had to keep.
*****
The dining room at Applewood was a masterpiece of opulence, but tonight it felt like a tomb. High-backed velvet chairs muffled the sound of shifting silk, and the heavy crystal chandelier overhead cast a cold, clinical light on the polished mahogany table. The only sound was the rhythmic, agonizingly slow clink of silver forks against fine bone china.
Emilia sat rigid, her spine a straight line of defiance. She didn't touch her food. The roasted pheasant and glazed vegetables sat cooling on her plate, the rich aromas nauseating her. To her right, Eleanor stared at a spot on the tablecloth, her wine glass untouched, her jaw set so tight it looked carved from marble. Across from them, Olivia and Hana were shadows of themselves, picking at their meals with downcast eyes, terrified that even a heavy breath might shatter the fragile silence.
At the head of the table, Constantine sat like a monolith. He chewed his food methodically, the rasp of his knife against the plate sounding like a whetstone. The tension was thick, a physical weight that made it hard to swallow.
Finally, Constantine patted his mouth with a linen napkin and looked up. His voice was casual, almost breezy, though his eyes remained sharp. "Well, if no one else is going to make an effort, perhaps I should. Would any of you ladies’ care to tell me about your day?"
Silence followed. It was so heavy it felt as though the walls were closing in. No one moved. No one breathed.
Constantine’s brow furrowed, his patience thinning. "Well? Emilia? How was your day?"
Under the table, Emilia’s hand balled into a fist, her knuckles turning a ghostly white. The sheer gall of the question—the casual dismissal of the trauma he had inflicted—made her blood boil. She finally looked at him, her eyes dark with a cold, flickering fire.
"How do you think my day was, Father?" her voice was a low, dangerous tremble. "It was the worst day of my life."
Eleanor reached out, her fingers grazing Emilia’s forearm. It wasn't a soft plea for peace; it was a warning, a mother trying to shield her child from the inevitable explosion she knew was coming. "Emilia, please..."
But the levee had broken. Emilia stood, her chair screeching back against the hardwood floor like a scream. "Drake is out there somewhere, hurt and alone, because of you!" she shrieked, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "You sent him away for doing nothing wrong! You threw him out like trash!"
Constantine didn't flinch. He set his napkin down with terrifying deliberation. "He overstepped, Emilia. We cannot have the servants thinking they can do whatever they like. It is vital to maintain clear boundaries."
"Stop talking about the staff as if they’re petulant children!" Emilia’s voice cracked with raw grief. "They are people! They have feelings and lives of their own! They weren't born simply to serve you! They have dreams and desires... Drake had dreams! He had a heart, and he loved me! If that is overstepping, then so be it!"
"Emilia, that is enough!" Constantine roared, his face flushing a deep, angry purple.
"No!" she screamed back, leaning over the table, her shadow looming long in the candlelight. "I am sick and tired of you treating everyone around you like they’re worth less or like they’re being deliberately obtuse! Maybe if you took the time to listen to someone—anyone—who isn't part of your select few at the royal court, you’d actually have a sliver of empathy!"
"ENOUGH!" Constantine slammed his palms onto the table, making the crystal glasses jump and chime. "Go to your room! I will not sit here and let you speak to me in such a manner!"
Emilia didn't blink. She stared him down with a hatred that seemed to physically push him back. "Fine. I’d rather starve than spend another moment in your presence. You’re dead to me, Father. You have taken the most important person in my life away, and I will never forgive you. Never."
She turned and stormed out, her heavy skirts swishing aggressively. Hana and Olivia rose instantly, offering a frantic, silent bow to the King before scurrying after her, their footsteps frantic on the rug.
Constantine remained standing, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway. "She has no right to speak to me that way," he hissed. "Everything I have done has been for her. For her future. For the good of the Crown."
Eleanor didn't look up at first. She slowly, methodically placed her silverware down in a perfect parallel. When she finally raised her head, her eyes were not weary—they were sharp and flashing with an icy, concentrated anger.
"On the contrary, Constantine," she said, her voice cutting through his rage like a blade. "She has every right."
The King froze. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Eleanor stood up, smoothing her skirts with a grace that felt lethal. "You never listen to anyone else, do you? You are so blinded by your own reflection that you’ve forgotten there are other souls in this world. She’s right. If you took the time to actually hear us, instead of just waiting for your turn to command, maybe you would finally realize there is more to life than your precious duty."
"Duty is all I have!" he barked, his voice echoing in the hollow room.
"Because you chose it!" Eleanor snapped back, moving toward him until she was at the foot of his chair. "You have a family. One that was happy once. We were happy when we first married. It was for political reasons, yes, but there were moments of genuine joy. But over the years, you’ve let the crown swallow the man. You’ve become a statue. I have grown to accept it, but Emilia is the one paying the price for your coldness. She doesn't need a King, Constantine. She needs a father! She needs to be happy, and God help you, she needs Drake Walker."
Constantine’s jaw tightened until it looked like stone. "Well, he is gone! And he isn't coming back! The sooner she gets used to that idea, the better!"
"How can she?!" Eleanor’s voice rose, vibrating with a fierce, protective anger. "He is everywhere she looks! You cannot exile a memory, Constantine. He’s in the stables, he’s at the lake, he’s in the gardens. Every corner of Applewood is a monument to what you destroyed!"
Constantine let out a long, ragged sigh, his gaze shifting to the window. "Then perhaps," he whispered, his voice turning brittle, "it is time for us to leave Applewood."
Eleanor stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "What?"
"We need to get back to the palace. Immediately," he said, trying to reclaim his cold authority. "The further we are from this place, the better. That way, she can forget all about that stable hand. Distance will cure this... this madness."
Eleanor let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "She’s not going to forget him, Constantine. It doesn't matter where you take her. You could drag her to the ends of the earth, and he would still be living inside her heart. He always will be. And every day she looks at you, she will see the man who killed her spirit. The man who sent the love of her life away as if he were nothing more than a common criminal."
She didn't wait for his dismissal. She turned and walked out of the room, her silhouette sharp and unyielding.
Constantine stood alone in the vast, silent hall. For a fleeting second, the guilt he had been suppressing felt like a physical weight, crushing the air out of his lungs. He looked at the empty chairs, the half-eaten food, and the cold light of the chandelier. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the feeling back, burying it under layers of justification.
"I did the right thing," he muttered, his voice sounding small against the silence. "For duty. For her future. For the Crown."
*****
The sky above the Cordonia-France border hadn't just opened; it had collapsed. A torrential downpour lashed against the windshield of the truck, the wipers struggling at their highest speed to clear a view of the heavy iron barrier of the border crossing. Beyond the barrier lay the French countryside, obscured by a grey, watery veil.
Leo gripped the steering wheel, his eyes bloodshot from the strain of driving through the deluge. Beside him, Max sat hunched, staring at the border patrol station with a mix of dread and desperation.
As they pulled up to the checkpoint, a border guard stepped out from the small stone booth, his dark raincoat slick and shimmering under the harsh floodlights. He gestured for them to roll down the window. Immediately, the cabin was filled with the roar of the rain and the biting chill of the night air.
"Identification," the guard shouted over the storm.
Leo handed over their papers with trembling hands, but his voice was steady. "We’re looking for someone. A man was brought through here late last night. Tall, dark hair, probably looked like he’d been in a fight. He was escorted by the Cordonian Royal Guard."
The officer squinted at the papers, then back at them. His expression softened slightly, though his posture remained professional. "A man fitting that description was brought through, yes. Handed over to our side by the King’s men. By order of the Crown, he was to be left on French soil." He paused, looking between the two men. "Are you family of his?"
"Yeah," Leo said, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp ache. "We’re his brothers."
The guard offered a small, sympathetic smile, but he shook his head. "I am sorry. But I cannot allow you to bring him back across the border. Orders from your King forbid his re-entry into Cordonia. If he is caught attempting to return, he will be imprisoned."
"We know that," Max cut in, leaning across the seat, his face pleading. "We just want to find him. We need to know he’s okay. Do you know where they took him? Did they drop him at a station? A town?"
The guard pointed a gloved hand down the dark, winding road that disappeared into the trees. "I don't know their final destination. They drove in that direction, toward the interior. But please, be careful. This storm hit last night—it’s been bad and it only seems to be getting worse. Most of the low-lying roads are flooded. Even in a truck like this, you won’t be able to get through a lot of the secondary routes."
"Thanks," Leo said, shifting the truck into gear. "We'll bear it in mind."
They rolled the window up, sealing out the noise, but the silence inside was just as heavy. They crossed the line, the tires splashing through deep puddles as they entered France.
The hours that followed were a blur of neon signs and rain-streaked glass. They stopped at every flickering light they could find.
At a lonely petrol station, the attendant just shook his head, barely looking up from his paper. At a roadside café where the coffee tasted like burnt beans and despair, the waitress sighed and said she hadn't seen anyone new all day. They tried truck stops where the drivers were too tired to care, and dim bars where the music was too loud to hear their questions.
"Has anyone seen him?" Leo asked a bartender in a small village ten miles in. "Tall, Cordonian accent, probably looks lost?"
