Boring and unnecessary Note: First of all this is my submission for Drake's birthday bash in case it wasn't clear👁️👄👁️So my MC Angelina was planning a birthday party for Drake and I decided to make a edit for it in which all the friends were there, which led me to the idea of making a digi-art. Well, since making more than one person was hard for me I chose to draw only Drake. But the problem was that in the fic that I was about to write Drake was of the age group 17-20 so I couldn't use the usual Drake nor the small Drake so I had this un-brilliant idea of cutting the small Drake's hair and nose and attaching it to the big Drake's face hence the different hair and the fucked up nose. And after drawing it I thought about writing the fic but nothing good came to my mind so no fic. I had even written a poem which I was about to post with the fic but it's kinda fucked up too so I left it. Yeah that's all. Told ya it's boring 🌝✋ Anyways this is what I have as a birthday gift for Drake, look there's even whiskey and burgers what else could a guy ask for?
The background has been taken from Google, I outlined it and filled it with colours.
Late spring at the palace burst across the manicured grounds in a suffocatingly perfect display of colour. Under a porcelain-blue sky, the afternoon sun beat down with a gentle, persistent warmth that smelled of freshly cut grass, clipped boxwood hedges, and the sweet, dizzying perfume of cherry blossoms and rose bushes.
Emilia walked slowly along the raked gravel path; her arm loosely looped through Liam’s. Above them, the sprawling branches of the orchards were heavy with a canopy of pale pink and white petals—the fleeting, beautiful prelude to the Cordonian Ruby apples that would heavy the trees by late summer. Every time a light breeze swept off the distant sea, it carried a flurry of delicate petals down around them like a slow-motion rain, dusting the shoulders of Liam’s linen suit and the hem of Emilia’s pastel day dress.
It was a picture-perfect scene, exactly the kind of idealised royalty the court painters loved to immortalise. And beside her, Liam Rhys looked entirely the part.
He was undeniably handsome, his features sharp but softened by a quick, easy smile that always seemed to find its way to his lips whenever he looked down at her. He was intelligent, funny, and possessed a rare, unpretentious warmth that made the rigid, gossiping halls of the palace feel almost bearable. Liam loved her with a pure, unreserved devotion that left him completely awestruck by his own luck. When they had met in the wake of her darkest autumn, he hadn't seen a princess; he had seen a woman drowning in the expectations of her station. They had bonded instantly over a shared, quiet disdain for the pretentious sycophants of the royal court, and over the months, that fierce friendship had bloomed into a gentle, steady, and anchoring love.
He knew nothing of Drake. He didn't know about the quiet stable hand at Applewood, the brutal banishment across the French border, or the devastating fire of the love Emilia had been forced to leave behind. He only knew she had been recovering from a deeply difficult time, and he had contentedly stepped into her life to offer her a safe, stable harbour.
Right now, however, that harbour felt crowded by the shadow of the crown.
"I just don't see the bloody point, Liam," Emilia vented, her free hand gesturing toward the towering, sun-bleached stone facade of the palace rising beyond the hedges. Her voice was tight with a frustration she had been nursing all morning. "An official announcement? For a courtship? It’s entirely ridiculous. If we were announcing a formal engagement, or—or a pregnancy, God forbid, I could almost understand the necessity of the theatre. But we have only just begun courting. Why does every single breath we take have to be turned into a grand display for the nobility and the crown?"
Liam let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound rich and unbothered as he slowed his pace, drawing her to a stop beneath the shade of a particularly ancient apple tree. "Because, my love, your father doesn't know how to do anything quietly."
"It's not just that, and you know it," Emilia pressed, her brows drawing together as she looked up at him. "It's a chess move. My father wants to boast to the public. He wants to plaster our names across every newspaper in the kingdom to prove the absolute stability of the crown at the end of the social season. Courtship leads to marriage; marriage leads to heirs. That’s all he cares about. It’s control, pure and simple. He has to have his fingers in every tiny crevice of my life."
Liam smiled tenderly, his thumb casually wiping a stray pink petal from her cheek before his larger, warm hands reached out to capture both of hers. "I know, Emilia. I know the protocol is exhausting, and I know how much you despise the spectacle of it all. But..."
"But?" she echoed, tilting her head back, her brows lifting slightly as she searched his gentle blue eyes. She was slightly taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone; Liam despised the grand, performative displays of the court just as much as she did. It was the very thing that had brought them together in the first place.
Liam looked down at their joined hands, a faint, genuine flush rising on his cheekbones. When he looked back up, his expression was laced with a vulnerability that made her chest ache. "But... if I'm being entirely honest, I’m actually quite looking forward to it."
"You are?" Emilia asked, her voice tinged with genuine surprise.
"I am," Liam admitted softly, his grip tightening around her fingers with an earnest, grounded pressure. "I know I usually don’t buy into all the pageantry of the court. But, on this occasion, I want the world to know that you’re mine, Emilia. I want every pretentious lord in that court and every person in this country to know that the most incredible, intelligent, and amazing woman on the planet chose me. I can’t wait to make it public. I want to stand beside you and declare our love to everyone and anyone that will listen."
Emilia forced her lips to curve into a soft, reciprocal smile, but inside, her soul actively winced.
The word public echoed in her mind like a heavy iron gate latching shut. All her life, she had dreamed of an escape from the suffocating cage of her royal status. She was so profoundly tired of being told where to stand, what to wear, who to speak to, and how to feel. It was a relentless, draining performance. She had desperately hoped that her relationship with Liam could be a sanctuary—something that belonged completely and exclusively to them. And in the privacy of their quiet afternoons, it was.
But the moment that formal announcement was read to the court, to the people on the city streets, the sanctuary would break. Their relationship would belong to the entire country. Every glance, every gesture, and every choice would be scrutinised, analysed, and commodified by the press and her father. Even now, Constantine was pulling the strings, orchestrating the timeline of their affection.
It was exhausting. It was a life mapped out by someone else's pen.
And suddenly, with the terrifying speed of a flash flood, her mind violently dragged her back to a love that had known no ceremony, nor needed any.
Drake.
The memory of him hit her with a physical, bruising intensity, a rush of fire and passion that made the manicured palace gardens fade into a distant blur. The freedom she had felt with Drake was a lawless, intoxicating thing like nothing else she had ever experienced in her life. There were no royal protocols with him. She could still feel the thrilling, icy rush of the wind whipping through her hair as she rode on the back of his motorcycle, her arms locked desperately around his waist whilst her cheek rested against his broad, muscular back. She remembered the dizzying, breathless heat of their first kiss at the very top of the Ferris wheel at the county fair, completely hidden by the night sky with only the stars as witnesses. She remembered the stable loft at Applewood—the scent of sweet hay, leather, and the intoxicating, unbridled passion they had found beneath his rough blankets. She remembered the quiet, domestic realness of sitting by the small fire ring in the woodland clearing, laughing as they browned marshmallows over the embers to make messy s'mores.
None of it had been an exhibition. It had been private. It had been wild, passionate, fiercely loving, and more terrifyingly real than anything else her world could ever offer.
With a sudden, sickening start, a heavy realisation settled deep into Emilia’s stomach: I am never going to feel that kind of freedom, that kind of pure, all-consuming love, again.
"Emilia? Hey... are you alright?"
Liam’s voice broke through the memory, gentle and laced with immediate concern. He was leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed as he scanned her face, noting the sudden stillness that had overtaken her.
Emilia blinked, swallowing down the dry lump of grief that had risen in her throat, forcing the ghost of the stable loft back into the dark corners of her heart. She managed to widen her smile, injecting a soft, convincing warmth into her voice. "Of course. I’m just... I’m just a bit nervous about the announcement, that's all."
Liam’s expression melted into instant relief. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up from her fingers to cradle the sides of her face with a gentle, protective tenderness. He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips—a kiss that was sweet, stable, and deeply comforting.
"I'll be right there with you, Emilia," Liam murmured against her skin, his breath warm in the spring air. "When we walk out on to that balcony, just forget about the public. Forget about the press, and forget about your father's political games. Just look at me and remember the only thing that actually matters. I love you."
Emilia stared up into his honest, devoted face, her heart twisting with a profound, aching bittersweetness.
"I love you too, Liam," she whispered.
And she did. She really did love him for the beautiful, good man he was. But as they turned to continue their stroll beneath the falling pink petals, the suffocating realisation that her entire life was still being planned for her only made the vacuum in her chest grow wider.
She walked in the Cordonian sun, officially courting a lord, while her soul secretly craved the rough, lawless life she could have had with the stable hand in the worn leather jacket.
*****
The transition from the sun-drenched gardens to the interior of the palace felt like stepping from life into a mausoleum. As the heavy, brass-fitted oak doors clicked shut behind Emilia and Liam, the sweet scent of cherry blossoms was instantly replaced by the oppressive, familiar smells of the court: beeswax polish, aged parchment, and the dry, stagnant air of centuries of unyielding tradition. Their footsteps echoed with hollow symmetry against the polished marble floor of the grand corridor as they made their way toward the King’s private audience chamber.
Inside, the room was a masterclass in Cordonian power. Towering windows draped in heavy crimson velvet overlooked the capital, but the sunlight that managed to pierce through felt cold, illuminating the dark, sprawling mahogany table at the centre of the room.
King Constantine sat at the head of the table, the picture of absolute, unshakeable authority. Beside him sat Queen Eleanor, poised and elegant, her posture flawless but her eyes remarkably quiet.
When Emilia and Liam took their seats, Constantine didn't offer a fatherly smile or a warm greeting. He didn't ask about their walk. Instead, a rare, chillingly satisfied aura seemed to radiate from him. He was thrilled. Truly, deeply thrilled—not as a parent witnessing his daughter’s happiness, but as a monarch watching a meticulously planned campaign finally yield its victory. For years, he had endured Emilia’s stubbornness, her ridiculous resistance to the expectations of her bloodline. But now, she had finally chosen a suitor worthy of the crown.
As Constantine leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto Liam, his mind drifted back to the absolute absurdity of the previous year. Drake Walker. The stable hand. Constantine internally scoffed at the memory. To think Emilia had thrown a tantrum, claiming she loved the boy. It had been nothing more than a pathetic summer fling; a ridiculous, childish infatuation with a commoner who wasn't worth the mud on a royal boot, let alone a princess or the Cordonian crown.
In his mind, Constantine's thoughts wandered down the hall to his private study, straight to the locked mahogany desk drawer where a thick, heavy stack of unopened letters sat postmarked from France. No one else in the palace knew they existed. And no one ever would. He had considered burning them—erasing the boy's desperate, pathetic scrawl from existence entirely—but Constantine was a politician first. He kept them because he knew the value of leverage. If the Walker boy ever forgot his place, if he ever tried to return or cause a scandal that could threaten the stability of the monarchy, those letters would be all the proof Constantine needed to frame the boy for harassment. It was a neat, tightly coiled trap. If it came to it, he would use them to throw the vermin into a dark cell without a second thought.
But looking at Liam Rhys, Constantine felt a rare sense of approval. Liam was hardworking, fiercely intelligent, and, most importantly, he carried a title that commanded respect. He wasn’t quite as ruthless as Constantine would have liked in a future ruler—there was still too much softness in the boy's disposition—but ruthlessness could be taught. A king had to learn to put the crown above all else, and Liam would have to learn it well once he married Emilia and she was crowned Queen.
"Lord Liam," Constantine spoke, his deep voice cutting through the quiet of the room, rich with a formal, calculated praise. "I have just finished reviewing your latest reports on the agricultural reforms for the western provinces. Exceptional work. Your intellect and work ethic are precisely what this court requires. It is a relief to see a young man of your standing who understands the weight of administrative duty."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Liam replied, bowing his head with genuine modesty. "I only wish to be of service where I can."
The smooth, reverent cadence of their dialogue ground directly on Emilia's nerves. It wasn't because she thought Liam deserved anything less than absolute respect—he did. He was a good, brilliant man, and she was with him because she genuinely loved him, because his friendship had saved her when she was drowning. She wasn't holding his hand for his suitability to the crown; she was holding it because he made her happy. But listening to her father boast about Liam’s intelligence and work ethic made a bitter, toxic taste rise in the back of her throat.
Drake was hardworking, she thought fiercely, her jaw tightening as she stared down at the polished wood of the table. Drake was intelligent. Drake spent his entire life working himself to the bone in one stable or another. He read, he fixed up his motorcycle, he knew more about the land and the people of duchy Ramada than half the snobs in the high court combined. The only difference—the single, brutal difference—was that Liam had a title. Drake did not. For that simple accident of birth, Liam was welcomed into the palace with open arms and royal praise, while Drake was beaten, bloodied, and violently banished from his home. It was sickeningly unfair, and the hypocrisy of it made her blood boil.
Across the table, Eleanor sat in absolute silence, watching her daughter.
The Queen’s eyes, sharp and practiced from decades of surviving the royal court, missed nothing. She saw the tiny, microscopic wince in Emilia's eyes when Constantine spoke of worthiness. She noticed the subtle, tense furrow of her daughter's eyebrows, and the way her teeth lightly grazed her bottom lip in a telltale sign of suffocating anxiety. Eleanor knew her daughter’s heart, and she knew, with an aching certainty, that something was profoundly wrong.
Eleanor adored Liam. She truly did. He was wonderful, kind, and a year ago, she had genuinely believed he would be the perfect match to give Emilia a happy life. Even now, she believed he would be a safe, loving, devoted husband. But a darker, tragic part of Eleanor’s soul looked at her daughter and recognised the phantom. Emilia would forever spend her life dreaming of the freedom, the wildness, and the unfulfilled life she could have had with Drake Walker.