The bartender wiped a glass with a dirty rag. "In this weather? Nobody's out who doesn't have to be. Sorry, kid."
They climbed back into the truck, the heater humming a low, mournful tune. The rain had intensified, turning the road ahead into a river of black ink. Leo stared through the windshield, his hands shaking slightly on the wheel. It had been hours since they left Applewood.
"Leo..." Max started softly. "Maybe we should turn back."
"No," Leo snapped, his jaw set. "He's out here somewhere, Max. He's cold, he's hurt, and he has nothing. I need to find him."
"I know, Leo. I want to find him too," Max said, his voice cracking with the weight of the night. "But we’ll never find him if we kill ourselves on the first night of looking. We can't see the road. We’ve hit three dead ends because of the floods already. If we get stuck or slide off a ridge, we’re no use to him."
Leo hit the steering wheel in frustration, a muffled sob escaping his throat. He looked at the wall of water hitting the glass, realizing the futility of the search in these conditions. Finally, he exhaled a long, ragged breath. "Okay. Okay, you're right."
With a heavy heart, Leo executed a slow, careful U-turn. They began the sombre trek back toward the Cordonian border, the headlights cutting weak yellow swaths through the gloom.
As they drove back along the main road, the world felt empty and indifferent to their grief. They passed a lone farmhouse set back from the road, its windows dark against the storm. At the end of a long, winding gravel drive, a solitary post box stood battered by the wind.
Leaning out of the darkness, the name painted on the side of the box caught the flash of their headlights for a split second, illuminated in a ghostly white:
'THERON'
The truck kept moving, disappearing into the rainy night, leaving the farmhouse behind in the shadows.
*****
The morning arrived not with light, but with a bruising, charcoal sky that seemed to press down against the roof of the estate like a physical weight. Emilia woke to the rhythmic, violent drumming of rain against the windowpanes—a relentless, percussive sound that vibrated in her very marrow, mirroring the slow, fractured beat of the heart in her chest.
She hadn’t slept. Not really. Her eyes were gritty and bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruised with the shadows of a long, agonizing night spent staring at the ceiling. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Drake—bloody, cold, or worse—lost somewhere in the unforgiving dark. Her heart felt less like an organ and more like a shard of jagged glass, cracked and sharp inside her ribs, drawing blood with every breath.
The air in the room was damp and chilled, smelling of wet slate and old wood. She climbed out of bed, her body feeling heavy and fragile, her bare feet hitting the polished floorboards like ice. The shock of the cold travelled up her legs, but she barely felt it through the haze of her grief. She crossed to the French doors, pressing her forehead against the freezing glass.
Outside, the world was a blurred smudge of grey and dark green. The gardens, usually so meticulously manicured, were drowning under the deluge. The heavy flowers of the rose bushes were bowed and battered into the mud, their petals scattered across the grass like drops of fresh blood.
In her peripheral vision, she saw movement below. Her gaze drifted downward to the gravel drive, and her breath hitched, fogging the glass into a white blur.
Below, a line of black royal cars sat idling, their diesel engines a low, subterranean growl that she felt in her bones. Their exhaust plumes, thick and white, curled upward to mix with the freezing air. Staff members scurried like frantic ants in the downpour, hoisting heavy leather trunks—her trunks—into the gaping maws of the luggage compartments. The wet thud of the trunks landing and the metallic snap of the latches sounded like the closing of a tomb.
Panic, sharp and metallic like the taste of blood, rose in her throat. Without thinking, she grabbed her silk robe—the fabric cool and slippery against her heated skin—and tied the sash with trembling fingers.
She didn't take the stairs; she flew down them, the silk of her robe whistling against the banister and her bare heels skidding on the cold marble. She burst into the breakfast room, her chest heaving, her hair a wild halo around her pale, ghost-like face.
The room was suffocating, thick with the scent of bitter coffee and the acrid, lingering blue smoke of her father’s pipe tobacco. King Constantine sat alone at the head of the long mahogany table. The only sound was the silver spoon clinking rhythmically against his porcelain cup—a steady, maddening tink-tink-tink. He didn't look up, his face a mask of royal indifference.
"What’s going on?" Emilia demanded. Her voice cracked, raw and jagged from hours of sobbing in the dark. "Why are the cars being loaded?"
Constantine set the cup down with a slow, deliberate click that echoed like a hammer cocking. "We’re leaving."
"What?!"
"We’re going home, back to the palace," he said, finally lifting his head. His eyes weren't just cold; they were dead—as grey and unyielding as the rain-slicked stones of the driveway. "The staff have been instructed to pack your things. We depart in twenty minutes."
"No," Emilia said. The word was a small, hard pebble cast into a deep, dark well.
Constantine’s hand froze over the silver cream pitcher. A single muscle in his jaw leaped. "Excuse me?"
"I’m not leaving."
"You are." He stood up, the heavy oak chair scraping back against the floorboards with a screech like a dying animal. The sound set Emilia’s teeth on edge.
"No, I’m not!" she cried, lunging toward him. She could feel the heat radiating from the silver warming platters on the table, mingling with the white-hot flash of her own fury. "I am not going back to that mausoleum you call a palace! Drake is out here! Somewhere in that rain! How can you expect me to just... drive away? To leave him?"
Constantine’s face darkened to a plum-bruise purple, a thick vein pulsing at his temple like a live wire.
"Because you are the Princess of Cordonia," he hissed, his voice a low-frequency vibration that made the crystal glasses on the sideboard hum. He rounded the table, invading her space until he towered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "And because this disgusting infatuation ends today. You will return to the city, you will resume your duties, and you will marry a man of your own station. This sordid little ‘fling’ is over."
"I don’t want anyone else!" she yelled, her voice tearing through the high-vaulted room and shattering the morning’s forced silence. Her hands were clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms, leaving crescent-moon stings. "When are you going to understand that? This isn't a phase! I love him!"
The slap of his hand against the mahogany table was a physical shockwave; a crack of thunder that made the silver service jump. "He is no good for you, Emilia! He is filth!"
"He is not—"
"What did you expect?!" Constantine roared, his voice finally breaking into a jagged edge that drowned out the storm outside. "That I would allow you to throw your life away on some stable boy who spends his days scrubbing manure from under his fingernails?! That I would stand by and watch as you threw everything I have given you—every drop of blood and tradition you have been steeped in—away for a summer of rolling in the hay with a servant?!"
He leaned in closer, the smell of bitter coffee and stale smoke hot on her face. "You are the future Queen! Start acting like it!"
Emilia felt the heat of pure, unadulterated rage boil over. "Don’t you dare talk about Drake that way! He is not filth! He is a much better man than you could ever hope to be!"
The silence that followed was suffocating, charged with the heavy static of a lightning strike. Constantine’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. The only sound was the rain, which had escalated into a deafening, metallic roar against the roof.
"Pack your things, Emilia," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural whisper. "We are going."
"No."
"This is not up for discussion. If I have to drag you back to the city myself, I will. But you are not staying here. I will have the guards carry you to the car kicking and screaming in your nightgown if that is what it takes, Emilia. Just watch me."
He turned his back on her—a gesture of absolute, chilling dismissal. Emilia stood frozen, listening to the rain wash away the gardens she loved, the gardens where she had spent so many nights wrapped in Drake’s arms. The sound of the royal car engines outside grew louder, mimicking the approach of an inevitable, drowning tide.
Tears of despair sprang in her eyes. There was nothing she could do. She knew the reality of her position; her father wasn't bluffing. If she refused to move, he would have the Royal Guard hoist her by her arms and legs, dragging her through the mud in her nightgown if that’s what it took to assert his dominance. He would humiliate her to break her.
Emilia didn’t look back as she fled the room. She reached her bedroom, gasping for air, only to find the door propped open. A team of silent, efficient maids were already there, moving like ghosts. Her summer dresses were being folded into silk-lined trunks; her jewellery boxes were being snapped shut.
Emilia stood in the centre of the room, her chest aching with a physical weight. This was the room where she had dreamed of him. Just days ago, the air here had been bright with the possibility of a life, a future, with Drake. Now, it felt sterile and cold.
She dressed in a simple, pale blue day dress the maids had laid out for her. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the silver chain around her neck, clutching the ring Drake had given her. The cold metal against her palm was the only thing keeping her upright.
"I promise I’m not giving up, Drake," she whispered into the empty room, her voice a ragged vow. "I love you. I will find you again. I promise."
She forced herself to walk down the grand staircase. Her father, mother, Olivia, and Hana were waiting in the marble-floored hallway. The atmosphere was suffocating. Eleanor offered a small, sad smile, reaching out and squeezing her hand in a silent sign of support.
Constantine stepped forward, adjusting his cuffs, his expression one of smug triumph. "I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Emilia. It’s time we—"
"Don’t speak to me," Emilia interrupted, her voice like shards of ice.
Constantine froze, his mouth thinning into a hard line.
"You can force me back to the palace, but you cannot force me to forget Drake," she said, looking him directly in his cold eyes. "You cannot stop me from loving him. I will never give up on him, Father. Never. And I will never forgive you for what you have done."