Eleanor closed her eyes for a brief fraction of a second, a phantom ache blooming in her own chest. It was the exact same grief she had carried for more than two decades—living in a golden palace, married to a king, while her soul and her heart forever belonged to Jackson Walker. The tragedy of their bloodline was repeating itself right before her eyes.
"Now," Constantine continued, clapping his hands together once, shifting the mood entirely back to logistics. "Let us discuss the final details of the announcement. It has been officially arranged for just three days' time."
Emilia's breath hitched slightly, but she kept her face carefully blank.
"The court is joining one final time to mark the formal end of the social season," the King explained, his voice clinical, mapping out the theatre of it all. "The farewell ball will take place, as per tradition, to give the nobility a proper send-off before they depart for their country estates for the summer months. The announcement of your courtship will be made prior to the commencement of the ball. We will utilize the grand balcony. All of the high court will be assembled in attendance below, and the public will be gathered on the Royal Mile outside the palace gates to listen."
Constantine smiled, a cold, triumphant expression. "It will be a magnificent celebration to close the season. The news that the Crown Princess has finally chosen a suitor will be the absolute talk of the royal court and the country as a whole. It provides the exact image of stability the kingdom needs."
Internally, Emilia rolled her eyes so hard it felt physical. An image of stability. A prop. They were nothing more than a beautiful token for her father's political theatre.
Liam, sitting right beside her, caught the subtle, fleeting flash of exasperation across her features. Without a word, he reached across under the edge of the table and slid his warm, strong hand over hers. He gave her fingers a tight, reassuring squeeze, offering a silent anchor amidst her father's suffocating grandiosities. Emilia turned her head slightly, meeting his gentle, supportive gaze, and managed a small, genuine smile of gratitude. With Liam, she was safe.
"Thank you, Your Majesties," Liam said smoothly, addressing the King and Queen with flawless court etiquette. He turned his smile back to Emilia, his blue eyes shining with a pure, unclouded joy that made her heart ache. "Emilia and I are very much looking forward to telling the world that we are together."
Emilia simply smiled and nodded, her voice locked safely behind her teeth.
But as she pulled her gaze back, she accidentally caught her mother's eye across the wide mahogany table. Eleanor was still watching her. The Queen didn't say a word, but the look she gave Emilia was heavy with an agonising, knowing sympathy. It was the look of a woman who recognised the invisible chains around her daughter's wrists because she wore the exact same pair.
Emilia looked away quickly, unable to bear the weight of her mother's shared grief. Beneath the table, out of sight of the King, she pulled her free hand back into her lap and clenched it into a tight, white-knuckled fist. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, the Cordonian sun shining through the windows feeling less like warmth and more like the heat of a furnace, branding her into a life that had already been written for her.
*****
Across the country, far from the suffocating grandeur of the capital, the late spring sun hit the duchy of Ramada with a completely different kind of warmth. It wasn’t the manicured, perfumed heat of the palace gardens; it was raw and earthy, drifting through the open windows of Bianca Walker’s small cottage alongside the distant sound of bleating sheep and the rustle of overgrown grass.
Inside, the house felt heavy with absence. The familiar scent of vanilla, baking spices, and line-dried laundry that had always defined Drake’s childhood home was slowly giving way to the dry, sterile smell of dust and empty cardboard boxes. Zeke had already left earlier in the week, heading back to France to tend to the farm, leaving Drake, Max, and Leo behind to face the heartbreaking task of packing away a lifetime.
Leo folded one of Bianca’s hand-knit cardigans, his movements unusually gentle for a man of his size, before placing it into a wooden crate. Max was standing by the bookshelf, carefully wiping the spines of old paperbacks before packing them away. They had been working for hours, and the silence between them was thick with a reluctant, protective worry. Neither Max nor Leo was happy about the fact that Drake was leaving Cordonian soil again.
"You’ve been back for two weeks now, Drake," Leo spoke up, breaking the quiet as he leaned against the edge of the worn sofa. He looked across at his friend; his brow furrowed with genuine frustration. "And not a single person in this village knows the real reason you went to France in the first place. Not a single person even batted an eye when you crossed back over the border to get here. You could just stay, man. You could live right here, in this house. You could find work on one of the local farms or the breeding stables. Constantine or his royal guards never need to know. You’d be home again. With us. Where you belong."
Drake stopped what he was doing. He was holding a small porcelain teacup—one his mother used to use every single morning—he stared down at it, running his thumb over the faded floral pattern. He let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound scraping against the quiet room.
"I know it sounds as simple as that, Leo," Drake replied, his voice quiet but steady as he carefully placed the cup into a padded box. "But... I can’t spend the rest of my life constantly looking over my shoulder. All it would take is for someone close to the King—one of his loyal servants, a guard, or even one of the nobility passing through—to come to Ramada and see me. Recognise me. If that happens, I’ll be locked up in a cell. Or worse. I can't risk it."
Max turned around from the bookshelf, a heavy biographical omnibus cradled in his hands. "But what if that doesn't happen? You can keep your head down, Drake. You can stay away from the capital, stay away from Applewood... anywhere a member of the royal court would likely be. You could just live a quiet life here."
Drake looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, weary intensity. "And what kind of life is that, huh? Hiding in the shadows for the rest of my existence? Fearing my own reflection every time a carriage rolls into the village?" He shook his head, running a tense hand through his dark hair. "My mother fought so hard, she did everything she could, just so I could have a future. A real life. I can't live that life constantly in fear, or running to hide inside the house whenever an outsider steps foot in the village limits."
He looked out the open window, toward the distant, hazy blue horizon. "In France, I can be free. I know I can't come and go across the border whenever I want, but France is a big place. There's plenty of land out there where I can build a life for myself. A place where I don’t have to hide. Where I can find an old timber cabin and fix it up with my own two hands. A place that’s mine, that no one can ever take away from me." A place like Emilia and I dreamed of, he thought.
Leo and Max looked at him, their expressions heavy with a profound, helpless sadness. Sensing the drop in the room's energy, Drake forced a small, rough chuckle, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "Look... in an ideal world, I’d still be free to live here, or there, or wherever the hell I want. But right now... I just need to sort everything out here, go back across the border, and build something that’s mine. Besides, you two can visit me whenever you want. I’ll find a cabin with enough space for you both, I promise."
Leo held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a defeated breath. "Right. Okay. We get it."
They turned back to the boxes, the rhythm of packing resuming. Max cleared his throat, picking up a stack of colourful ceramic ornaments from the mantelpiece. "What do you plan to do with all of this stuff, anyway?"
"Her clothes, Leona has offered to sort through," Drake said, gesturing vaguely toward the boxes. "She’s going to take them down to a local charity in the village. Give them to someone who actually needs them. The ornaments, too. I’ll keep the photographs, of course—the framed ones and the old albums—and there are a few other personal things I’ll take back to France with me. If there’s anything you guys want from the rest of it, just ask."
Leo leaned back against the door frame, crossing his arms. "And the house? What are you doing with that?"
Drake paused, his gaze wandering slowly around the small, sunlit living room. A bittersweet ache bloomed deep in his chest as he looked at his childhood home. So many of his happiest memories were contained within these four walls. He could almost see it—the winter nights when he was a little boy, curled up tightly on the sofa with his mum while she read to him by the light of the fire. He remembered the teenage years where he, Leo and Max sat at the small wooden table playing loud, competitive board games until midnight, while Bianca brought them plates of freshly baked cookies straight from the oven, laughing at their antics.
He had thought about keeping the house. He had tried to justify it. But what was the point? He couldn’t live here. What use was there in keeping a home empty and locked up just for the sake of memories, when he was living miles away in another country?
He let out a sharp breath, running his hand through his hair again to shake off the emotion. "I’m going to sell it. I’m going to see Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, in three days' time. I’ll speak to him about putting it on the market then."
His friends smiled at him, a quiet, supportive understanding passing between them. Leo stepped forward, extending a heavy hand and placing it firmly on Drake’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Whatever you need, mate. We’re here. I’ll drive you into the capital myself."
Then, Leo’s voice dropped, the protective edge returning. "But like you already said... it’s going to be dangerous going into the city, Drake. The Royal Mile especially. It’s close to the palace... too damn close."
"I know," Drake said, his jaw tightening slightly as he met Leo's eyes. "But I need to see him. I need to find out exactly what my mother left me in her will. I’ll keep my head down. It’ll be okay. We’ll get into the city, have the appointment, and get straight back out. No one will even notice we’re there."
Leo nodded slowly. "Okay, mate. Whatever you need."
With the decision made, they resumed their sorting in silence. But as Drake reached for the next stack of papers, his mind began to race, the quiet of the cottage fading behind a wall of internal noise. He stared blankly at a box, his heart beating a little faster against his ribs as he wondered what his mother had left behind with Mr. Harrison—and how close he was about to get to the gates of the palace, to the love of his life, and to a world he had been brutally cast out of.
*****
The heavy, diesel rattle of Leo’s truck engine bounced sharply off the high, sun-bleached stone walls of the capital's outer districts. Inside the cramped cab, the heat was stifling. Drake sat squeezed into the middle of the bench seat, his shoulder pinned against Leo’s shifting arm and his flank pressed tightly against Max on his other side. The three of them were trapped in a thick, uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the squeak of the vinyl seats every time Leo turned the steering wheel to navigate the winding streets.
Drake was suffocating. Strands of dark hair clung to his forehead beneath the stiff brim of a flat cap, and beads of sweat rolled slowly down his neck, soaking into the collar of his heavy winter coat. He had layered up in a desperate bid to alter his silhouette, to shrink into the shadows and blend into the background of a world that had violently rejected him. But now, with the midday sun beating directly through the glass windshield, the thick wool felt less like a disguise and more like a neon sign.
He was hiding, yet he had never felt more entirely, terrifyingly obvious. His boots tapped a frantic, irregular rhythm against the floorboards. He reached up, his fingers trembling slightly as he yanked the heavy collar of the coat higher over his stubbled chin, pulling the flat cap down until the brim nearly touched the bridge of his nose.
"Drake, mate, you need to calm down," Leo murmured, his eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the centre of the seat. He shifted gears, the mechanical clunk loud in the quiet cab. "You’re fidgeting. If you look like a man trying to hide, people are going to start looking for a reason why. Just breathe."
Drake swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. "Easier said than done," he muttered, his voice rough. He forced his hands to flatten against his thighs, closing his eyes and drawing in a long, slow breath through his nose, trying to force his hammering heart to slow its frantic pace.
Leo steered the truck into a crowded, gravel parking lot a few blocks away from the Royal Mile. The tires crunched to a halt, and for a moment, the three of them just sat there, peering out through the dusty windows. The capital was alive with late-spring energy. The sidewalks were bustling with shoppers carrying paper bags, and the sweet, rich aroma of roasted coffee and fresh pastries drifted from pavement-side cafés where patrons sat laughing under wide umbrellas.
Max turned his head, assessing the lively crowd before looking back at Drake with a sympathetic but critical eye. "Maybe lose the coat, Drake. Seriously. People are bound to notice you bundled up like you’re heading to the snow peaks of Lythikos. The weather here is far too warm for wool. You’ll stand out more keeping it on."
Drake looked down at his heavy sleeves, the logic piercing through his panic. He nodded once, a short, sharp motion.
They pushed the heavy truck doors open, the sudden influx of moving air doing little to cool the balmy afternoon heat. Drake slid out of the cab, his boots hitting the gravel with a soft thud. He quickly shrugged out of the suffocating wool coat, tossing it onto the middle seat before slamming the door shut. Underneath, he was just a man in a plain, fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. He kept the flat cap firmly in place, using his index finger to pull the brim even lower, casting a deep, protective shadow over his eyes to shade himself from view.
Aligning themselves shoulder-to-shoulder, the three friends set off toward the main thoroughfare. Drake kept his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes fixed mostly on the cobblestones ahead, his peripheral vision hyper-focused on scanning for the telltale glint of brass buttons on palace guard uniforms or the elegant, fine silk garments of nobility. To his immense surprise, however, the immediate side streets were strangely quiet—almost entirely deserted, as if the life of the city had been vacuumed away into a different district.
They turned a sharp corner, stepping out from the narrow alleyway and directly onto the wide, sprawling expanse of the Royal Mile.
Here, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The air was thicker, humming with the murmur of a growing crowd of people all moving in the same direction, their faces turned upward. Drake’s gaze instinctively followed theirs, lifting toward the end of the grand street.
And there it was.
The Cordonian Palace.
It loomed in the distance, a massive, breathtaking monument of white stone, gold trim, and towering spires rising majestically against the porcelain-blue sky. It was grand—infinitely grander, more imposing, and more beautiful than any wealthy estate or breeding stable Drake had ever worked in.
The sight hit him like a physical blow. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed deep in his chest, a toxic mix of longing and profound inadequacy that made it difficult to breathe. He stared at the distant white stone, his mind spinning into a dark, dizzying spiral. What the hell did a girl from a place like that ever see in a stable hand from the mud? How had he ever been foolish enough to think a princess could belong in a world of leather, grease, and worn blankets?
Before the thought could pull him under, Leo’s heavy hand gripped his forearm, pulling him firmly along the pavement. "Don't look at it, Drake. Keep moving. We can’t afford to hang around out here."
Drake blinked, the spell breaking as he pulled his eyes away from the palace gates. He nodded tightly, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, and turned to follow Max and Leo as they stepped up the stone stairs and disappeared into the quiet, polished sanctuary of the solicitor’s office.
The heavy, brass-trimmed oak door closed behind them, muffling the low, collective roar of the city into a distant, underwater hum. Inside, the solicitor’s office was cool, dim, and smelled intensely of old paper, leather bindings, and expensive mahogany polish.
Leo approached the mahogany reception desk to speak to the young receptionist, but Drake barely registered the quiet exchange. His boots felt heavy, anchored to the plush Oriental rug beneath his feet. He allowed Max to guide him toward a pair of high-backed leather armchairs in the corner of the waiting room, sinking down into the cushion while keeping his flat cap firmly pulled over his eyes.
His body was sitting in that quiet, elegant room, but his mind was still completely stranded out on the cobblestones, staring up at the blinding white facade of the palace.
He had seen photographs of it, of course. Growing up, he’d flipped through newspapers at the village pub in Ramada or seen faded prints in the local library. But ink on paper was nothing compared to the towering reality. It was grand, sprawling, and utterly luxurious, but beneath the gold-leaf detailing and the glistening stone, Drake saw it for what it truly was: utterly, sickeningly pretentious.
The towering iron gates and thick stone walls didn't look like a defence against invaders; they looked like the bars of a gilded prison designed to keep the world out and Emilia firmly locked inside.
For the first time, the sheer, crushing weight of Emilia’s world truly settled into his chest. He could see it now—really see it. He understood why she had been so desperate to escape to the countryside, why she had clung to the simple, lawless freedom of riding on the back of his motorcycle or sleeping under the stars in his Applewood stable loft. The realisation didn't cure the bitter, nagging ache that told him a stable hand from the mud had no place near a princess, but it ignited a different, far more dangerous fire in his blood. She was trapped in there. Behind those golden bars, surrounded by cold stone and the suffocating control of her father.
A sudden, violent wave of restless energy surged through his veins, making his hands shake where they rested on his knees. The proximity was agonising. She was there. Right now, just a few hundred yards down the street, breathing the same air, sitting behind those high windows.
I need her.
The thought screamed through his mind, louder than reason, louder than fear. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to move. His muscles coiled tight, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He gripped the edge of his seat, his boots sliding back against the floorboards as he prepared to push himself up. He wanted to run out the heavy front door, tear down the Royal Mile, scale those brass-tipped gates, and drag her out of that golden cage himself.
He was halfway off the leather cushion, his teeth grinding together as he prepared to bolt, when a sharp click echoed through the quiet room.
A heavy panelled door at the back of the hallway opened, and Mr. Harrison stepped out, holding a thick manila folder under his arm.
"Mr. Walker," he said, a quiet, sympathetic warmth in his eyes as he recognised Drake from the funeral service. "Thank you for making the trip down to see me."
The sound of his name snapped the fragile, desperate thread in Drake's mind, dragging him violently back to reality.
He froze, catching himself just before he lost his balance. Beside him, Leo glanced over with a sharp, perceptive look, placing a quick, warning hand on Drake's forearm. Drake swallowed hard, forcing the wild, dangerous air from his lungs. He stood up on shaking legs, adjusting his cap with one tense hand while extending the other.
"Mr. Harrison," Drake grunted, his voice rough as he took the solicitor's firm grip.
"If you would follow me," Harrison said softly, stepping aside and gesturing into the quiet depth of his private office.
Drake took a slow, deep breath, forcing his boots to turn away from the front entrance. With Leo and Max falling in step right behind him, he crossed the threshold into the dark, book-lined study, the heavy door closing behind them and cutting off the street—and the palace—once again.
Mr. Harrison moved around the heavy mahogany desk, pulling out his leather armchair before gesturing smoothly toward the leather seats opposite him. "Please, take a seat, Mr. Walker."
Drake pulled out one of the chairs and sat, his posture rigid, while Max and Leo hovered quietly near the flanking bookshelves, standing like silent sentinels.
"I want to begin by offering my deepest condolences once again for the loss of your mother, Drake," the solicitor said gently, resting his hands flat on the desk. "And thank you for coming in today under such difficult circumstances."
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," Drake grunted softly, his throat tight as he adjusted the brim of his flat cap.
Harrison opened the thick manila folder in front of him, the crisp rustle of parchment cutting through the quiet office. "As executor of your mother’s last will and testament, it is my duty to formally outline her wishes. Bianca was very clear: she has left everything she owned to you."
The solicitor tapped a page in the file. "Firstly, the cottage in Ramada. The title is officially yours to do with as you wish."
Drake nodded slowly, staring down at the polished wood of the desk. "I’ve already decided to sell it." He flicked a brief glance over his shoulder toward Max and Leo, who watched him with heavy, understanding expressions, before returning his gaze to Harrison. "I’ll be going back to France in a few days. There’s no point in keeping the house locked up and standing empty when I won't be living in it. I’d rather it be sold... so a new family can move in and make memories there."
Mr. Harrison offered a sympathetic nod. "I completely understand, Drake. I can get the ball rolling on the listing and paperwork for you right away." He turned another page in the file, his expression softening further. "Now... there are a few other items your mother left specifically for you."
Reaching down, Harrison unlocked a small side drawer in his desk. He pulled out a worn, velvet-lined box and slid it across the mahogany blotter. "Your grandmother’s ring. I understand this was immensely important to your mother. When she came to see me late last year, she brought this with her and asked me to hold onto it until the day you came to collect it."
Drake reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft velvet before he lifted the lid. Sitting inside was the delicate, antique silver ring he had seen his mother wear on special occasions throughout his childhood. A sharp, bittersweet ache bloomed in his chest. He managed a faint, sad smile, his thumb tracing the vintage band before he softly clicked the box shut and looked up. "Thank you."
"And then there is this," Harrison added, sliding a crisp, cream-coloured envelope alongside the ring box. "A letter written in your mother’s own hand. She gave it to me with strict instructions that it was only to be handed to you after we had concluded our meeting."
Drake’s heart did a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. He swallowed down the dry lump in his throat, staring at his mother's familiar, elegant handwriting on the front of the envelope. He slowly placed a heavy hand over the paper, holding it flat against the desk as if trying to anchor himself.
"And finally..." Mr. Harrison paused, taking a breath as he looked over the final document. "Your mother has left you a financial inheritance, Drake."
Drake’s dark brows pulled together in instant surprise. "Money?"
He knew better than anyone how hard Bianca had scraped by over the years. Once Drake had been old enough to work, every spare coin he made from the stables went straight into her hand to help pay for groceries, firewood, and to keep the local debt collectors from pushing through her front door. He had helped enough to keep her comfortable, but savings? She hadn't had a single spare coin to her name.
"I think you might be mistaken, Mr. Harrison," Drake said bluntly. "My mum didn't have savings."
Harrison smiled, a knowing, quietly triumphant look in his eyes. "This wasn't old savings, Drake. This money was transferred to her recently—last summer, in fact. It is a substantial sum."
Drake’s mind began to race, confusion swirling in his chest like a dark cloud. "Substantial? From where?"
"It was paid directly from the royal treasury, Drake," Harrison revealed, his voice dropping into a solemn, respectful register. "It was the official compensation owed to your family for your father’s sacrifice all those years ago. Long overdue, if you ask me."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. The air rushed out of Drake's lungs as if he had been struck hard in the solar plexus.
The palace.
Mr. Harrison kept talking, mentioning figures and bank accounts, but the numbers blurred into background noise. Drake’s pulse hammered deafeningly in his ears. He couldn't process it. Constantine had actually paid his debts? After all these years of cold, heartless neglect? The crown had finally recognised the blood Jackson Walker had spilled for them.
In an instant, Drake’s mind flashed back to the previous summer—to Queen Eleanor standing in the shadows, her eyes brimming with genuine sorrow as she swore she would do everything in her power to ensure the Walker family received what was owed. She hadn't known Constantine had withheld it. She had forced her husband's hand. She had made him pay.
She made him make it right, Drake thought.
Except it wasn't right.
A sudden, searing wave of white-hot rage erupted in Drake's gut, scorching through his confusion. If that money had been paid when it was actually due—when his father died—his mother would never have been forced to make the horrifying sacrifices she made just to survive. She wouldn't have been worn down by poverty. She might still be alive, breathing, and sitting in her kitchen in Ramada right now.
It wasn't compensation. It was blood money. Paid by a ruthless king to wash his hands clean of a commoner's life.
His fists clenched so tightly against the mahogany desk that his knuckles turned bone-white, his teeth grinding together as his jaw locked in sheer fury.
"Drake? Hey, Drake?"
A heavy hand shook his shoulder, snapping him violently out of the dark, suffocating spiral. He blinked, turning his head sharply to see Max and Leo standing right beside his chair. Both of them were looking down at him, wide-eyed, smiles breaking across their faces.
"Did you hear that, mate?" Max breathed, his voice laced with genuine awe and relief. "She left it all to you. Drake... this is more than enough. You can rebuild your entire life in France with this. You can buy that land, build the cabin... everything."
Drake stared back at his two best friends, their hopeful, happy faces a stark contrast to the toxic fire burning inside his own chest. He looked down at the letter resting beneath his trembling palm, then back to Mr. Harrison, completely paralysed, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of a gift that felt like a curse.
*****
Inside the royal suite, the air was thick with the suffocating tang of hairspray, heavy French floral perfume, and the scorched-metal smell of curling irons.
Emilia stood frozen in the centre of her dressing room, staring blankly into the full-length gilded mirror. She hated the woman looking back at her. Her face was painted in porcelain-perfect layers of foundation and silk powder, masking every drop of genuine emotion. Her hair had been pulled up and pinned so tightly to her scalp that a dull, throb of a headache was pulsing behind her eyes. But worst of all was the gown. The structured silk boning of the elaborate bodice was laced so viciously tight across her ribs that every breath felt like a shallow, agonising effort.
Outside her heavy oak doors, the faint, thunderous roar of thousands of voices gathered along the Royal Mile vibrated through the floorboards.
Panic, sudden and violent, seized her throat. Her heart hammered against her constricted ribs like a wild bird trapped in a cage. I can't do this, she thought, her hands beginning to tremble uncontrollably against the heavy skirts of her dress. I can't go out there.
She felt an overwhelming, desperate urge to tear the pins from her hair, rip the suffocating dress down the back, and run. She wanted to bolt through the private servants' passages, escape into the sun-drenched sanctuary of the apple orchards, and find Liam. She just needed a moment—a single, quiet moment alone with him in their sanctuary before the crushing weight of the entire country settled onto their shoulders, demanding courtship details, wedding dates, and future heirs.
She took a sharp, desperate step toward the doors, her teeth grinding together as the panic threatened to swallow her whole. But before she could move any further, a soft knock echoed through the room.
"Your Highness," Rose announced softly from the doorway, a soft smile playing on her lips. "His Majesty has taken the stage. It is time."
The sanctuary was gone. The clock had run out.
Emilia forced her spine straight, swallowing down the dry lump of terror in her throat, and stepped out into the grand, quiet corridor.
Standing a few yards away, waiting beside the tall velvet draperies that led toward the balcony doors, was Liam. He looked impeccably handsome in a crisp, tailored suit, the blue of his jacket bringing out the deep colour of his eyes. The moment she stepped into the hall, his face lit up with a soft, breathtakingly genuine smile that immediately cut through the coldness of the stone walls.
As she approached, Liam’s smile softened into concern. His sharp eyes instantly caught the subtle, uncontrollable tremor in her white-gloved hands and the tight, panicked strain around her mouth.
"Hey," he murmured softly, stepping forward.
Without a care for her pristine dress or the court optics, Liam stepped into her space and wrapped his strong, warm arms securely around her waist, pulling her close. Emilia collapsed into his embrace, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder. She breathed in his familiar, grounding scent—sandalwood, fresh linen, and a hint of the crisp spring air—and felt the icy grip of panic instantly begin to thaw.
"I've got you," Liam whispered into her hair, his hand gently pressing against her back, offering a steady, unwavering anchor amidst the storm. "I know it's overwhelming, my love. But I'm right here with you. It's going to be okay. Just focus on me."
Emilia closed her eyes, letting his steady heartbeat calm her frantic pulse. He truly was her safe harbour. He made her happy, he protected her, and in his arms, she knew she wasn't alone.
Liam gently pulled back, cupping her face with his hands and offering her a warm, reassuring wink that made a small, genuine smile break through her porcelain mask. He offered his arm, and Emilia took it, looping her hand over his forearm and holding on tight.
Together, they began the short, agonising walk toward the double doors of the grand balcony. Through the thick glass, her father’s deep, booming voice was already echoing out over the palace loudspeakers, addressing the thousands of citizens packed onto the streets below.
As the guards reached for the brass handles to throw the doors open, Emilia’s mind took one final, involuntary drift away from the palace, away from the crown, and across the border.
A quiet, bittersweet wave of peace washed over her chest as she thought of Drake. In this terrifying moment of total public exposure, a small part of her heart was profoundly, deeply thankful that he was miles away in France. Safe. Happy. Far away from the ruthless games of her father, the suffocating expectations of the court, and the brutal spectacle she was about to endure.
At least one of us is free, she thought quietly. Be happy, Drake. I love you.
And with that final, silent goodbye to the ghost of her past, to the man she still considered the love of her life, Emilia held tighter to Liam's arm, lifted her chin, and stepped out into the blinding midday sun.
*****
Drake stepped out of the solicitor’s office on absolute autopilot, his boots striking the stone steps with a heavy, unfeeling cadence. His mind was a chaotic, spinning void, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired inside. The letter rested like lead in his pocket, and the phantom weight of the crown's compensation money felt less like a gift and more like a brand seared into his skin.