She didn't wait for his reaction. She turned and walked out of the manor, her head held high even as her heart shattered. As she descended the stone steps, she spotted it—the mud-caked truck parked by the stables.
Her breath hitched. She broke into a run, her flat shoes slapping against the wet gravel. Behind her, she heard Hana and Olivia following, their own urgency mirroring hers.
She reached the stable doors, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Leo?! Max?!"
The two men stepped out from the shadows. They looked exhausted, their eyes bloodshot and their clothes damp. When they looked at her, they didn't have to say a word. They shook their heads sadly.
"I have to leave," Emilia sobbed, the tears finally overflowing. "I’m being forced back to the palace. Please... when you do find him, tell Drake I love him. Tell him I’ll always love him. This isn't the end. We’re meant to be together... I know it."
Leo stepped forward and took her hands, his expression softening with a mournful kind of grace. "I will, Emilia. He’ll write. When we find him, we’ll tell him you’ve returned to the palace. And he’ll write to you. I’m sure of it."
Emilia threw her arms around him, hugging him tight, then did the same for Max, clinging to them as the last links to the man she loved. Beside her, the farewells were just as painful. Hana reached for Max, and Olivia for Leo, the summer romances that had blossomed in the shadows of the estate ending in sweet, lingering final kisses.
Eventually, the sound of an impatient car horn signalled the end of their time.
Emilia felt her strength failing. Hana and Olivia moved to her sides, hooking their arms through hers and physically supporting her as they turned away from the boys. They walked back toward the waiting black cars, their shadows stretching long across the gravel.
As the motorcade roared to life and began to pull away, the girls looked out the rear window, watching the manor and the stables shrink into the distance.
Max and Leo stood by the stables, two silent sentinels watching the motorcade pull away. As the taillights faded into the grey mist, Max wiped the rain from his face, his jaw setting into a hard, grim line.
"We find him," Max said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Yeah," Leo replied, his eyes still fixed on the road where Emilia had disappeared. "We find him, and we bring them back together."
I swear Constantine is the Grinch in disguise. If his heart shrinks any smaller it's going to be a bitter, burnt raisin. He wields his axe of Duty like he's trying to cut down everybody's Christmas tree. He sucks the joy out of eeeeverything..
Emilia’s world didn't end with a bang. It ended with the mechanical, indifferent clack of the car’s security lock—a sound that resonated like a gavel in a silent courtroom.
She watched through a shimmering veil of salt and terror as the utility vehicle’s door became a steel barrier between two lives, two hearts, two souls. Drake’s face was pressed to the glass, a ghostly pale smudge against the smeared window. His one good eye was blown wide, dark with a desperate, crushing sorrow that seemed to scream louder than the engine’s roar. She saw his lips move—a silent, sacred vow cast into the void between them.
I love you.
"Drake!"
The name tore from her throat, jagged and raw, tasting of copper and bile. She lunged forward, but the guard’s arms were a vice, his chest a stone wall against her back that smelled of starch and cold sweat. She thrashed, her fingernails digging into the heavy fabric of the man’s sleeves until her cuticles bled, her shoes skidding uselessly on the gravel. She fought with the frantic, mindless strength of a trapped animal, but the grip only tightened, bruising the tender skin at her hip.
"Drake! Please! Let me go!"
The engine growled, a predatory sound that swallowed her pleas. The tires spun, spitting jagged grey gravel into the air like shrapnel. She watched, paralyzed by a mounting horror, as the red taillights bled into the darkness. They were two glowing embers retreating into the night, growing smaller and smaller until the shadows of the great oaks consumed them entirely.
He was gone. The space where he had been felt like a sudden drop in pressure, a vacuum that sucked the air right out of her lungs.
The guard released his hold, and the sudden absence of his support was the final blow. Emilia didn't just fall; she shattered.
Her knees struck the sharp stones of the driveway with a sickening thud, the skin scratching instantly, but she felt nothing of the physical world. A shriek erupted from her lungs—a sound so primal and laden with unadulterated agony that it seemed to vibrate the very oxygen in the gardens. It wasn't the sound of a girl crying; it was the sound of a soul being physically wrenched from a chest, of a heart being flayed open by a dull, rusty blade.
Hands reached for her. She felt the frantic touch of her friends, heard the muffled, underwater drone of her mother’s voice calling her name, but they were ghosts. Their warmth was an insult to the sub-zero ice spreading through her veins. She collapsed forward, burying her face into her mother’s silk robe. her fingers clutching at the fabric as if she could pull herself into another reality.
The agonizing sobs that tore from her body were violent, racking her frame until her ribs ached and her diaphragm cramped. Every breath was a struggle against the searing, burning void where Drake had been only minutes before. It felt like dying—a slow, conscious expiration where the heart continues to beat only to feel the rhythm of its own ruin.
"Drake..." she wheezed, her voice failing, turning into a pathetic, broken rasp. "Drake..."
The Applewood gardens, once her sanctuary, had transformed. The scent of blooming jasmine, roses and damp earth, which usually spoke of childhood summers and secret kisses, now smelled of rot and stagnant rain. The towering hedges were no longer guardians of her privacy; they were the walls of a tomb. The shooting star she had wished upon hours ago felt like a cruel joke—a dying light in a sky that had turned its back on her.
She remained on the gravel for what felt like an eternity, the sharp stones biting into her skin, marking her with the geography of her despair. Her throat was a scorched wasteland from screaming. Her legs were stained with blood and dust, the grit working its way into her wounds.
But as the silence of the manor settled over them—a heavy, suffocating shroud—Emilia realized the most terrifying truth of all. The love that had burned brighter than any star had not just been dimmed. It had been extinguished by the cold, calculated hand of her own father, leaving her alone in a darkness so absolute that she wasn't sure the sun would ever dare to rise again.
The walk back to the manor was a funeral procession without a casket. Eleanor’s arm was a sturdy anchor around Emilia’s waist, the only thing keeping her from drifting away into the shadows of the hedges. Emilia’s feet dragged, her shoes ruined. Every step felt like walking through waist-deep water.
As they passed the stables, the air grew thick with the scent of hay and horsehide—Drake’s world. It hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.
Leo, Max, and Bastien stood there like statues carved from grief. They didn’t speak; the silence was more deafening than any shout. Max and Leo, usually the life of the yard, stood with their shoulders slumped, silent tears carving tracks through the dust on their cheeks. They weren't just mourning Emilia’s shattered heart; they were mourning a brother. Drake—the man who had taught them, led them, and shielded them—had been hauled away like a common criminal, and they had been powerless to stop it.
As Emilia passed them, a sudden, frantic energy seized her. She wrenched herself from Eleanor’s grasp, her eyes wild and bloodshot, the whites of them mapped with broken capillaries.
"I have to go! I have to find him!" she gasped, her voice a jagged shard of its former self. She lunged toward the main gates, her hands clawing at the air as if she could pull the utility vehicle back by sheer will. "I need to find them! I have to stop them!"
"You can’t, sweetheart," Eleanor whispered, catching her again, her own voice trembling. "Not right now. You don’t even know where they’ve taken him."
"I don’t care!" Emilia shrieked, a fresh wave of hysteria rising in her chest, making her ears ring. "I’ll look in every corner of the continent if I have to! I love him! I can’t live without him!"
"I know, darling. I know," Eleanor choked out, pulling Emilia’s head to her shoulder to muffle the screams. "But you need to be strong. You have to be strong for Drake. Wherever he is, he needs you whole, not broken."
They crossed the threshold of the manor. The grand foyer, usually so welcoming with its warm candlelight and polished marble, felt cavernous and cold, like a cathedral for a dead god. Constantine was nowhere to be seen—the king had likely retreated to his study, perhaps he was congratulating himself for maintaining the natural order, rewarding himself with yet another expensive brandy after destroying his own daughter’s heart. The thought of him made the air in the house feel toxic.
Hana, Olivia, and Bertrand trailed behind, but near the base of the grand staircase, Bertrand’s legs seemed to give way. He slumped against the banister, a sob escaping him that sounded like wood splintering.
"Bert?" Olivia turned, her face pale.
"It’s all my fault," he choked out, his hands shaking so violently he had to tuck them into his armpits.
"What is?"
"This! Everything! What Uncle Constantine did," Bertrand cried, his face twisting in a mask of self-loathing. "I told him. I told him they were together. I told him Emilia was in love with Drake. I thought... I thought I was helping. I wanted him to see that it was a good thing, that they were happy. That their love was more important than some outdated tradition. I thought he’d understand." He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled by tears. "And now Drake is gone. I did this to her. I broke her."
Olivia stepped forward, her expression hardening into something fierce. She grabbed his wrists, forcing him to look at her. "No. Bertrand, listen to me. Constantine would have done this regardless. If it wasn't tonight, it would have been tomorrow. If it wasn't you, he would have found another way. He is cold, calculating and cruel... No, scratch that. He’s a monster. But right now, we don't have the luxury of your guilt. We have to be there for Emilia. She’s going to need us to survive this."
Bertrand wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, nodding slowly. "Okay. You're right."
They followed the trail of Emilia’s fading sobs up to her suite. The room was exactly as she had left it—full of the hope of the evening, now turned to ash. The perfume she had carefully applied earlier sat on the vanity, a mocking reminder of the girl she had been three hours ago. Emilia didn't even make it to the pillows; she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in the heavy duvet, her body racking with tremors as she cried Drake’s name into the fabric.
Eleanor turned to the three friends, her face a mask of exhausted maternal protectiveness. "Go to bed," she whispered. "I’ll stay with her tonight."
"What about Uncle Constantine?" Bertrand asked tentatively.
Eleanor’s eyes flashed with a fire none of them had ever seen. "Right now, Bertrand, I could give a rat’s ass what that man does. As long as he stays the hell away from my daughter."
Bertrand’s eyes widened at the uncharacteristic profanity, but he saw the raw protection in her gaze. He reached out, squeezing his aunt’s arm in a silent promise of solidarity, before the three of them retreated into the hallway.
Eleanor closed the door and climbed onto the bed. Emilia was curled into a tight, defensive ball, her knees tucked to her chest as if she were trying to shrink until she vanished entirely. Eleanor lay behind her, pulling her daughter’s trembling back against her own chest, wrapping her arms around her in a cocoon of safety.
"Shh... it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you," Eleanor murmured, her own tears wetting the back of Emilia’s hair.
Emilia’s hands clutched at her mother’s, her knuckles white. Behind her closed eyelids, the world was a slideshow of Drake. The scent of him—that intoxicating mix of worn leather, fresh hay, and the ghost of tobacco—clung to her memory, making her nose ache with the phantom presence. She could almost feel the rough callouses of his hands, those hardened, gentle hands he was always so self-conscious of, but which she found more beautiful than any silk. She saw his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled, the way he looked at her as if she were the only light in a dark world.
The pain in her chest wasn't a metaphor; it was a physical weight, a jagged stone where her heart used to be, pulsing with every ragged, hitching breath she took. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the red taillights fading into the oaks, and the screaming inside her head started all over again.
*****
The morning didn't bring light; it only brought a cruel, flat greyness that filtered through the heavy velvet curtains. Emilia lay paralyzed, her body feeling like a discarded husk. She hadn’t slept, not truly. Every time her heavy eyelids drifted shut, the dark theatre of her mind replayed that final second on a loop: the indifferent clack of the lock, the vibration of the engine, and Drake’s face—pale and fractured behind the glass—mouthing those three sacred words that now felt like a eulogy.
I love you.
The memory was a jagged blade, twisting every time she drew a breath. She needed to know he was breathing. She needed to know his heart was still beating against his ribs, even if it wasn't against hers.
The snatches of sleep she’d managed were worse than the wakefulness. In the feverish haze of nightmares, she saw her father’s ringed fist connecting with Drake’s jaw again and again. She saw the metallic spray of blood across his white t-shirt, stark and sickening. Most of all, she saw his eyes—those beautiful hazel eyes that reminded her of autumn leaves and sunlight, the only place she had ever called home—swollen shut and weeping crimson. He was her gravity, her North Star, and now he had been ripped from her sky, leaving her spinning into a freezing void.
Silent tears tracked through the dried salt on her cheeks, stinging the raw skin. The suite felt cavernous, the high ceilings pressing down on her while the walls seemed miles away. She was drowning in the middle of a vast, empty ocean.
Behind her, the bed shifted. Eleanor’s arm, which had remained a constant weight throughout the night, tightened around Emilia’s waist. The warmth of her mother’s body was the only thing keeping Emilia from shattering into a thousand pieces of ice. As the first true sob of the morning hitched in her throat, the sound was wet and broken.
"It’s okay, Emilia," Eleanor whispered, her voice thick with her own exhaustion. "I’m here. You’re going to be okay."
"I’m not, Mother," Emilia choked out, the words tasting like ash. "I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again. I love him. I can’t... I can’t breathe without him."
"I know," Eleanor said, pressing her forehead against the back of Emilia's neck. "We'll find him, sweetheart. I promise you."
Emilia turned slightly, her joints stiff and aching as if she’d been beaten. Her voice dropped to a terrified, paper-thin whisper. "But what if he’s... what if he’s... dead?"
Eleanor stiffened. The word hung in the air like a poisonous fog. She hadn't allowed her mind to wander into that particular darkness, but now that it was spoken, the possibility felt like a physical weight on her chest. Would Constantine go that far? Would the guards, men she had known for years, truly execute a man for the crime of love?
Panic flared in Eleanor's gut, sharp and hot, but she forced her voice to remain a steady anchor. "He won't be, Emilia. He’s strong. He’ll be fighting to get through this, holding onto the thought of you, so that one day he can come back."
"I don’t want him to come back one day," Emilia shrieked softly, the sound muffled by the silk pillowcase. "I want him back now. I love him, Mother. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. We were supposed to spend our lives together. He promised me... he promised we would be together always."
"I know, darling. I know," Eleanor murmured, stroking Emilia’s tangled hair, which smelled faintly of the garden’s damp earth and the lingering scent of Drake’s aftershave.
A soft, hesitant knock brushed against the door. It creaked open, admitting a sliver of hallway light that looked sickly and yellow. Olivia and Hana stood there, their faces drawn and haggard, shadows like bruises beneath their eyes. They looked like they had aged years in a single night.
"Sorry to disturb you, Eleanor," Olivia said, her voice small and brittle. "But we wanted to check on Emilia. We wanted to make sure she’s... alright."
"Of course I’m not alright!" Emilia sobbed, her body racking with a fresh wave of tremors. "I just want Drake. Please, I just want him back."
Eleanor exhaled a long, shaky breath and moved off the bed. Her nightgown was wrinkled, her face pale, but her eyes had hardened into something flinty and dangerous. She approached Olivia and Hana at the door, her voice dropping to a low, urgent command.
"Please look after her for a little while. Try to get her to drink some tea, take a warm bath... anything. Just try to distract her from the silence."
Olivia nodded, stepping into the room. "Of course. But where are you going?"
Eleanor straightened her shoulders, her expression turning into a mask of cold, regal fury. "I need to speak to my husband," she said, the word husband sounding like a curse.
She swept out of the room without another word, her footsteps echoing sharply on the marble of the landing.
Olivia and Hana climbed onto the bed, flanking Emilia like two guardian angels. Olivia sat behind her, letting Emilia lean back against her chest, while Hana sat on the edge, facing her. They each took one of Emilia's small, trembling hands in theirs. The skin of Emilia's fingers was like ice, despite the heavy duvet.
Hana tried to speak, to offer some fragment of comfort, but the words died in her throat when she looked into Emilia’s eyes. They weren't the eyes of the girl who had been excited about a date just hours ago; they were empty, vacant, reflecting a soul that had been hollowed out.
There was no distraction possible. No tea could soothe a scorched throat, and no bath could wash away the feeling of Drake’s blood on her memory. So, they simply sat in the heavy, grey silence, holding her as she wept, the only sound in the room the rhythmic, gut-wrenching sobs for a love that had been stolen in the dark.
*****
The air in the royal wing was unnervingly still, smelling of floor wax and stale incense. Eleanor’s feet struck the polished marble like hammer blows, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings. When she reached the master suite, the heavy oak doors swung open to reveal a room that felt like a museum—pristine, cold, and utterly untouched. The silk coverlet on the massive bed was perfectly smooth; Constantine hadn't even bothered to lie down.
Her jaw tightened. She knew exactly where he would be.
She turned and marched further along the hallway, her silk robe billowing behind her like a battle flag. She reached the heavy door of the King’s private study and didn't pause to knock. She threw them open with such force they cracked against the interior stop, the sound booming in the quiet room.
Constantine didn't flinch. He sat behind the sprawling mahogany desk littered with intelligence reports and wax-sealed scrolls. The air here was thick with the scent of old paper and the bitter dregs of expensive brandy. He looked haggard, the shadows under his eyes deep enough to be bruises, but his posture remained as rigid as a statue.
He looked up slowly, adjusting his spectacles. "Eleanor. Good morning."
"Good morning?" Eleanor’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss. She stalked toward the desk, her hands trembling with a need to strike something. "Is that all you have to say to me? After the carnage of last night? Good morning?"
Constantine exhaled a long, weary sigh and set his pen down. "What do you want, Eleanor? I am quite busy."
"I want to know where those guards took Drake Walker," she demanded, slamming her palms onto the mahogany desk. The inkwell rattled. "I want to know his condition. I want to know how much blood he had left in him when they dumped him like trash across the border."
Constantine arched a silvered eyebrow, a frown deepening the lines on his face. "Why?"
"Because he has a mother and friends who deserve to know if he’s still breathing!" she roared, her voice cracking the professional veneer of the room. "And because our daughter is in her suite, devastated beyond belief, terrified that her father is a murderer! She thinks he’s dead, Constantine!"
"Don’t be ridiculous, Eleanor," he snapped, his voice finally rising. "The boy was quite alive when they left him. I gave no order for his execution."
"Then where is he?"
"Does it matter? He is no longer in Cordonia. He has been removed from our kingdom. That is all you need to know."
"Tell me where he was taken, Constantine. Now."