Behind him, the heavy oak door clicked shut, immediately swallowing the cool, quiet sanctuary of the office and plunging the three men into a wall of overwhelming, atmospheric noise.
The Royal Mile had completely transformed. What had been a modest flow of pedestrians an hour ago was now a dense, suffocating ocean of bodies. Thousands of citizens were shoulder-to-shoulder, spilling off the sidewalks and filling the wide avenue, their collective voices rising in an excited, low-frequency roar that rattled the surrounding windows.
Leo’s grip tightened on Drake’s arm, his eyes wide as he surveyed the sea of people blocking their path. He leaned over, grabbing the shoulder of a passing man draped in a Cordonian flag. "Hey, mate! What’s going on? Why’s everyone gathered?"
"The King!" the man shouted back over the din, pointing eagerly toward the white stone palace at the top of the hill. "King Constantine is making a grand address to the nation!"
Drake’s entire body went rigid. His head snapped up with violent speed, his dark eyes locking onto the distant gold-trimmed balcony.
Constantine.
The name hit his bloodstream like pure, burning acid. In an instant, the foggy numbness of the solicitor’s office disintegrated, utterly consumed by the terrifying, white-hot resurgence of his rage. The King. The man who had sat back and let his family starve. The man whose actions had forced his mother sell herself to keep a roof over their heads, wearing her down until she was in an early grave. The monster who had brutally beat him, banished him across the border like trash, and ripped him away from Emilia.
"Drake, no—" Max started, recognising the dangerous, feral shift in his friend's posture.
Before either of them could react, Drake shoved his way into the crowd.
He moved like a man possessed, his broad shoulders ploughing through the mass of bodies. The flat cap pulled low over his eyes was his only anchor as he shoved past tourists and citezans alike, his boots digging fiercely into the cobblestones as he drove himself toward the iron gates of the palace.
"Drake! Stop!" Leo yelled, wrestling his way through the wake Drake was leaving, his hand desperately lunging for the back of his friend's t-shirt. "Drake, you can't be here! We have to go, right bloody now!"
"No!" Drake snarled, tearing his arm free with a vicious backhand, his voice a low, animalistic growl that didn't even sound like his own. "No!"
He didn't care about the risk. He didn't care about the guards, the cells, or the King's threat. The sheer, intoxicating fury coursing through his veins drowned out every thread of self-preservation. He pushed forward, practically throwing himself against the cold, brass-tipped iron bars of the palace gates, coming to a dead halt right at the front line of the crowd.
He looked up.
High above on the sunlit balcony, framed by crimson banners and a golden crown, stood King Constantine. The monarch’s booming voice, magnified by the palace loudspeakers, echoed across the capital, rich with arrogant triumph as he spoke of the monarchy's strength, stability, and the successful end of the social season.
Drake’s hands gripped the iron bars of the gate so violently his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure. Staring at the man who had nearly killed him—the man who had ruined every single thing he had ever loved—Drake felt a violent, volcanic urge to tear the gates apart with his bare hands. His vision blurred around the edges with toxic red.
And then, Constantine turned.
The King gestured grandly toward the double glass doors behind him. The heavy mahogany frames swung open, and a hush fell over the thousands of people packed into the street below.
Drake’s breath caught in his throat.
Out stepped Emilia.
It felt as though the entire world violently slammed into reverse. The roaring crowd, the blaring loudspeakers, the suffocating heat of the afternoon—it all dissolved into absolute, deafening silence. Drake’s heart didn't just stop; it froze, turned to stone, and shattered in his chest.
It was an out-of-body experience, a brutal, physical gut-punch that robbed every drop of oxygen from his lungs.
She was breathtaking. She was... perfect. Draped in a gown of shimmering silk, her golden hair pinned like a crown, she looked every inch the royalty she was born to be. But to Drake, she wasn't the Crown Princess. She was his Emilia. The girl who had held him in the stable loft, the girl who had ridden on the back of his motorcycle, the girl whose laugh still echoed in his dreams every single night.
A desperate, agonising wave of love and agony surged up his throat. He wanted to scream her name. He wanted to tear his lungs open and shout to the heavens until she looked down and saw him standing there. But the words wouldn't come, lodged like broken glass in his windpipe.
Then, Constantine stepped forward, placing a possessive hand on Emilia's shoulder, his deep voice booming out over the silent crowd:
"People of Cordonia... it is with immense joy and the utmost pride that I present to you the future of our realm. My daughter, Crown Princess Emilia, has officially chosen a suitor. Please join me in celebrating her courtship with Lord Liam Rhys!"
The words didn't register as language; they hit Drake like a physical blow to the head.
From the shadows behind the drapery, a man stepped out. Handsome, polished, with neat blonde hair and a perfectly tailored suit. Drake watched, trapped in a living nightmare, as this stranger stepped up to Emilia’s side, taking her hand and bringing it gently to his lips while she smiled up at him—a smile of tender, quiet devotion.
Drake’s knees buckled.
The sky seemed to tilt, the ground rushing up to meet him as the breath was violently torn from his chest. The entire world went white around the edges, his hands slipping from the cold iron bars of the gate as his body completely gave out.
"No..." Drake choked out, a raw, broken rasp scraping from his throat. He stumbled backward, his boots dragging on the stone. "No... no, no, no..."
He was collapsing, his vision failing, the sheer, unimaginable agony of the betrayal ripping his soul into ribbons.
Before his knees could hit the cobblestones, two pairs of heavy, desperate arms caught him from behind. Max grabbed him under his left shoulder; Leo hooked his arm firmly under his right, hauling his dead weight backward into the surging crowd just as the entire Royal Mile erupted into deafening, frantic cheers.
"I've got you, mate! I've got you, hold on!" Leo barged backward, his voice frantic with terror as he and Max physically dragged a trembling, gasping Drake through the sea of celebrating people.
Drake didn't fight them. He couldn't. His head hung limp, his eyes wide and unseeing, staring blankly at the dust on the cobblestones as he was hauled away into the dark side streets, away from the palace, away from the sun, and away from the only woman he had ever loved—leaving him broken, bleeding, and utterly lost in the shadows.
The dawn did not break; it simply bled into the room, a slow, watercolour wash of slate grey that filtered through the rain-streaked windowpanes. Outside, a persistent spring drizzle tapped a hollow, rhythmic cadence against the glass, masking the village in a shroud of freezing mist.
But inside the small bedroom, the air remained dense, trapped in the amber-lit stasis of the night before. The small bedside lamp still hummed, its pale orange glow fighting a losing battle against the encroaching morning light, casting long, fragile shadows across the faded wallpaper.
Bianca lay beneath the heavy patchwork quilt, her face entirely peaceful, the sharp lines of pain permanently smoothed away into a profound, terrifying stillness. Beside her, Drake sat motionless in a heavy wooden chair he had dragged from the corner of the room, positioning it close to the mattress so he could remain within arm's reach. His massive frame was completely slouched, his broad shoulders sunken forward under the invisible weight of the atmosphere. His eyes, heavily bloodshot and rimmed with dark, shadowed hollows, were vacant—fixed in a glassy, unblinking stare on his mother’s pale, lifeless features.
Downstairs, the house was buried in an oppressive silence. His friends, his brothers in every way that mattered, kept a quiet, heavy vigil in the living room below, the absence of their voices almost echoing through the floorboards like a physical pressure.
In the corner of the bedroom, Leona stood in the shadows, speaking in hushed, fragmented whispers to the doctor. The physician, an elderly man whose hair had gone grey in the service of the village, had conducted his examination with a quiet, practiced solemnity. Turning to the small vanity table, the sharp, rhythmic scratch of his fountain pen punctured the silence of the room, a cold, clinical sound that grated against Drake’s raw nerves.
With a soft, final murmur of condolence to Leona, the doctor walked back over to the bedside, holding out a crisp, folded piece of paper.
Drake’s calloused hand moved automatically, his fingers closing around the document.
“I'm sorry, Drake,” the doctor whispered, offering a grave nod. "She was a good woman. She'll be sorely missed." He smiled sadly at the younger man, resting his wrinkled hand against Drake's shoulder, before slipping out of the room, his heavy footsteps retreating down the creaking staircase.
Drake remained frozen, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the paper, causing it to crinkle loudly in the quiet room. Slowly, agonisingly, he forced his eyes down to the document in his hand. The black ink was fresh, the elegant, loopy cursive of the physician stark against the harsh white background of the Medical Certificate.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea surged through his stomach, followed by a profound, freezing shock that made his entire body tremble. His eyes tracked down to the handwriting under Cause of Death, reading the cold, clinical finality of the diagnosis:
1a. Cardio-Respiratory failure
1b. Tertiary Neurosyphilis
The words hit Drake like a physical blow to the sternum, knocking the remaining air from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt. The bitter, suffocating scent of antiseptic and stale medicine suddenly felt overwhelming, burning the back of his throat.
He stared at the second line. His mind, completely sluggish and suffocated by grief, rejected it. Neurosyphilis. The word felt heavy, ugly, and entirely foreign. It belonged in text-books, or whispered maliciously in the shadows of the city's red-light districts. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong on a document bearing the name of Bianca Walker.
"What is this?" Drake’s voice broke the silence, a low, raspy gravel that sounded completely unrecognisable. He didn't look up from the paper. His chest began to hitch, his breathing turning shallow and erratic. "Leona... what did he write here? This is a mistake. He’s got the wrong chart. He’s bloody old, he’s made a mistake."
He snapped his head up, his vision blurred by hot, panicked tears. He was looking for reassurance, looking for Leona to tell him the doctor was senile.
But Leona was looking right back at him, her chest heaving as fresh tears spilled over her lashes. She didn't look surprised. She looked utterly broken, her shoulders trembling under her shawl. There were no secrets left in the room. She had known Bianca since they were girls; she knew the horror written on the paper in his fist, and she knew exactly where it had come from.
"It's not a mistake, Drake," Leona whispered, her voice cracking into a jagged sob. She took two trembling steps toward him, reaching out a shaking, maternal hand to touch his rigid shoulder.
"No," Drake growled, his whole body violently flinching away from her touch. The denial was a desperate, clawing thing in his chest. "No, look at it! It’s an infection. A blood disease. My mum was a good woman, Leona! She was a seamstress, she worked the shops, she—"
"Drake, listen to me," Leona choked out, gripping his shoulder harder, forcing him to look at her through his blinding tears. "She didn't know. No one did. It slept in her blood all these years. It was completely silent... hidden. The penicillin she had for her chest last winter, it helped mask it. It kept it at bay for a while. Until a few weeks ago when the tremors started in her hands. By then... the doctor said it was already too late. The damage was done. It had already taken hold of her mind, her nerves..."
Slept in her blood all these years.
The phrase hung in the damp air of the bedroom, and suddenly, the fragile dam of Drake's denial fractured entirely. The world didn't just tilt; it completely shattered beneath his feet.
A sudden, vivid, and terrifying rush of memory broke through the numbness, violently dragging him back into the dark winter nights of his childhood.
He could hear it now with a horrifying, crystal clarity: the faint, metallic click of the front door opening in the dead of a freezing winter night. He remembered lying awake beneath his blankets, clutching them to his chin, listening to his mother slipping back into the dark house in the early hours of the morning. From the kitchen, the muffled, heartbreaking sound of her weeping would drift up the stairs, followed by the frantic, obsessive sound of scrubbing.
He remembered the mornings after—the sight of her nursing a bruised eye or a split lip, desperately scrub-washing the dirt and the crushing shame off her skin at the kitchen sink with harsh lye soap, before turning around to greet him with a forced, beautiful smile and a warm bowl of porridge.
The math of poverty. The debts after Jackson took a bullet for Queen Eleanor. The absolute, cruel neglect of the Cordonian crown that had left a protector's widow to rot. To keep a roof over her son's head, Bianca had turned to the only currency she had left, selling her own body on those freezing street corners in the towns a few miles away.
Neurosyphilis.
The clinical word finally connected to the memory of her confession when he was eighteen, when Drake had finally demanded the truth.
He remembered the smell of dust that day as she handed over his dad's belongings—journals, a ring, and an old watch—her voice trembling as she finally laid bare the reality of Jackson's death and how the desperate, countrywide riots had ultimately claimed him. But the history of Cordonia's collapse wasn't what had made Drake's stomach turn; it was the unspoken spaces between her words. He had looked at her, his suspicion finally hardening into the devastating question of what she had really done on those freezing winter nights while he slept.
When the secrets finally spilled out, her voice had broken completely as the old shame burned hot in her soul. He had pulled her into his arms, holding her small, shaking frame close to his chest, telling her she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she did what she had to do to keep them alive.
"It's okay, Mum," he had whispered into her hair, his own tears blinding him. “You were strong. You did what you had to do to keep us alive. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."
But he had never realised... she hadn't just sacrificed her dignity. She had contracted a death sentence. The men who had bought her flesh had left a poison in her veins that had quietly, systematically eaten away at her central nervous system for fifteen years while she smiled, baked bread, and loved him fiercely.
As far as Drake was concerned, the blame didn't belong to her. It never had. The blame lay entirely with the monsters who had refused to pay a dead protector's widow. The blame, Drake knew with a white-hot clarity, lay with the Cordonian nobility.
With Constantine. Emilia’s father.