"Why?" he sneered, leaning forward into the light of the desk lamp. "So you can whisper it to Emilia? So she can sneak away and run to his side like a common girl in a tawdry romance? I think not."
"So I can have Bastien send word to his mother!" Eleanor cried, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of rage. "That woman has already lost her husband to the service of this crown! I will not have her lose her son to your ego! I will not have his blood on my conscience!"
They stared at each other for a long, suffocating minute. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Finally, Constantine looked away, his jaw working. "France. He was taken across the border in the Languedoc region, then released. He is in France."
"Thank you," she said, the words sharp and jagged as glass.
She didn't move. Constantine waited, then looked back down at his documents, trying to dismiss her with his silence. "Was there something else?"
"Yes," she whispered, the quietness of her voice more terrifying than the shouting. "I want to know what the hell that was last night. How dare you. How dare you ambush them like that? How dare you treat another human being like vermin?"
"I merely did what was required of me!" Constantine stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. He rounded the desk, looming over her. "To protect our legacy! To protect the sanctity of the crown!"
"What about protecting your daughter?" Eleanor stepped into his space, refusing to back down. "What about protecting her heart?"
"I did protect her! You think the people of this country will respect a Queen who conducts a sordid relationship with the help? You think the Royal Court—the men who hold the purse strings of this monarchy—will be happy with a servant standing among them as if he’s their equal? It would be the end of the monarchy!"
"I couldn’t care less what the Royal Court thinks!" Eleanor shoved his chest, her grief finally exploding. "I care about Emilia! She loves him! And if she thinks he is good enough for her, then I stand by her. Drake is loyal, he is kind, and he is brilliant. He has more integrity in his little finger than most of those vultures at court have in their entire bodies! And more importantly... he makes her happy. Does that mean nothing to you? Does her joy have no value?"
"Happiness is not something the Royal Council views with importance when it comes to ruling a nation, Eleanor!" he bellowed. "Duty is the only currency we have!"
Eleanor recoiled as if he’d slapped her. She shook her head, a look of pure loathing on her face. "I knew you were cold, Constantine. I knew you were cruel. But you’re worse than that. You’re a monster. You’ve traded your soul for a throne that’s rotting underneath you."
"Watch how you speak to me!" he hissed, his face turning a dark, mottled red. "I am your King!"
"You're a tyrant!" she shouted back, pointing a finger at his chest. "You have single-handedly destroyed the one thing in this world that Emilia actually cares about. You think you’re protecting your legacy? You’ve just fractured it beyond repair. She will never forgive you for this. Never. And neither will I."
Eleanor turned on her heel and marched toward the door. She didn't just close it; she slammed it with a force that shook the paintings on the walls.
Constantine stood in the sudden, ringing silence. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He turned back to his desk, ready to tear the papers to shreds in his fury, but as he slumped into his leather chair, the adrenaline drained out of him, leaving only a hollow ache.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and adjusted the silver frames of the photographs on his desk. Most were stiff and formal: the wedding day where he looked like a soldier and Eleanor looked like a doll; his coronation, heavy with gold and expectation; the day Emilia was presented to the world.
But his eyes snagged on a photo from Emilia’s eighteenth birthday. He remembered that day. A ball had been organised in her honour at the palace, potential suitors lined up ready to proclaim their interest in the young princess. She had been wearing a dress of pale gold, her hair swept back into elegant curls. But the girl in the picture looked haunted. The vibrant, laughing child who used to chase butterflies in the garden was gone. Her smile didn't reach her eyes; she looked like she was carrying the weight of the entire kingdom on her narrow shoulders.
He thought back to the breakfast they had shared just a few days ago. He remembered the way she had smiled—a real, genuine smile that had transformed her face. She had looked vibrant. Alive.
In the silence of the study, surrounded by the power he had fought so hard to keep, Constantine felt a cold, sharp needle of something he hadn't felt in decades.
Guilt.
*****
The slam of the study door still rang in Eleanor’s ears as she leaned against the cold wall of the hallway, her chest heaving. The adrenaline was a bitter fire in her veins, but it was cooling into a sharp, focused resolve. She didn't have time for her own grief or the collapse of her marriage; she had a daughter to save from the abyss.
She smoothed her silk robe, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and marched back toward the suite.
Inside, the room was heavy with a stagnant, suffocating silence. Emilia was sitting up now, propped against a mountain of pillows, her face a pale, scrubbed mask of exhaustion. Olivia was at the vanity, wringing out a cool cloth in a porcelain basin, while Hana sat on the edge of the bed, holding a forgotten cup of tea.
When Eleanor entered, the air in the room shifted. Emilia’s hollow eyes tracked her mother’s movement with a sudden, electric desperation.
"He’s alive," Eleanor said, the words cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Emilia let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. "You... you spoke to him? To Father?"
"I did." Eleanor sat on the edge of the mattress, taking Emilia’s ice-cold hands in her own. "Drake is in France. Your father’s men took him across the border in the Languedoc region. He is alive, Emilia. Broken, perhaps, but breathing."
"France," Emilia whispered, the word a prayer. "He’s so far away. He has nothing—no money, no papers, no one."
"He has us," Olivia snapped, turning from the vanity. Her eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. "He has Leo, Max, Bastien. And he has a mother who would walk through fire for him. We have to get word to Bianca."
"Oh God, Bianca," Emilia breathed, her eyes widening. "She will be so worried if she doesn't hear from him. When she finds out what has happened..." She paused, her expression hardening with a sudden, frantic energy. "I need to go."
"Go where?" Hana asked, leaning forward.
"To France. I need to find him," Emilia insisted, her voice rising. "I love him, I can't let him just think I've forgotten about him. I need to find where he is!"
"No, sweetheart. Listen to me," Eleanor said firmly, gripping her daughter's shoulders. "If you try to follow him, your father will be notified immediately. He will have guards watching every exit. If you try to follow him, the guards will be ordered to find him—and they will find him before you do. That could put Drake in even more danger."
"Then what do I do?!" Emilia sobbed, the frustration boiling over. "I can’t just stay here surrounded by silk and gold while Drake is left to rot in a country he doesn't know with nothing!"
Eleanor nodded, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial low. "I will go to Bastien. He is loyal to the Walker family; he and his wife have known Bianca a long time. He will go to her and tell her where her son is, and we will do what we can to help her find him."
"Max and Leo," Hana added quickly. "They’re Drake’s oldest friends. We could ask them to go and look for him."
"I’m sure they would," Olivia agreed. "They’re likely as worried as we are. Drake is like a brother to them."
"And what about me?" Emilia gripped her mother’s wrists, her eyes pleading. "I can’t just do nothing!"
"No. You will come with me—with us," Eleanor said, glancing at Hana and Olivia. "To see Bastien and the boys. But we have to be careful. If Constantine gets even a whiff that we're trying to find Drake, I… well, I don't know what he will do."
A sharp knock at the door startled them all. Olivia moved cautiously from the vanity to open it. Standing in the threshold were Bertrand and Rose. Bertrand looked devastated, crushed by the weight of his perceived failure, while Rose’s face was etched with a deep, quiet sadness.
Bertrand entered the room, walking tentatively toward the bed. He stopped a few feet away, taking in Emilia’s dishevelled appearance. Tears welled in his eyes.
"Emilia, I…"
Before he could continue, Emilia threw herself into his arms, cutting him off. "No, Bertrand. Don't. None of this is your fault. You were trying to help. I know that."
"But—"
"No. No buts," Emilia insisted, pulling back slightly to look him in the eye. "I don't blame you for any of this. This was all my father. Not you."
Bertrand managed a small, sad smile. "I will do anything I can to put this right, Em. I promise you."
"Thank you," she replied, hugging him once more.
Rose stepped forward then, bowing her head respectfully. "Your Majesty, Princess Emilia. If I may, I’d like to offer my help also. I don’t know what I can do yet, but I want to help in any way I can."
Emilia looked at Rose, then around the room at her friends, her family. The crushing weight of the morning hadn't vanished, but she felt a different sensation beginning to stir—a fire returning to her chest. These were the people who supported her and Drake. These were the people who were going to help her, no matter the cost.
For the first time since Drake had been taken, the suite didn't feel like a cage. It felt like a war room.
*****
The air in the stables was thick with the smell of damp hay, oiled leather, and the heavy, metallic tang of suppressed grief. Usually, this was a place of rhythmic activity—the clipping of hooves, the low whistles of the grooms, the easy banter between friends. Today, it was a tomb.
Bastien, Max, and Leo worked in a silence so brittle it felt as though the slightest sound might shatter it. Max was methodically oiling a saddle he had already cleaned twice, his movements mechanical and hollow. Bastien moved with a slumped posture that aged him a decade, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Leo was mucking out a stall, his jaw set so tight it ached. The repetitive motion of the pitchfork usually calmed him, but today, every shove into the hay felt like a strike against an invisible enemy. Finally, the pressure behind his ribs became too much to bear.
"I can’t do this!" Leo roared, the sound echoing off the timber rafters. He slammed the pitchfork into the dirt floor, the wooden handle vibrating with the force of his fury. "I can’t just carry on working like everything is okay! Drake is out there somewhere, hurt, alone, and we’re here shovelling shit!"