Back in the present, the paper crinkled violently as Drake’s massive fist clenched, crushing the medical certificate into a tight, mangled ball. His chest began to heave in heavy, ragged gasps, the protective wall of numbness completely obliterated by a raw, agonising fury that roared through his veins like wildfire.
The grief was no longer sorrow; it was an incandescent, dangerous rage at the universe, at the crown, and at the systematic cruelty that had literally poisoned his mother's blood while King Constantine sat on a golden throne.
"They killed her," Drake whispered, the words vibrating with pure, unadulterated hatred. He stared at his mother’s peaceful face, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. "Constantine killed her. The nobility killed her."
Leona squeezed his shoulder, her own tears soaking her cheeks. "Drake, please..."
"No!" Drake roared, the sound tearing from his throat, loud and violent enough to rattle the glass in the windowpanes. He ripped himself away from her grip, surging to his feet. His massive frame towered in the tight, low-ceilinged bedroom, his chest heaving like a wounded beast. He raised his clenched, white-knuckled fist—the crushed death certificate mangled inside it—and slammed it down against the heavy wooden post of the bed.
The timber groaned under the impact, but Drake didn't feel the pain in his knuckles. His vision was a blurred, vibrating smear of pure, red hatred.
"I'll kill him," Drake choked out, his voice thick with a lethal, trembling venom. He shook his head, his teeth grinding as the words forced their way past his lips. His eyes glared at the wall as if he could see right through the miles of stone and mist, straight to the palace in the capital. "First he banishes me from my home, he forces me away from my family, my friends. He rips me away from the only woman I have ever loved, leaves me to rot in exile... and now this?! If I ever see him again... if I ever cross paths with that bastard, I will rip him apart with my bare hands. I don't care about his guard. I don’t care about his fucking title! I’ll choke the life out of him, Leona. I swear to God, I will!" He was breathing in short, ragged gasps, his entire body wound tight as a coiled spring, ready to tear the world down to avenge the woman lying in the bed.
"And then what, Drake?!" Leona cried out, her voice cracking as she stepped directly into his path, forcing herself between his towering frame and the door. She grabbed the collar of his shirt, her fingers dug deep into the fabric, her face pale and streaked with terrified tears.
"You'll kill the King? You'll attack the guard?" she shook him, her small frame straining against his weight. "Look at her, Drake! Look at your mother! Why do you think she did it? Why did she stand on those freezing street corners? Why did she take the bruises, the filth, the absolute ruin of her own soul? She did it so you would live! She traded everything she had so a commoner's boy from Ramada could have a future. If you throw your life away for revenge—if you end up behind bars or swinging from a hangman's noose—then it was all for nothing! You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save!"
The words hit Drake like a bucket of freezing water.
He froze, his raised fist remaining suspended in the air. You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save.
He looked down at Leona’s desperate, weeping face, and then slowly, dreadfully, his gaze drifted back to his mother’s peaceful features beneath the patchwork quilt. The silence of the room rushed back in, heavy and absolute, suffocating him.
The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders suddenly sagged, the rigid, lethal tension evaporating from his muscles, leaving his limbs feeling weak and heavy as lead. The blinding, incandescent rage collapsed inward, imploding under a devastating, structural wave of absolute guilt. The fury was gone, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum that threatened to stop his own heart.
He didn't answer her. He couldn't.
Drake dropped heavily back into the wooden chair, his knees buckling beneath him. He buried his face in his hands, pressing the crushed, ruined certificate hard against his forehead, his massive frame shaking violently with silent, gasping sobs. The realisation broke him entirely, tearing through his soul until he felt like he was physically suffocating.
His mother had traded her physical body, her health, her sanity, and ultimately her very life to buy him a future. He wasn't just a grieving son. He was the boy she had ruined herself to save. And now, he was the man left standing alone, suffocating in the wreckage of her ultimate sacrifice.
*****
During the days that followed Biancas death, time lost all its shape. Hours dragged, thick and suffocating, like a heavy winter fog that refused to lift from the hollow.
The small house in Ramada became a tomb of static air and echoing floorboards. Every room was haunted by the sudden, violent absence of Bianca’s presence. The kitchen counter felt too clean, free of the crumbs left behind by her baking; the sewing basket in the corner sat under a layer of settling dust, the silver needles still threaded with a spool of dark blue cotton she would never finish.
For Drake, the world lost its colour entirely, bleeding out into a monochrome of slate-grey skies and relentless, freezing spring rain. He moved on an agonising autopilot. He had no memory of the undertakers arriving, nor of the quiet, hollow space left behind when they carried his mother's body out of the house. He only remembered the silence that settled into the floorboards afterward—a heavy, suffocating pressure that even his friends couldn't quiet.
They never left his side. Leo and Max moved through the rooms like silent shadows, managing the reality of a world Drake had completely unplugged from. When Leona had gently asked him what Bianca should wear to be laid to rest, Drake had only been able to choke out three words: the floral dress. It had been her absolute favourite, a vibrant splash of colour that she always wore with pride. Instantly, Drake's mind shifted back to the last time he had seen her in it. It had been that warm summer’s day at Applewood, when she had joined him, Eleanor, and Emilia for lunch in the sun-drenched rose gardens. He remembered the vivid patterns of the dress against the blooming flowers—a moment where he had felt happier than he ever had in his life, with his mother and Emilia, the love of his life, right by his side.
Now, the dress hung limp and hollow, a mocking reminder of a warmth that had been systematically stripped away.
His heart ached with a physical, bruising intensity at the thought of that perfect afternoon. Now, trapped in the grim, monochrome reality of his grief, the thought of Emilia was the only thing keeping his head above water. He caught himself wishing for her with every ragged breath he took, craving the phantom weight of her hands holding him, the soft assurance of her voice telling him that the storm would pass. She would give him the strength he needed when the weight in his chest made him feel like he was drowning.
Driven by that desperate need to reach her, he kept writing. Every single day of that agonising week, his clumsy, shaking fingers forced ink onto paper. In those pages, he laid himself completely bare. He didn't write to her with any grand, poetic words; he wrote to her as a drowning man. He laid his soul entirely bare on those pages, spilling the raw, bleeding truth of his mother’s death, the horrific weight of the diagnosis, and the suffocating guilt that was currently crushing the air from his lungs. He told her how much he loved her, how desperately he wished she were standing there with him.
I need you, the ink pleaded between the lines. You are the only light I have left in the dark.
Every afternoon, he would fold the paper, seal it with trembling hands, and give it to Leona to take down to the village post-box.
And every morning, the torment renewed itself. Drake would stand by the glass, his breath fogging the windowpane, praying for a flash of white parchment, a familiar seal, a single line written in her elegant script to break the nightmare. But day after day, the postman passed the gate without stopping. The letters went completely unanswered, leaving a vast, hollow silence where her voice should have been. The absolute lack of an answer—the complete, echoing silence from the woman he loved more than life itself—left him feeling entirely discarded. It was as if he had already been erased from her world, left to drown alone in the dirt of the village.
*****
By the time Friday morning arrived, the rain had finally tapered off into a thick, damp mountain mist that clung to the hedges and slicked the stone path outside.
Inside, the small house was a hive of quiet, sombre preparation. Drake stood in front of the small mirror in the narrow hallway, the air around him smelling of damp wood, old stone, and the sharp tang of shoe polish. His fingers felt entirely detached from his body, clumsy and stiff as ice as he tried to force the plastic button of his white shirt through the frayed loop. His reflection was a stranger’s—his jawline looked hollowed out, the sharp cheekbones cutting beneath skin that had gone a sickly, sleepless grey, and his bloodshot eyes were sunken into deep, violet shadows.
He tried again, but his calloused fingers slipped off the fabric. A sudden, sharp prickle of suffocating frustration flared beneath his collar, tightening around his throat until he could barely breathe. He felt entirely unravelled, a giant of a man reduced to useless trembling by a single piece of plastic.
Through the blurred reflection in the glass, he saw Max and Leo standing at the end of the hallway. They looked just as exhausted, dressed in their own dark, mismatched funeral coats. Leo, who had walked beside Drake since the days of nursery school mud-fights, stepped forward first. Without a word, he reached out, his hand squeezing Drake’s forearm with a crushing, desperate grip—an unspoken language built over a lifetime of shared history. Next to him, Max, who had entered Drake's world as a rowdy teenager and quickly became a brother, leaned in, resting a heavy, grounding palm against Drake’s shoulder blade, leaning his forehead briefly against Drake’s back. They didn’t say anything. They didn't need to. They were simply there, an unbreakable wall of childhood loyalty holding back the dark.
Seeing them there brought a sudden, flickering memory of earlier in the week—a quiet conversation in the dead of night, out by the woodpile in the small back garden.
Drake had pulled Zeke aside, the cold wind whipping at their faces. Zeke had risked everything to help Drake sneak across the Cordonian border from France, and Drake had felt the crushing weight of that debt.
“You should go back, Zeke,” Drake had told him, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the dirt. “What about the farm? You can’t leave it untended. Leo can drive me back after the funeral.”
Zeke had merely let out a soft huff, a plume of white steam rising in the cold air. “Kiara can handle the farm, Drake.” He had stepped closer, clasping a firm hand onto Drake’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Some things are more important than crops. I’m not leaving you to bury your mother alone. I’m staying.”
Drake hadn’t pushed further, too exhausted to notice the tight, strained lines around Zeke's eyes. He didn't know the full truth. Zeke hadn't told him about the arguments back in France, or the way Kiara’s infatuation had twisted into an increasingly aggressive, possessive fixation. Zeke knew Drake’s heart belonged entirely to Emilia, and he had seen the warning signs. He knew that if he crossed back over the border now, Kiara would demand to return to Cordonian soil with him. And as far as Zeke was concerned, while Drake was this raw and vulnerable, the absolute further away Kiara stayed, the better.
So he had stayed, quietly handling the heavy chores in the background all week, acting as a shield Drake didn't even know he needed—proving that true brotherhood knew no borders.
Back in the present, the memory faded as the floorboards creaked. Max and Leo parted, stepping back into the shadows of the sitting room as a larger figure approached.
"Let me," Bastien's rough, low voice sounded from the shadows behind him.
The older man stepped into the cramped hallway space, bringing with him the faint, comforting scent of cedar, wool, and mothballs. With steady, practiced hands that didn't share Drake's tremors, Bastien reached up. His weathered fingers, rough from decades of hard manual labour, brushed gently against the rigid line of Drake's jaw as he effortlessly threaded the stubborn button.
Bastien didn't offer empty, hollow platitudes; he knew there were no words in the language of men that could fix a broken heart. Instead, he carefully smoothed down the heavy lapels of Drake’s black coat, pressing out the creases with deliberate, grounding care, before resting his massive, calloused palms flat against the trembling expanse of Drake's chest.
"Listen to me, son," Bastien murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to anchor the shifting room. "Today is going to be the hardest walk of your life. We are saying goodbye to her body today, yes. But Bianca? She is never truly gone from you."
Slowly, Bastien raised a heavy hand, tapping his fingers gently against Drake's shirt, right over the erratic, heavy thudding of his heart. "She's in here." Then, he moved his fingers up, pressing them against Drake's temple with a soft, meaningful pressure that demanded his absolute focus. "And she's in here. In your memories. The people we love fiercely... we carry them with us through the dark, every single day. The world can never truly take that away from you. Make her proud today, son."
The words struck the fragile dam Drake had built against the world. His eyes instantly welled, a hot, blinding sheen of tears spilling over his lower lashes. The tight, suffocating knot that had been strangling him all morning loosened just enough for him to manage a small, heartbreakingly sad smile.
He gave a tight, rough nod, his vision blurring entirely as he stepped forward and threw his large arms around Bastien, burying his face against the older man's shoulder.
He pulled him into a fierce, desperate hug, clinging to him like a man falling off the edge of the earth. Bastien returned it instantly, his own grip tight, unyielding, and fierce, locking around Drake's massive frame to hold him together. In the quiet, narrow hallway, surrounded by the shadows of his oldest friends, Drake let himself lean entirely into the silent, anchoring strength of a father—the one piece of solid ground left when the world had stripped everything else away.
*****
The transition from the cramped, quiet sanctuary of the hallway to the reality waiting outside was a blur of cold air and heavy, synchronised movement. When Drake finally detached himself from Bastien's embrace, his limbs felt like lead, operating entirely on the lingering echoes of autopilot. With Max and Leo flanking him like shields against the world, and Bastien’s steady hand resting firmly between his shoulder blades, Drake stepped out of the small house in Ramada.
The thick, damp mountain mist they had watched from the window did not break; it swallowed them whole. It hung low and heavy over the valley, clinging to the thorny hedges and slicking the ancient stone path that led down toward the village. The walk was silent, save for the rhythmic, wet crunch of their boots against the gravel and the distant, mournful tolling of the parish bell echoing through the fog. By the time the dark, weathered stone walls of the village church materialised through the mist, the dampness had seeped into the shoulders of Drake's coat, a freezing weight that mirrored the chill settling deep into his bones.
But when the heavy oak doors groaned open, the cold mist was instantly cut by a wall of oppressive warmth.
Inside, the air was thick, heavy, and suffocating, dense with the oily scent of melting beeswax, the musk of damp wool from packed pews, and the sweet, almost sickeningly sharp perfume of spring lilies. It was the smell of death wrapped in respect, a clean, sanitized tribute that made Drake’s stomach actively turn.
The small parish was packed to the absolute doors. Friends, neighbours, and old tradesmen from the village lined the pews, their bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. A low, reverent hum of hushed whispers vibrated through the ancient timber rafters, dropping into an absolute, breathless silence the moment Drake’s large frame darkened the doorway. There wasn't an empty space left. For a community that had watched Bianca fight through the harshest years of her life after Jacksons death, this was their final, quiet tribute to a woman who had been a pillar of silent resilience among them.