Max dropped the saddle leather, his hands shaking. "What can we do, Leo? Think. We have no idea where they took him. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack—in a haystack the size of Europe."
"I don’t know!" Leo shouted back, his chest heaving as he turned on Max. "But he’s my best friend! My brother! I can’t just do nothing while he’s... God knows where!"
"He’s those things to me too!" Max snapped, standing up, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "But we can’t waste energy hunting every inch of the continent. He’s strong, mate. He’s the toughest man I know. He will be okay. He has to be. I’m sure he’ll find a way to contact us when he can."
Just then, the heavy stable doors creaked open, spilling a rectangular wash of pale morning light across the dusty floor. The men froze as the silhouettes of four women appeared—Eleanor leading the way, followed by Emilia, Hana, and Olivia.
Bastien was the first to move, wiping his grimy hands on his trousers as he rushed toward them. "Your Majesty. Princess. Any word?"
"He’s in Languedoc, Bastien," Eleanor said, her voice steady despite the shadows under her eyes.
"Is he okay?!" Leo stepped forward, his anger instantly replaced by a desperate, reaching hope.
"I don’t know for sure his condition, Leo," Eleanor admitted, "but he was alive when the guards dropped him at the border. He’s a fighter. I’m sure he’s fine."
Emilia didn't wait for another word. She stepped into Leo’s space and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the rough material of his work shirt. Leo folded around her instantly, his large hand supporting the back of her head as she broke.
"How are you, Em?" Leo whispered into her hair, his own voice cracking.
"Devastated, Leo," she sobbed, the sound muffled against him. "I just want him back. I just want him with me."
"I know," Leo soothed, tears finally tracking through the dust on his cheeks. Over Emilia’s shaking shoulder, his eyes met Olivia’s. She was standing a few feet back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her bottom lip trembling. He offered her a small, sad smile—a silent acknowledgement of their shared terror. She returned it with a nod that was more a plea for strength than a greeting.
Emilia pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her expression hardening into something regal and sharp. "We need your help. All three of you."
"Anything," Bastien said instantly, Max and Leo nodding in grim unison.
"Bastien," Eleanor took charge, "you must go to Bianca Walker. Tell her everything. Tell her Drake is in Languedoc and that we are sending a search party. She needs to know her son is alive."
"I will go to her immediately," Bastien promised.
"Leo, Max," Emilia said, looking at Drake's closest companions. "We need you to go and search for him. The guards dropped him just over the border. Start there and don't stop until you find him."
"We’ll take my family’s truck," Leo said, his mind already racing through the logistics. "It’s old, but it’s fast and it won't draw attention."
"Drake has nothing," Emilia reminded them, her voice dropping. "He’ll need clothes, money... anything you can think of. He had nothing with him except the clothes on his back."
"Consider it done," Max said, his hand resting on Leo's shoulder. The two friends shared a look of renewed purpose.
"We'll leave as soon as I can get the truck around," Leo said, his voice regaining its usual strength.
Emilia hugged him one last time, a lingering, desperate squeeze. As she pulled back, she gripped his forearms. "Can you do one more thing for me? When you find him... tell him I love him. Tell him I’ll always love him."
Leo nodded solemnly. "Of course, Em. Word for word."
Emilia turned to her mother, her eyes swimming. "Can you give me a moment?"
Eleanor’s expression softened with maternal understanding. "Of course, darling. We’ll be right here."
Emilia turned away from the group, her footsteps heavy as she walked toward the back of the stables. She bypassed the stalls and the tack room, heading straight for the narrow wooden stairs that led to the loft. Every step felt like wading through deep water.
She reached the top and pushed open the door to Drake’s room.
The scent hit her like a physical blow. It was the smell of him—rich, earthy, and masculine. It was the leather of his jacket, the sweet, dry scent of hay from the floor below, and the sharp, clean sting of his bay rum aftershave. Underneath it all was the faint, lingering spice of tobacco and the pomade he used to slick back his dark hair.
She closed the door and the world outside—her father, the guards, the crown—vanished. She crossed the small room to the bed. This was the space where they had first made love. This was where she had learned the map of his body, and where she had woken up with the sun streaming through the skylight to find his body curled around hers, his eyes looking at her with an expression of such pure devotion it had made her ache.
Emilia lay down on the rumpled wool blanket, curling onto her side. The scent was strongest here, clinging to the pillow. A jagged, broken sob escaped her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her hand flying to her neck. Her fingers curled around the cold metal of the ring he had given her, the one she wore hidden beneath her clothes. She gripped it so hard the edges bit into her palm.
“I’m sorry Drake. I’m so sorry…” she whispered through sobs.
Her heart felt as though it were being physically torn in two. In the silence of the room, surrounded by the ghost of the man she loved, the princess disappeared, leaving only a girl who felt utterly, devastatingly broken.
Emilia is a wreck, and Constantine is the wrecking ball. 💔 Eleanor, the savage Lioness, tore into him and defended their daughter's right to happiness. Hopefully her claws scratched away some of the crusty ancient shield of duty he's hiding behind. ..And Leo, Max and Bastien to the rescue. 💞
Drake struggled, his boots dragging in the dirt as he tried to turn back to her. "Emilia!" he choked out, his voice cracking. He fought the guards with the last of his strength, but he was too weak. They slammed him into the hard bench of a utility vehicle, the door slamming shut behind him with a metallic clack that echoed like a guillotine blade. He fought to escape, pulling at the handle, the window, anything to get back to her. But it was no use. All he could do was press his face to the glass, his one good eye wide and filled with a desperate, crushing sorrow. As the engine roared to life, he watched Emilia struggle against the guard, tears streaming down her face. He managed to mouth one final thing before the car lurched forward.
I love you.
The tires spun, spitting gravel into the air, and the car sped down the driveway. Through the smeared, reinforced glass of the rear window, he saw the gates of Applewood receding. He saw the cluster of figures in the courtyard—a blurred tableau of grief and shock—and at the centre, he watched as the girl he loved more than life itself collapsed to the ground. Her screams reached him even over the growl of the diesel engine, a high, thin silver thread of sound that seemed to wrap around his throat and pull until he couldn't breathe.
"Emilia!" he sobbed, lunging again for the door handle, his fingers clawing at the cold metal. This time a heavy hand shoved him back. One of the guards, a man whose face was nothing but a shadow beneath a peaked cap, didn't even look at him. "Sit down, Walker. Don't make this harder than it already is."
"Please," Drake gasped, the word tasting of copper and bile. His left eye was swollen almost entirely shut, the skin tight and throbbing with every heartbeat. "You don't understand. She’s... she’s alone. She needs me. Just let me out at the end of the drive. Please. I’ll walk to my mums. I’ll hide. The King doesn't have to know."
The guard in the passenger seat turned around, his expression flat and bored. "The King knows everything he needs to. Shut the fuck up and stay in your seat."
Drake didn't shut up. He pleaded until his throat felt like it had been scraped with glass. He offered them his life, his silence, his soul—anything to just be allowed to turn back. To see her again, to hold her, to tell her he loved her. But it was no use. He watched the familiar landmarks of Duchy Ramada flicker by in the moonlight: the stone bridges, the ancient oaks, the rolling hills where he had spent his childhood, and recently where he had dreamed of a future that was being incinerated with every mile.
Eventually, the adrenaline began to bleed out, replaced by a cold, hollow vacuum. He leaned his head against the vibrating glass of the window. He could feel it then—the physical sensation of his heart tearing. It wasn't a metaphor. It was a jagged, searing heat in the centre of his chest, a structural failure of his very being. He closed his eyes and sobbed, the sound muffled by the roar of the tires on the asphalt.
The drive felt like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once.
The air grew cooler as they climbed toward the northern frontier. Finally, the vehicle slowed. Up ahead, the floodlights of the border crossing cut through the dark like accusatory fingers. Drake watched with a deadened stare as they passed through the checkpoint. The guards exchanged a few hushed words with the border patrol, a clipboard was signed, and just like that, the sovereignty of his life was handed over.
They drove a few miles further into the French countryside, pulling over onto a desolate stretch of road flanked by drainage ditches and skeletal trees.
The door was wrenched open. The night air hit Drake’s face—sharp, indifferent, and smelling of damp earth.
"Out," the guard barked.
Drake stumbled as they hauled him from the bench. His legs, stiff from the beating and the cramped ride, gave way immediately. He hit the gravel on his hands and knees, the sharp stones biting into his palms.
"Listen close," the lead guard said, looming over him. The man’s boots were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the moonlight. "You are now persona non grata in the Kingdom of Cordonia. The gendarmerie has your details. If you so much as dip a toe across that line, you’ll be arrested before you can draw breath. Trespass, assault of a Royal, subversion—we’ll stack the charges until you rot."
"But I didn't do anything wrong!" Drake cried, his voice breaking into a jagged wreck. He looked up, his one good eye searching for a shred of humanity in the guard’s face. "I love her! Please, I’m begging you... take me back. I won't go near the manor, I swear. Just let me stay in the country. Let me be near her."
The guard leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "You aren't listening. You're never going to see your little girlfriend again. You’re a ghost now, Walker. Move." He pointed a gloved finger toward the dark horizon of France.
"No! Please!" Drake stayed on his knees, his hands clasped in a desperate prayer. "I love her!"
"I said now!" The guard’s hand went to the holster at his hip. "One more word and I’ll arrest you right here. And mark my words, boy—if we catch you back in Cordonia, you won't live to see the dawn. Do you understand me?"
Drake looked at the gun, then at the road, then back toward the home that was no longer his. The weight of the King’s shadow was absolute. He saw the truth in the guard’s eyes: they would kill him. And if he was dead, he could never find a way back to her.
He didn't speak. He simply nodded, a slow, broken movement.
He tried to stand, but his equilibrium shattered. The guard, losing patience, grabbed him by the collar of his ruined t-shirt and hauled him up, then gave him a violent kick.
Drake’s boots tangled. He went down hard, his temple striking the packed dirt of the shoulder. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyes. He tried to push himself up, but the world was spinning, the stars above swirling into a chaotic vortex. The very stars he and Emilia had made love under not two hours earlier.
He lay there in the gutter, the cold mud seeping into his clothes. He couldn't move his arms. He couldn't move his legs. He couldn't even call her name anymore.
He could only listen as the engine of the royal vehicle revved a predatory growl in the silence. Drake watched through a haze of pain as the red taillights faded into the distance, two small, bleeding eyes retreating back toward the border, back toward the country that was no longer his home, and back toward the girl he loved who was screaming for him in a cage of gold and silk.
Then, the darkness swallowed everything.
*****
The first thing Drake registered wasn’t the pain. It was the rhythm. A rhythmic, relentless drumming against the hollow of his skull, syncopated with a cold, biting wetness that seeped into his very marrow.
Rain.
It wasn't a gentle mist; it was a deluge, a sky-borne assault that turned the world into a cacophony of splashing water and gurgling runoff. His t-shirt, once crisp and clean, was now a bloodied, sodden rag that clung to the jagged landscape of his bruised back. Every drop felt like a needle, stealing what little body heat he had left.
Then came the voice.
It was high, melodic, and filtered through the grey static of his consciousness like a beacon.
“Monsieur! Monsieur! Oh, mon dieu!”
He forced his good eye open. The movement felt like peeling back a scab. The world was a smeared watercolour of charcoal sky and murky, tea-coloured water. He was still in the ditch; his face pressed into the silty bank. Time had lost all meaning. Had it been minutes? Hours? The light was so flat and dying he couldn't tell if it was dusk or a storm-darkened noon.
But he wasn't alone. A shadow hovered over him, crouching down at his side. A silhouette against the weeping sky.
His heart, a battered organ that should have been too tired to hope, gave a violent, sickening thump against his bruised ribs. The cadence of the voice, the frantic edge of it—his mind, desperate and delirious, offered up a name like a prayer.
“Em?” he groaned. The word was a wet rattle in his throat, tasting of copper and silt.
The shadow leaned closer. He could smell wet wool and something herbal—lavender or sage.
“Em?!” he said it louder this time, a frantic command for the universe to be kind just once.
“It is okay, sir,” the voice replied, the French accent thick and soothing. “We are going to help you. You are going to be okay. Breathe, monsieur.”
Drake blinked, squinting through the stinging rainwater. He looked up, searching for that specific, electric flash of tropical blue—the eyes he had memorized countless times; during the heat of passion, when she laughed, and in the quiet of the night when they reflected the moonlight that bounced off the lake. Her eyes. The eyes that had been his only North Star.
But the eyes looking back at him were different, a deep, earthy chocolate brown. Strangers' eyes. Wide with pity and alarm.
The realization hit him harder than any guard’s boot.
Desperation took hold, he tried to heave himself upward, to crawl away from the reality of his banishment. A white-hot spike of agony lanced through his side, a jagged lightning bolt that seemed to pin his lungs to his spine. The air left him in a sharp, strangled hiss.
He collapsed back into the muck, his chest making a horrific, wet rattling sound. Every inch of his body throbbed in time with his pulse—the dull ache of his jaw, the sharp stabs in his abdomen, the searing heat where his eye was swollen shut.
Oddly, the physical pain was a mercy. It was sharp, it was real, and it provided a momentary dam against the howling, freezing void where his heart used to be.
“Emilia,” he sobbed one last time, the name a broken exhale.
The pain surged, a rising black tide that swallowed the brown-eyed stranger and the grey sky alike. Before he could hear her reply, the world tilted and vanished, dragging him back into the quiet dark.
*****
The next time the world coalesced, it didn't arrive with the sting of rain or the smell of mud. Instead, it was ushered in by a profound, disorienting warmth.
The weight on his body was no longer the sodden, heavy fabric of a ruined t-shirt, but something light and aerated. It felt like a cloud had settled over him. For a long moment, he simply drifted in the sensation of softness, his mind trying to reconcile this comfort with the memory of the gravel digging into his palms.
Then, he felt a rhythmic, gentle movement. A soft pressure brushed against his forehead, moving with agonizing tenderness to sweep the matted hair back from his eyes. It was a human touch—warm, rhythmic, and devoid of the violence he had experienced recently.
Drake forced his good eye open. The sudden intrusion of light made his vision swim, but as it cleared, he saw a room bathed in the honeyed glow of afternoon sun. Golden dust motes danced in the light pouring through a nearby window, illuminating the rough-hewn timber of the ceiling. On a small wooden nightstand, a cluster of wild yellow flowers sat in a glass jar, their petals vibrant and defiant.
He groaned, the sound vibrating through a chest that felt like it had been crushed by a tectonic plate. As he tried to shift his head, the movement pulled at the taped bandages across his ribs, sending a white-hot flare of agony through his side.
"Shh... it is okay," a voice murmured. It was the same melodic, high-pitched beacon from the storm, but clearer now, stripped of the wind’s howl. "You are safe now. You are going to be alright."
He managed to turn his head an inch. The brown eyes were back, framed by thick, dark lashes and a face of striking, dark skin. Her raven hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and her expression was one of guarded, gentle concern.
"What is your name?" the woman asked, her voice dropping to a soothing hum.
"Drake," he choked out. The name felt like a jagged stone in his throat, his voice so raw it sounded like a stranger’s.
"My name is Kiara," she said softly. She dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water and began to run it over his face, dabbing away the dried salt and the phantom heat of his bruises. "You are lucky my brother and I found you when we did. The storm... it was not kind. Who knows what might have happened to you if we had not seen you in the light of the truck."
"Where... where am I?" Drake’s voice was a ghost of itself.
"At our home. Mine and my brother’s. We are not far from the road where we found you."
Drake’s mind struggled to track the distance. "How... how long?" He swallowed hard, the copper taste still lingering. "How long have I been here?"
"A couple of days."
Drake’s eyes flew wide, a cold spike of panic flaring in his chest, sharper than any physical wound. Days? The thought echoed like a death knell. Every hour he was unconscious was an hour the King’s men could have used to cement his disappearance. Every day was a day Emilia had spent thinking he was gone forever.
He tried to heave himself up, but his equilibrium was shattered. He cried out as a jagged pain ripped through his midsection, his breath hitching in a series of sharp, shallow gasps.
Kiara’s hand was on his chest in an instant, her palm a steady, grounding weight against his skin. "Shh! Do not move. You are pretty beaten up, Drake. Your ribs—they are not happy with you."
As the heat of her hand radiated through him, Drake realized with a start that he was bare beneath the quilt, save for his briefs. He felt exposed, stripped of his last defences.
"Where are my clothes?" he rasped, his hand clutching at the edge of the blanket. "My things?"
"We took them off," Kiara explained, her tone matter of fact yet kind. "They were covered in mud, and blood. They were no longer clothes, only rags. We have washed what we could, but... you needed to be clean for the wounds to heal. What happened to you? Were you hit by a car?"
"No. I..." Drake winced, the memory of the king fists and the guard’s boot returning with sickening clarity. He tried to sit up again, driven by a desperate need to find his boots, to find the border, to find her.
"No, no," Kiara insisted, gently but firmly guiding him back down. "Just rest. I will bring you something to eat—a broth. You must be hungry, no?"
Drake collapsed back against the pillows, the brief exertion leaving him trembling and grey-faced. Despite the days of forced sleep, he felt a bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond the physical. It was the exhaustion of a soul that had been hunted. "Thank you," he managed to whisper.
Kiara gave him a small, encouraging smile and stood. "Just rest, Drake. You are in a good place now."
She slipped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Drake lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of a domestic life he no longer possessed—the clink of a spoon, the low murmur of another voice in the kitchen.
A sudden breeze billowed the light curtains at the window, bringing with it the heavy, sweet scent of blooming jasmine from a vine outside.
The smell hit him like a physical blow. Jasmine.
It was the scent of the Applewood gardens. It was the fragrance that lingered on Emilia’s neck when they made love. It was her perfume, her essence, her ghost.
His heart gave a violent, painful thud against his fractured ribs, and for the first time since he collapsed in the ditch, the silence of the room was broken by a jagged, heaving sob.