But for Drake, at the threshold the crowd vanished. The world shrank entirely to the size of a polished oak box resting on the shoulders of the men before him.
When the weight of the casket settled onto Drake’s broad, muscular shoulder, the sheer, physical reality of it nearly brought him to his knees. A choked gasp caught in his throat. It wasn't just wood and brass pressing into his muscle; it was the absolute, crushing finality of a world without her. To his right, Bastien shifted his weight, his jaw set like weathered iron as he took his share of the burden. Behind them, Leo and Max stepped into place, their grips steady, unyielding, and familiar. They were his brothers in every way that mattered, physically anchoring his massive frame because they knew that without them, the sheer gravity of his grief would collapse him into the flagstones.
As they took their first collective step forward, the organ swelled. It wasn't just music—it was a deep, mournful minor chord that vibrated violently through the floorboards, tearing through the soles of Drake's boots and striking straight into his sternum. The sound seemed to split his chest wide open, exposing everything raw inside.
Hold your head up.
Bastien’s earlier words echoed in the hollow space of his mind, but his head felt heavy as lead. His mother was gone. The thought was a jagged, bleeding wound. She had been his anchor, his north star, the one unshakeable certainty in a life defined by hardship. Aside from Emilia, Bianca was his entire world—the only person who loved him unconditionally, who had held him when he was a boy in mismatched boots, and who had quietly bled for him so he could survive. And now, the absolute emptiness of her absence was a physical, bruising ache behind his ribs.
Drake swallowed the suffocating lump in his throat, locked his trembling knees, and lifted his chin. He took the first step.
It felt like wading through deep, freezing mountain water. Every rhythmic step down the long, candle-lit aisle was a step closer to putting her in the cold earth forever. Through the watery, trembling blur in his vision, the sea of familiar faces turned toward them—the local baker, the seamstress, the old men from the tavern. Their eyes were wide with genuine sorrow, tracing the lines of Bianca's casket before shifting to him with immense, protective respect.
But Drake could barely process them. The candlelight danced mockingly against the dark, polished wood of the coffin, casting long, distorted shadows up the stone walls that felt as twisted as the grief tearing at his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal, each beat loud, hollow, and utterly broken. He wasn't just carrying his mother; he was carrying the carcass of his own childhood.
By the time they reached the altar, Drake's breath was coming in short, ragged, shallow puffs. Together, they lowered the casket onto the wooden trestles with a synchronised, heavy precision. The sudden loss of the physical weight didn't bring relief; it only made him feel dangerously weightless, as if he might break contact with the earth and float away into the gloom of the rafters.
He stepped back into the front pew, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists inside his coat pockets to keep them from shaking violently.
The parish priest, a man whose hair had gone white long after he had first known the Walker family, stepped up to the pulpit. He cleared his throat, his soft, melodic voice instantly soothing the weeping in the back rows.
"We are gathered here today not just to mourn a loss, but to celebrate a life that gave so much warmth to our community," the priest began, his eyes drifting kindly, sorrowfully to Drake. "Bianca Walker was a woman of rare, uncomplicated kindness. She possessed a heart that never knew how to close its doors. No matter how little she had, no matter how cold the winter nights grew, her home was a sanctuary. She welcomed anyone she met with open arms, a hot cup of tea, and a smile that could make the heaviest burden feel lighter. She was, in every sense, loved and respected by every soul in this village."
A soft murmur of tearful agreement rippled through the pews. Drake kept his eyes fixed on the polished handles of the coffin, his heart twisting into tighter, uglier knots.
"Anyone who knew Bianca," the priest continued, a gentle, nostalgic smile touching his weathered face, "knew that she met the absolute love of her life the day she met Jackson. Together, they didn't just build a home; they built a life rooted in mutual respect, unshakeable love, and a laughter that used to echo down these very streets. And when Jackson was cruelly, abruptly taken from us, Bianca did not crumble. She gathered up her grief and poured every ounce of that fierce, boundless love into her son."
The priest paused, looking directly at Drake now, his voice softening with immense reverence. "Drake was his mother’s pride and joy. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him. No sacrifice too great, no burden too heavy to shield her boy from the cold. She loved him fiercely, completely, until her very last breath. And today, as we return her to Jackson's side, we see her legacy standing before us—a son who carries her strength."
The words were beautiful. They were everything a grieving son should want to hear. But for Drake, each praise felt like a stunning, silver blade sliding between his ribs.
The bittersweet irony of it nearly choked him. The village loved her for her grace and hospitality. They thought of her sacrifices in terms of long hours at legal jobs and worn-out shoes. They didn't know the dark costs of the winter nights. They didn't know about the bruised eyes, the split lips, or the crushing shame she had scrubbed from her skin at the kitchen sink while the rest of the world slept. They didn't know that the crown's neglect had forced a good woman to trade her soul to keep her son alive.
Beside him, Drake felt a small, trembling hand slide across his knuckles, fingers wrapping around his tightly clenched fist.
Drake didn't turn his head, but his grip loosened just enough to let her in. Leona was sitting right there, her shoulder pressed firmly against his. Her chest heaved with silent, breathless sobs, but her grip on his hand was fierce, unyielding, and heavy with a lifetime of shared history. They were the only two people in the crowded church who knew the real price of the bread he had eaten as a boy.
As the priest spoke of Bianca's unshakeable strength, Leona squeezed his fingers—a silent, grounding pressure that spoke volumes. I am here, the gesture promised. You’re not alone. It was the exact same fierce, protective devotion she had given his mother, now transferred entirely to the boy Bianca had ruined herself to save.
When the priest finished, he stepped down, leaving a heavy, expectant silence hanging over the altar. The liturgy called for a remembrance from the family.
Drake felt Bastien’s hand lightly touch his shoulder from behind, a gentle nudge. His knees felt hollow, but he stood up. The movement was slow, his large frame rising like a shadow against the candlelight. The entire church seemed to hold its breath as he walked the few steps to the front, avoiding the pulpit entirely, choosing instead to stand right beside the dark oak of his mother's casket.
He rested one massive, trembling hand on the top of the wood. For a long, agonising moment, he couldn't speak. He stared out at the sea of faces, his throat completely locked, his chest heaving as he fought for air.
"My mother..." Drake's voice broke on the first syllable, rough and gravelly, cutting through the silence like tearing cloth. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching until the bone clicked. "She didn't have an easy life. Most of you know that. You knew her after my father died. You knew her when the winters were long."
He looked down at the coffin, his calloused thumb tracing the grain of the oak. He couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't shatter the beautiful, clean memory they had of her. But he needed the universe to know the depth of what she had endured.
"She took the cold so I could have the warmth," Drake whispered, his voice shaking but carrying a sudden, fierce intensity that echoed off the stone walls. "She took every blow the world threw at her, and she never let it touch me. She broke herself to pieces so I could grow up whole. She was... she was the strongest person I will ever know."
His eyes drifted across the front pew, catching Leona’s tear-stained face. A silent, bleeding understanding passed between them.
"I just hope..." Drake's voice cracked, a hot, blinding sheen of tears finally spilling over his lower lashes, tracing a slow path down his hollowed cheek. "I just hope I can carry a fraction of her strength. Because she gave everything she was for me. Everything."
He didn't wipe the tear away. He didn't say another word. He simply leaned down, pressed his forehead briefly against the cold wood of the casket, and stepped back.
When he returned to the pew, he sat heavily, leaning imperceptibly into Leona's side. She instantly found his hand again, locking her fingers through his with a devastating, protective intensity that the peaceful people in the pews would never fully understand.
*****
The final chords of the organ faded into the ancient timber rafters, leaving only the sound of the rain returning with a vengeance, lashing violently against the stained-glass windows.
The walk from the church to the graveyard was a grim, slow-motion blur of black umbrellas and sodden earth. Drake stood at the very edge of the open plot, the freezing Cordonian wind whipping the tail of his coat against his shins as the thick ropes groaned under the strain, slowly lowering the polished oak casket into the dark, wet clay. When it hit the bottom, the sound was hollow, wet, and terribly definitive. Drake watched the first heavy shovel of earth thud onto the lid. Each subsequent mound of dirt felt like a physical blow to his own chest, the final door slamming shut on his childhood forever.
He didn't remember walking away from the graveside. He only knew that the damp, biting cold had settled deep into his marrow by the time they reached the King’s Arms, the village’s lone, weathering tavern.
The landlord, an old friend of Jackson’s whose hands were permanently calloused from decades of pulling pints and clearing fields, had closed the heavy oak doors to the public for the afternoon. A massive, roaring fire crackled fiercely in the hearth, throwing a thick, amber glow over the low timber beams and the worn flagstone floor, but the intense heat couldn't touch the block of ice wedged inside Drake’s chest. The air smelled heavy and comforting—a mixture of woodsmoke, spilled ale, wet wool, and the rich, savoury scent of venison and potato stew the village women had brought to line the long wooden tables.
The pub was packed to the absolute rafters. It was loud—a strange, overwhelming wall of sensory sound made of clinking glasses, blowing noses, and the low, collective rumble of dozens of voices sharing decades of memories.
Standing like a statue near the hearth, Drake was not alone. Leo, Max, and Zeke formed a tight, unbreakable semi-circle around him, acting as silent, protective sentinels to keep the well-wishers from completely suffocating him. They took the brunt of the crowd’s physical weight. Leo stood on his left, greeting the elders with a quiet, respectful familiarity. Max flanked his right, his shoulders subtly shifting to block anyone trying to crowd Drake too closely, while Zeke stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them, his quiet, vigilant presence a steady anchor as he helped accept the condolences of people whose dialect he barely understood.
One by one, the villagers pressed into the small pocket of space his friends managed to preserve.
"She was a saint, Drake," the local blacksmith murmured, leaning past Max to press a heavy, rough hand to Drake’s forearm. "When my girl had the croup winter before last, your mum walked three miles through the mountain drifts just to bring us a batch of her elderberry syrup. Never asked for a penny. Not one."
"Your dad would be so proud of the man you’ve become, son," a silver-haired neighbour whispered, her eyes welling with fresh tears as she offered a tight, trembling nod. "They're back together now. Restin' easy in the quiet."
Drake managed to offer tight, mechanical nods. He forced his lips into small, heartbreakingly sad smiles that didn't reach his hollow eyes. He said thank you until the syllables completely lost their meaning, sounding entirely foreign and empty in his own ears.
Their words were a shield of pure, genuine kindness, but nothing could pierce through the thick, suffocating fog of his grief. The bittersweet irony bled into every single condolence. They spoke of Bianca’s boundless generosity, of her grace, and Jackson's nobility. They didn't know the truth. They didn't know that the very warmth they loved Bianca for was a fire she had fuelled with her own flesh and blood because the Cordonian nobility had left a guard’s widow to starve in the dirt.
Drake took a slow, heavy breath, feeling entirely detached from his own body—a ghost haunting his own mother’s wake.
"Mr. Walker?"
The voice was crisp, formal, and entirely out of place among the rough, gravelly accents of the village. It cut through the tavern's low roar like a pane of glass shattering.
Drake blinked, his vacant stare focusing on a sharp-featured man who had somehow materialised past Max and Leo. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely too clean, too expensive, for the mud-slicked village streets of Ramada. The man held a flat cap in his leather-gloved hands, his expression grave, sharp, and intensely professional.
"I don't mean to intrude on your profound grief," the man said softly, stepping fully into the small pocket of space beside Drake. "My name is Christopher Harrison. I was your mother’s solicitor."
Drake’s brow furrowed slightly, his exhausted mind sluggishly trying to process the word. Solicitor. It didn't compute. His mother was a commoner who had scraped by on pennies, worn-out shoes, and secret, horrific torment. She didn't have legal assets. She didn't have affairs that required a man in a bespoke three-piece suit.
"I was deeply saddened to hear of her passing," Mr. Harrison continued, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat and pulling out a crisp, white business card with elegant, embossed black script. "I only knew her for a short time, but I could tell she was a remarkable woman. Before you make any arrangements to head back across the border to France, you and I need to sit down. I am the executor of her last will and testament."
Drake stared at the card held between the man's fingers. A strange, freezing prickle of unease rippled down his spine, cutting through the emotional numbness of the morning.
"Her... will?" Drake choked out, his voice rough and raspy, sounding like stones grinding together after days of near silence.
"Yes," the solicitor replied with a solemn, unreadable nod. "We have quite a bit to discuss regarding her estate and her final wishes. Please, take my card. Contact my office in the city to arrange an appointment for next week, once the dust has settled here."
Drake’s calloused, stable-hand fingers moved automatically, taking the small piece of pasteboard. The crisp, rigid edges felt incredibly sharp against his rough skin.
"I'll be there," Drake managed, giving a tight, hard nod.
"My deepest condolences, Drake," Mr. Harrison said quietly. He gave a respectful, practiced bow of his head, turned on his heel, and quietly slipped out of the crowded tavern, leaving the heavy oak doors to click shut behind him.
Drake stood absolutely frozen, staring down at the card in his palm. The embossed letters caught the amber light of the hearth fire: Harrison & Associates. The Royal Mile, City of Valen.
The Royal Mile. The most exclusive, heavily guarded legal district in the capital city, serving only the wealthy, the high nobility and the royal court itself.
Drake slowly slipped the card into his coat pocket, his fist clenching around it through the heavy fabric until his knuckles ached. The roar of the pub seemed to fade into a completely dull, distant hum, the warmth of the fire fading away. As he looked back up toward the flames, the grief in his chest suddenly shifted, tightening into a hard, cold, and dangerous knot of profound confusion.
Bianca Walker hadn't just left behind a legacy of survival; she had left behind something else entirely.
The world had narrowed to the scent of coarse burlap, dusty grain, and the stifling, trapped heat of the truck bed.
A mile back from the checkpoint, Zeke had pulled the truck into the long, stretching shadows of an old oak lane, his face tight with a quiet intensity as he helped Drake climb over the tailgate. By the time they reached the border, the afternoon sun had bled out completely, leaving the French landscape swallowed in a heavy, bruised violet dusk.
Now, Drake lay flat on his stomach, his cheek pressed hard against the rigid, cold metal floorboards of the truck bed. He was wedged tightly in the centre, his arms tucked close to his chest. Zeke had meticulously packed the heavy, scratchy sacks of feed and grain around his sides and on top of him, layering them high until they formed a makeshift, claustrophobic fortress of burlap to shield him from view before throwing the thick, stiff canvas tarpaulin over the top and tying it down.
It was pitch black beneath the tarp, and the air was suffocatingly hot, choked with the fine, powdery dust of milled oats and sweetfeed that tickled the raw back of his throat. Every single breath Drake took had to be an exercise in absolute control—shallow, agonisingly slow, and silent. He pressed his palms flat against the vibrating metal beneath him, feeling the fierce, rhythmic shudder of the diesel engine humming through his bones as the vehicle rolled forward.
His heart was hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs, a wild, trapped animal screaming to break free. In the pitch darkness, his mind spun in an endless, agonising loop. Please let her still be breathing. Please just let me make it to her. Please let us make it across the border.
Suddenly, the truck jolted sharply, the tyres shifting from the smooth asphalt of the main road onto the rougher, deeply rutted gravel leading up to the Cordonian border post. Drake’s entire body went rigid. His muscles locked, every tendon straining as he forced himself to become nothing more than a lifeless contour between the grain bags.
The truck slowed, the gears grinding with a heavy, ominous clunk before the vehicle finally groaned to a stop. The engine dropped into a low, throaty, uneven idle.
The silence that followed inside the truck bed was absolute, heavy, and terrifying.
Through the thick layers of canvas and burlap, the outside world reached him in muffled, fragmented bursts of sound. The screech of a heavy iron gate swinging shut. The crisp, rhythmic crunch of military boots marching across the gravel yard—not one pair, but two. A cold sweat broke out across Drake’s forehead, running down his temple and tracking through the dust on his cheek. They were right outside.
Then, the brutal, authoritative thud of a gloved fist striking the driver’s side door made Drake flinch in the dark.
"Evening, Monsieur Theron," a muffled voice called out, the Cordonian accent sharp, carrying the cold weight of military authority. "Got a heavy load today?"
"Evening, Officer," Zeke’s voice drifted back. Drake’s chest tightened as he heard the slight, unnatural stiffness in his friend’s tone. Zeke was trying to play it cool, forcing the easy, casual drawl of a routine farmer, but Drake knew him well enough to hear the underlying panic. "Just the usual. Grain and sweetfeed for the livestock markets down in Ramada. Got to keep the cattle fed."
"A bit late in the evening for a run, isn't it?" a second guard chimed in, his voice closer to the back of the truck.
"The old truck handles the hills better when the evening air cools the engine down," Zeke replied smoothly, though the tremor of the idling engine seemed to mirror the frantic beating of Drake's heart. "Don't want her overheating on those winding roads."
There was an agonising pause. No one spoke. The only sound was the low, smoky rumble of the exhaust. Drake held his breath, his throat locking completely. The air in his lungs felt hot, heavy, and compressed like a ticking bomb. He didn't dare blink. His eyes stared wide into the absolute blackness of the canvas above him, his ears straining so hard they rang.
Then, the truck bed groaned violently.
The vehicle sagged heavily on its suspension as a massive weight stepped up onto the rear bumper. Drake’s stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless abyss.
Directly above his ear, the rope cleats creaked. The stiff, heavy canvas was violently yanked backward, scraping against the rough burlap sacks with a loud, raspy hiss that sounded like a strike of lightning in the confined space.
The twilight didn't fully illuminate the darkness, but the sharp beams of two high-powered tactical torches sliced through the gap in the tarpaulin. The bright, artificial white light swept aggressively across the interior, illuminating the floating dust motes mere inches above Drake’s head.
He buried his face lower into his crossed arms, squeezing his eyes shut so tight his jaw ached. He went entirely breathless, paralyzing every nerve in his body.
The beam of the torch lingered. Through the canvas, Drake could hear the guard's heavy, rhythmic breathing, accompanied by the distinct, terrifying metallic click of a rifle sling shifting against body armour. The guard was searching. If he moved even one sack, if he reached just six inches deeper into the center of the bed, his hand would hit Drake’s shoulder.
Just let us go through, Drake screamed silently in his own mind, his knuckles turning white against the metal floor. Please, God, just let us through.
A heavy boot shifted on the bumper, and then a hand patted the top of the grain sack right next to Drake’s ribs with a dull, booming thud that vibrated directly into his chest.
"Everything looks in order," the guard finally muttered, his voice raspy.
The canvas was thrown back down with a heavy, definitive slap, plunging Drake back into absolute, suffocating darkness. The truck frame groaned in relief as the guard’s heavy boots jumped down onto the gravel.
"Have a safe drive, Zeke. Keep a sharp eye out on the road to Ramada. The fog comes in quickly this time of night," the officer shouted.
"Will do. Take care, mate," Zeke called back, his voice sounding hollow with washed-out adrenaline.
The gears ground together with a harsh, reassuring clunk, and the truck surged forward. Zeke hit the accelerator hard, the heavy diesel engine roaring to life with a fierce, smoky rumble as it tore away from the post.
Only when the crunch of the border gravel faded into the smooth, rhythmic hum of the highway did Drake finally let out his breath. It tore out of him in a long, ragged, shuddering gasp. He let his forehead sink entirely against the cool, vibrating metal floorboards, his entire body trembling violently as the cold sweat on his skin began to cool in the darkness.
They were through. He was a criminal in his own country now, a stowaway who had breached the King's decree. He had survived the border, but as the truck sped deeper into the Cordonian night toward Ramada, the relief in his chest was instantly crushed by a darker, heavier dread. The guards were behind him, but the true nightmare was still waiting for him inside his childhood home.
*****
A few miles past the checkpoint, the truck veered onto a narrow, unlit dirt track sheltered by an archway of dense pine trees. The moment the vehicle rolled to a stop, Zeke killed the headlights, plunging them into the soft, blue-black shadows of the Cordonian evening.
The heavy canvas tarp rasped as Zeke unhitched the rear ties. Drake pushed his way through the heavy, scratchy bags of sweetfeed, coughing quietly as the cool night air rushed into his lungs, cutting through the suffocating scent of burlap and dust. He swung his legs over the tailgate and dropped silently onto the gravel.
Before Zeke could even turn back toward the driver's cab, Drake closed the distance between them. He reached out and pulled Zeke into a fierce, tight hug. The fabric of their jackets bunched under the pressure, the sheer force of Drake's grip conveying everything his voice couldn't.
"Thank you," Drake muttered, his voice thick and gravelly with a raw, overwhelming gratitude. "You didn't have to risk yourself like that for me, Zeke. Breaking the law... facing the border guards. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this."
Zeke gripped Drake's shoulder firmly, then gently pulled back, a faint, comforting smile touching his lips in the dim twilight. "I did it because it's the right thing to do, Drake. Banished or not, nobody should be kept from their family at a time like this." He clapped Drake's arm, his expression turning purposeful. "But don't thank me yet. We still need to get you to your mother. Come on."
They climbed into the high cab, the heavy metal doors shutting out the whispering wind of the pine woods. Zeke turned the key, and the truck roared back to life, its yellow headlights cutting a path through the gathering fog as they set off down the winding highway toward duchy Ramada.
For a long few minutes, the only sound was the low, steady rumble of the diesel engine and the rhythmic click of the indicator as they merged back onto the main road. The tension in the cab was palpable, Drake’s fingers tightly interlaced, his knuckles white as he stared straight ahead, his mind clearly racing ahead to the bedroom of his childhood home.
Zeke glanced over, shifting gears smoothly. "So," he began, his voice deliberately light, testing the waters. "A Princess, huh? I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. How does a hay covered, sweat-soaked stable hand even end up romantically involved with royalty?"
Drake let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. He knew exactly what Zeke was doing. His friend was trying to build a wall of words between him and the terrifying reality of his mother's illness. Drake felt a profound wave of gratitude for the distraction, letting himself sink into the memory.
"She came to Applewood for the summer," Drake said, his voice instantly softening, the hard edges of his panic melting away at the mere thought of Emilia. "I met her the very day she arrived. She was... Zeke, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Just standing there in the sunshine. I was drawn to her immediately." A small, nostalgic smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I thought she was part of the summer staff hired to help run the main house. She didn't correct me. She just let me believe it."
Zeke chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road as it began to curve downward into the valley. "No kidding? She just went along with it?"
"Yeah, she did," Drake replied, his eyes growing distant as he looked back at those golden weeks. "She didn't tell me who she really was. Not until we’d already spent weeks together. By the time she finally confessed who she was... it was too late. I had already fallen completely and utterly in love with her."
"That must’ve been one hell of a shock," Zeke said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"It was," Drake admitted, his chest expanding with a deep, aching reverence. "I didn't handle it very well to be honest. But then she made me see that titles didn't matter to her. It’s like... she and I are two halves of the same whole, Zeke. It sounds crazy given the vast class difference between us, but she saw me for exactly who I am as a man. Not my lack of a noble bloodline, not my empty pockets or my status. Just me. And I saw her for who she is as a woman. Not her crown, not the palace. Just… my Em."
Drake reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing against the heavy, familiar weight of his latest unstamped letter. "That’s why I keep writing to her. Every single day. Because I truly believe, deep down in my soul, that one day she will come back to me. One day we'll find each other again, and we'll be together. We have to be."
Zeke smiled softly, the dashboard lights casting a warm glow over his rugged features. "If it's meant to be, mate, it will be."
Drake’s smile faded slightly, a heavy, realistic sorrow pulling at his features. He turned his head, leaning it against the cool glass of the passenger window. "I hope so," he whispered, his breath fogging the pane. "Though the longer I go without a single reply... the harder it is to cling to that dream."
"Don't lose hope, my friend," Zeke said firmly, his voice steady and unyielding. "If you truly believe you belong together, well... the universe has a funny way of making things happen when you least expect it."
Drake didn't reply, but a faint, appreciative smile touched his lips as he watched the passing landmarks of his youth. It had been ten months since he had been back on this side of the border, but nothing had changed. The old stone bridge over the river, the rusted sign for the Ramada county line, the familiar silhouettes of the jagged hills against the dark sky, they all looked the same. They drove onward in a comfortable silence, each mile bringing Drake closer to home.
"I bet it feels surreal being back on this side of the border," Zeke finally murmured, pulling Drake from his thoughts.
Drake let out a low wistful sigh, his hands steady in his lap. "It does. But at least now we’re over the border, it should be a little easier to keep a low profile.”
“You think?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah. The King might be a tyrant, but he isn't stupid. He’s not going to put my face on a wanted poster. From what Bastien, Leo and Max have told me, no one seems to know the real reason I left. A King doesn't advertise that his daughter, the future Queen, was madly in love with a stable hand. It’s a stain on the crown.” Drake explained with a self-deprecating sigh. “To the rest of the kingdom, I wasn’t exiled by royal decree—I was just a servant who left Applewood at the end of the summer and moved away for work. My mum told the neighbours I found a new position in France, and that’s all there was to it. The only people who know the truth are the guards who dragged me to the border, my mum and the people who were actually there that night. And now you."
Zeke shifted gears, his expression turning thoughtful. "So the regular police won’t be looking for you? But if a royal official or the King’s Guard catches wind that you’re back in Ramada? That’s a different story.”
“Exactly,” Drake replied as he stared out into the dark. “I still need to be careful though. If Constantine even suspects I’m back in Cordonia, any chance I have of ever being with Emilia again will be lost forever, and we belong together. I'm sure of it.”
Zeke fell silent, his knuckles tightening slightly on the steering wheel. Drake’s words about Emilia echoed in his mind, and suddenly, Kiara’s frantic, angry face flashed vividly in his memory.
He's mine! she had shrieked back at the farm, her fingers clawing at the egg basket. I can make him happy if he just stays!
Zeke just shook his head in the darkness of the cab, a tight, sorrowful grimace crossing his face. Kiara was living in a dangerous, possessive fantasy world. Drake wasn't hers. He never had been, and he never would be. Looking at the raw, profound devotion etched into every line of Drake’s face right now, it was plain as day. Drake belonged entirely to Emilia, and his heart was anchored inside the palace walls, completely untouchable to anyone else.
The truck rounded a final, familiar bend, and the dim, scattered streetlights of Drake's hometown began to flicker through the settling night fog.
*****
The private dining room of the royal wing at the palace always felt too large, the vaulted ceilings echoing with a quiet that no amount of heavy drapery or crystal chandeliers could soften. For months, these weekly family dinners had been an exercise in endurance. Emilia sat perfectly upright, the silver fork in her hand heavy and cold. Across the long mahogany table sat her father, King Constantine, a stack of state documents resting casually beside his gold-rimmed plate. To her left was her mother, Queen Eleanor.