"Emilia," he choked out, his fingers curling into the soft sheets until his knuckles turned white. "I’m sorry... I’m so sorry..."
He lay in the golden light of a country that wasn't his, smelling a flower that reminded him of everything he’d lost, and wept for the girl he loved.
*****
A short while later, the door creaked on its hinges, a low, complaining sound that sliced through the heavy silence of the room. Drake didn't turn. He remained frozen, his cheek pressed against the cool pillow, his gaze anchored to the window. Outside, the French countryside rolled away in a blur of emerald and beige, a landscape that felt alien and indifferent to the boy who had grown up in the cradle of Cordonia. The tears were silent, hot tracks that pooled in the hollow of his eye socket before spilling over his nose.
The floorboards groaned under a heavy, deliberate tread. A shadow fell across the bed, smelling of woodsmoke and yeast.
"Hello," a voice said—deeper than Kiara’s, with the same melodic lilt. "My name is Zeke. I am Kiara’s big brother."
Drake forced his head to turn, the movement sending a dull, throbbing ache through his neck. He quickly dragged the back of a trembling hand across his face, trying to scrub away the evidence of his breaking heart. He looked up at Zeke. The man shared Kiara’s striking features—the same deep, obsidian skin that seemed to drink in the afternoon light, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing.
"Drake," he managed to rasp, the word a dry rattle. He tried to offer a smile, but it was a fragile, ghost-like thing that didn't reach his eyes.
Zeke didn't comment on the tears. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He stepped closer, the wooden tray in his hands rattling slightly with the weight of a ceramic bowl and a thick hunk of crusty bread. With practiced gentleness, Zeke set the tray on the nightstand and reached out to help Drake sit up.
As soon as Drake’s weight shifted, the world exploded into white-hot glass. He let out a sharp, strangled hiss, his fingers digging into the quilt as his fractured ribs protested the movement. Zeke’s hands were steady, like pillars of oak, supporting his back until he was propped against the headboard.
"Here," Zeke murmured, holding a glass of water to Drake’s cracked lips.
Drake tried to gulp it down, the cool liquid feeling like a miracle against his parched throat, but Zeke pulled it back slightly. "Slow down. You’ve been through hell, my friend. We do not want you making yourself sick."
Drake nodded, his chest heaving with shallow, careful breaths. "Thank you," he whispered, the water easing the grit in his voice.
Zeke pulled the chair from the corner, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and sat beside the bed. He watched as Drake began to eat. The broth was warm and savoury, tasting of leeks and chicken, and though his jaw ached with every swallow, the hollow void in his stomach roared for the sustenance.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Zeke asked quietly. "I assumed you had been hit by a car. You have some pretty nasty bruises, and there is a gash on your ribs that... if it had been any deeper, you would have bled out in that ditch."
Drake paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. The memory of the King’s signet ring catching the light just before it smashed into his cheekbone flashed through his mind. "I got the shit beaten out of me," he said, his voice hardening with a sudden, jagged edge of resentment.
Zeke leaned back, his dark eyes narrowing. "By who?"
"The father of the woman I’m in love with."
"Merde," Zeke breathed, a low whistle escaping his teeth. "What did you do to make him do that?"
"Nothing!" The word burst out of Drake, followed immediately by a wince as the outburst pulled at his chest. "I just fell in love with his daughter. That’s all. And she fell in love with me. But her father... he doesn't think I’m good enough for her. He nearly killed me when he found out."
Zeke looked at the purple swelling of Drake's eye and the raw, angry marks on his throat. "I can see that."
Drake looked around the room again, the reality of his situation settling in like a heavy fog. "Why didn't you take me to a hospital?"
"We couldn't," Zeke explained, gesturing toward the window where the sky was beginning to bruise with the approach of evening. "The storm was a monster. We are quite remote here, Drake. The roads are dirt and clay—they are unusable when the sky falls like that. The nearest hospital is almost forty miles away. So, we brought you here. I patched you up, cleaned the silt from your wounds, and made sure you stayed warm."
"Thank you," Drake said, genuinely moved by the stranger's grace.
"It is not a problem. I am just glad we found you. Kiara... she has barely left your side since we brought you in."
Drake looked at the empty spot by the bed where she must have sat. "Really?"
"Mmhmm. She is an incredibly caring person. She hates to see anyone hurt. Ever since our parents passed, it has just been the two of us. She has a big heart."
"I'm sorry to hear about your parents," Drake said softly.
"Thank you."
The meal was gone quickly, leaving Drake feeling a flicker of strength return to his limbs—a false confidence born of desperation. He gripped the edge of the mattress and tried to swing his legs over the side, intent on finding his boots.
"No, no—woah!" Zeke was on his feet in a heartbeat, his large hands pressing firmly but gently against Drake’s shoulders, pinning him back to the pillows. "Where do you think you are going?"
"Cordonia," Drake gasped, his face turning a sickly shade of grey as the pain flared again. "I need to get back there. I need to find Emilia... the woman I told you about. I need to be with her. I have to make sure she's alright."
Zeke shook his head, his voice firm. "I am sorry, Drake, but you are in no state to go anywhere. Even if you could walk, the roads are all still flooded. If it is anything like the last great storm, we will not be able to get a truck off this land for at least a week."
"No," Drake groaned, his eyes wild with panic. "I need to see her. I'll walk if I have to. I'll crawl."
"Drake, listen to me," Zeke said, leaning in so their eyes locked. "You will not even make it to the front door without collapsing. Your body is broken. You need to rest. You need to regain your strength. Once you can stand without shaking, and once the roads are clear... then you can go. Okay?"
The fight drained out of Drake. He looked at his hands—the hands that had held Emilia, that had caressed her soft skin, now scarred and trembling. Zeke was right. If he died on the side of a French road, he would be a ghost to her forever. He nodded, sinking back into the pillows, the defeat tasting more bitter than the copper in his mouth.
"Good," Zeke said, softening his tone. "Get some rest. If you need anything, just call. I will be just down the hall."
"Do you have a phone?" Drake asked, hope flared briefly.
Zeke offered a small, apologetic shrug. "I am afraid not. The nearest phone box is about a mile from here, out on the main road. It likely would not even work in this weather."
Drake sighed, a long, ragged sound. He looked up at Zeke, a new idea taking root. "What about paper and a pen? Is there a post box nearby?"
Zeke smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dimming room. "That, I can do. There is a post box at the end of our drive. I would be happy to post anything for you."
"Yes. Please. Thank you."
Zeke walked to a small, scarred wooden desk in the corner. The drawer slid open with a dry rasp, and he pulled out a few sheets of cream-colored paper, a ballpoint pen, and a single envelope. He walked back and placed them in Drake’s lap.
"Rest, Drake," Zeke said, giving his shoulder a final, supportive squeeze before turning to leave.
Alone again, Drake sat up a little further, wincing as his ribs shifted. He stared at the blank, white page. The scent of the jasmine from outside was still drifting through the screen, filling his senses with the memory of the girl he had lost.
He clicked the pen, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His hand shook as he touched the tip to the paper. then he began to write.
My dearest Emilia,
My hand is shaking as I write this, and I’m not sure if it’s the cold or the simple, staggering weight of how much I miss you.
I am in France. It seems your father’s men didn’t want me dead quite as much as he did—or perhaps they just wanted me far enough away that I would become a memory. They left me in a ditch not far from the border, battered and broken, as the sky turned into a monster.
I thought of you then. When the rain was stinging my skin and the world was turning dark, I thought of your face. It was the only thing that kept me breathing.
Two strangers, a man named Zeke and his sister Kiara, found me. They brought me into their home, and they are kind, Em. They’ve patched me up and fed me, but the storm has washed out the roads, and even if it hadn't, I can barely stand without the world tilting on its axis. My body is a map of what happened that night, but please, do not weep for me. I am okay. I am alive. And as long as there is breath in my lungs, I am yours.
It feels like a lifetime since I last held you. I close my eyes and I can still feel the way you fit against me, the scent of your hair, the way you laugh when you’re trying to be serious. I miss the quiet way you look at me when you think I’m not watching—the look that makes me feel like I’m the only man in the world who matters. You are the light guiding me through this fog, the only North Star I have left.
I find myself thinking of the things I can never give you. I am so sorry, Em. I am sorry I wasn't born with a title or a name that carries weight in a royal court. I am sorry that my hands are calloused and my pockets are empty, and that your father sees me as nothing more than a shadow in his opulent world. I know I am not good enough by their standards. I know they see me as a commoner who stole a princess.
But please believe me when I say that while I may not have gold to offer you, I have a devotion that would outlast the very foundations of Cordonia itself. My love for you isn't a duty or a political match—it is my blood. It is the very marrow in my bones. You are my home, Emilia. Not a castle, not a country. Just you.
I promise you, with every shattered piece of my heart: I am coming back. I will crawl across every inch of this continent if I have to. No distance, no storm, and no king can keep us apart forever. We will be together again. One day we will find our own sanctuary, far from the shadows of the crown.
I will write to you every single day until I can say these words to your face. Stay brave for me, my beautiful girl.
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