The distance between her parents was palpable, a frozen tundra that had settled over their marriage since the day Constantine had used his fists and his guards to shatter Emilia's life. Eleanor still refused to return to their marital bed, and though Constantine had ultimately bent to his wife’s furious demands after the autumn scandal—stripping Tariq of his title and watching as the disgraced noble’s own brother, Rashad, practically disowned him—the damage was permanent. Tariq had fled Cordonian society for Europe just after Christmas, powerless and hollowed out, but his absence couldn't heal the cracks in the royal family.
The tension in the room was a living thing, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of silver against porcelain.
"So, Emilia," Eleanor began gently, her voice a quiet lifeline in the suffocating space. "How are things between you and Liam?"
Emilia looked up, the rigid line of her shoulders softening slightly. A genuine warmth bloomed in her chest, and a soft blush touched her cheeks. "Really good, thank you. Actually..." She hesitated, a small, tentative smile gracing her lips. "We are now officially courting."
Across the table, Constantine’s head snapped up, his sharp eyes locking onto his daughter. "You are?"
Emilia completely ignored him. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on her mother, refusing to offer her father even a sliver of her attention.
Eleanor smiled warmly at her daughter, but beneath the happiness, a sharp, familiar pang of worry tightened her chest. She knew her daughter. She knew the fierce, untamable spirit Emilia possessed, and she knew the devastating grief she had been carrying. More than that, Eleanor knew about the silver chain hidden beneath Emilia’s high-collared gowns—the simple, cheap ring that still rested against her daughter's collarbone that was worth more to her than any crown jewel. Eleanor thought the world of Liam Rhys; he was sophisticated, kind, brilliantly intelligent, and a true gentleman. But as a mother, Eleanor feared that Emilia was settling—that she was choosing a safe, noble lifeline simply because she believed her true heart had been permanently exiled.
Still, seeing the genuine light in Emilia’s eyes as she recounted her and Liam's quiet walk through the palace orchards, Eleanor pushed her doubts aside. She focused entirely on her daughter's comfort, desperate for her to find any shred of peace.
As Emilia finished describing the falling blossoms, Constantine suddenly spoke up, his booming voice shattering the intimacy of the moment.
"Well, personally, I think this is excellent news," the King said, offering a tight, approving nod. "You have chosen well, Emilia. It has been a long time coming, but I am glad to see you have finally found someone worthy of the crown."
Emilia’s eyes dropped instantly to the table. Her jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in her cheek, her fingers tightening around her cutlery until her knuckles turned white.
"I am not with him because of his suitability to the crown, Father," she said, her voice dropping into a low, icy register. "I am with him because he is a good man, and he makes me happy."
"Right," Constantine dismissed with a wave of his hand, not even looking up from a report he was skimming. "Either way, this news has certainly come at a good time. The social season will be coming to a close soon to make way for the summer months. An announcement that the future Queen has chosen a suitor would certainly be a triumphant end to the season."
Emilia and Eleanor exchanged a brief, exhausted glance across the table, a shared look of profound exasperation. Constantine didn't notice—or simply didn't care.
"I believe a formal event in the city would be the proper way to announce your courtship to the public," the King continued thoughtfully. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"I suppose," Emilia muttered, her appetite entirely vanished.
"Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll have the ministers make the arrangements." Constantine paused, closing a leather-bound portfolio with a definitive thud. He looked at his daughter, his expression softening into what he likely thought was paternal pride. "I am just glad you have found someone worthy, Emilia. Someone from the nobility who can actually bring some joy into your life. And I am certainly glad that all that pathetic pining over worthless commoners is finally out of your system."
The air left the room.
SMACK!
Emilia slammed her palm flat against the mahogany table, the force of it rattling the crystal wine glasses. “What did you just say?” She hissed before she stood up so fast her heavy velvet chair scraped violently against the marble floor. For the first time in months, she looked directly at her father, her eyes blazing with a fierce, white-hot fury.
"Don't you dare talk about Drake like that!" she spat, her voice trembling with the sheer volume of her rage. "He might be nothing more than a commoner to you, but he is... he was everything to me."
Eleanor caught the slip immediately, her heart breaking for the raw vulnerability exposed in that single, corrected tense.
Emilia pressed on, her chest heaving as she stared down the King of Cordonia. "Liam is incredible, and he makes me happy. But that does not mean I have forgotten what you did, Father. You destroyed me when you banished Drake from my life. I will never forgive you, and I certainly will never forget how it felt to love him and to be loved by him."
She took a sharp, steadying breath, her chin lifting with royal defiance. "I can only hope that he is happy wherever he is now. I hope he has found peace, and love... and the further he is from you, the better."
Turning away from her father, Emilia looked down at her mother, her expression softening into a tragic, weary smile. "I've lost my appetite. I'm going to retire for the evening. Goodnight, Mother."
She bent down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to Eleanor’s cheek, before turning on her heel and sweeping out of the dining room. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her.
Constantine let out a heavy, irritated sigh, muttering something under his breath before pulling his documents back into his focus, completely dismissive to the emotional wreckage he had caused.
But Eleanor didn't move. She sat in the ringing silence, her eyes fixed on the door her daughter had just vanished through. The chilling truth settled deep into her chest, confirming her worst, most profound fears.
Emilia loved Liam Rhys; he made her feel happy, safe, and secure. But Eleanor couldn't help but wonder if that gentle warmth would ever be enough compared to the roaring, unquenchable wildfire her daughter still harboured for Drake Walker.
*****
The truck rolled slowly down the narrow, unlit lane on the outskirts of the village where Drake had spent his childhood, its yellow headlights cutting through the thick, creeping river fog. It was utterly silent. The small terraced houses that lined the road stood dark against the bruised night sky, the quiet village completely oblivious to the frantic, law-breaking journey that had brought Drake back to its borders.
As Zeke brought the vehicle to a halt outside the familiar address, Drake looked out the passenger window, and his heart plummeted into a cold, hollow abyss.
Directly in front of him lay the small front garden. To anyone else, it was just a patch of earth, but to Drake, it was a museum of his mother’s love. Bianca had always been fiercely houseproud. In his mind's eye, the dark twilight melted away into a sun-drenched memory of a hot summer afternoon, so vibrant and gold it made his chest ache. He could see her so clearly—the bright crimson of her perfectly tended geraniums blooming against the crisp white fence, the sweet, heavy scent of damp soil and lavender hanging in the warm air. She would be kneeling in the dirt, her blouse sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a faded straw sunhat shading her face as she meticulously deadheaded the roses and coaxed life out of the small plot of land. To her, that garden was a sanctuary, a beautiful, flawless piece of the world she could control and gift to her son. He remembered how he and Leo would come tearing down this very lane, laughing and covered in dirt and sweat after a long day of climbing trees and building forts in the nearby fields. Bianca would always look up from her flowerbeds, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, a proud, loving smile playing on her lips the second she laid eyes on him. She would drop her trowel and be ready on the porch, a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade—condensation-heavy and ice-cold—in her hands.
But now, the memory shattered against the cold glass of the truck window.
The reality before him was a devastating, jarring contrast that made him physically sick. The garden she had poured her soul into for decades was completely overgrown, choked by an aggressive, suffocating wilderness of briars and stinging nettles. The vibrant colors were gone, replaced by a dull, dead brown. The wooden fence was in a state of utter neglect, its once-proud white paint peeling away in brittle, skeletal flakes, while thick, knotty weeds forced their way ruthlessly through the rotting slats. The small, beautiful sanctuary she had taken so much pride in now looked completely abandoned, ruined, and heartbreakingly forgotten.
Drake let out a long, ragged sigh, the sound heavy with a sorrow that threatened to crush him before he even stepped out of the cab. Zeke killed the engine, the sudden silence in the cab pressing down on them like a weight. Without a word, both men exited the truck, their boots crunching quietly against the damp gravel as they walked toward the front door.
Drake froze on the top step, his hand hovering inches from the handle, his chest heaving as panic flared in his throat. Sensing his friend’s paralysis, Zeke stepped up beside him, placing a firm, grounding hand on Drake’s shoulder. The silent pressure of Zeke’s grip was the only thing holding him together. Taking a deep, trembling breath, Drake pushed the door open.
Stepping inside, the layout of the home was exactly as he remembered—lived-in, homely, and neat. But the soul of the house was gone, stolen by a scent that made Drake’s stomach violently turn. The comforting, familiar aroma of freshly baked bread and lavender soap had vanished. In its place hung the heavy, suffocating smell of illness—a sharp, clinical mix of antiseptic and bitter medicine that clung to the back of his throat.
"Drake?"
The low, cracked voice broke the quiet from the dimly lit living room. Leo and Max were sitting together in the shadows, but the moment Drake entered, they stood up in unison.
Leo took two steps toward his best friend, and Drake’s chest seized at the sight of him. The boy he had grown up with, the man who had shared all his childhood adventures, looked completely hollowed out. Grief was written into every deep line of Leo’s face. He didn't say another word before he closed the distance and pulled Drake into a fierce, desperate hug.
"I'm so sorry, Drake," Leo sobbed, his broad shoulders shaking violently as he buried his face into Drake’s shoulder.
When Leo finally pulled back, Drake felt a painful lump form in his own throat. Tears were streaming freely down Leo’s face, tracking through the stubble on his jaw. He had never seen his best friend look so utterly deflated, so entirely broken by reality.
Max approached next, his steps uncharacteristically slow. The boisterous, energetic, and playful persona that usually defined him was completely gone, extinguished by the heavy atmosphere of the house. Only a profound, aching sadness remained in his eyes as he wrapped his arms around Drake in a tight, grounding embrace. "She will be glad to have you home, mate," Max whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
The click of a ceramic cup broke the silence as Bastien walked out of the small kitchen, carrying a wooden tray with a pot of tea. The head groom stopped in his tracks, his rugged features tightening as he saw Drake standing in the hallway. Bastien had known the Walker family for decades; his wife had been Bianca's dearest friend since long before Drake was even born. And looking at him now, Drake couldn't help but feel the heavy, silent history between them. After Jackson had died, there had been long, agonising years of absence—stretches of time where Bianca had become withdrawn, had made sacrifices as she tried to keep herself and Drake from drowning in poverty. She was ashamed of what she had been forced to do, she wouldn't see anyone, and as a result she had struggled through the darkness entirely alone. Yet, despite the lost years, Bastien was the closest thing to a father Drake had left.
Seeing the boy he had watched grow up from afar, Bastien set the tray down on the coffee table with trembling hands. He stepped forward, his eyes thick with a protective, sorrowful grief as he pulled Drake into a heavy embrace.
"Welcome home, son," Bastien said softly, his voice thick and rough. He pulled back, keeping his large hands firmly on Drake's arms to steady him. "She's upstairs resting. Leona is up there with her now. She's comfortable, Drake. We've made sure of it."
Drake couldn't speak. His throat felt as though it were lined with glass. He simply gave a tight, jerky nod, his eyes automatically darting toward the narrow, creaking staircase at the end of the hall. Every nerve in his body was screaming with fear of what he would find at the top of those stairs, but the magnetic pull of his mother was stronger.
Holding his breath, Drake took a final, bracing look at Zeke, Leo, Max, and Bastien. They all stepped back, their expressions filled with a quiet reverence, silently agreeing to give him the absolute privacy he needed.
With a heavy heart, Drake placed his hand on the wooden banister and began his slow, agonising ascent into the quiet shadows of the upper floor.
Standing outside his mother’s bedroom door, Drake felt a crushing weight in his chest, far heavier than the fear of the guards or the law he had broken to get here. He stood in the narrow, dim hallway of the upper floor, his fingers hovering over the worn brass handle. His chest heaved as he took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force the terror down before he finally knocked and pushed the door open.
Inside, the clinical, bitter scent of illness was a suffocating physical wall. The room was cast in the low, heavy orange glow of a single bedside lamp, throwing long, fragile shadows across the faded wallpaper. Sitting on the edge of the bed was Leona, her dark hair pulled back into a neat, practical bun, her shoulders tense with a quiet exhaustion as she gently wiped a damp washcloth across Bianca’s forehead.
Leona was Bastien’s wife—a nurse by trade, and a woman who had known Bianca since they were schoolgirls. Aside from those painful, dark years where poverty and shame had caused them to drift apart, Leona had always been the sister Bianca never had.
As the floorboards groaned under Drake's weight, Leona turned. A soft, deeply sad smile touched her lips. She didn't question how he had bypassed the King's decree to get here; she simply stood up, squeezing his arm as she approached. "She’s been waiting for you, sweetheart," Leona whispered, her voice a soothing balm in the quiet room. "I’ll give you some space. I’ll be right outside if you need anything."
Drake managed a tight, choked nod of thanks, his eyes already pulling past her toward the bed. The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind Leona, the true, brutal shock of his mother’s reality hit him, and his breath hitched violently in his throat.
She looked entirely unrecognisable. The illness was eating her away from the inside out. Her skin was paper-thin and translucent, stretched so tight over her cheekbones that it looked like brittle parchment under the amber lamplight. Her eyes were deeply sunken, framed by dark, bruised hollows, and her once-capable hands lay atop the quilt, frail and trembling, her joints stiffened by the decline that was slowly shutting down her body. It was a terrifying, heart-wrenching sight that made Drake’s knees feel weak.
He crossed the small bedroom in three agonising steps, his heavy boots feeling clumsy in the sacred quiet of the space. Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, he carefully, reverently placed his large, calloused hand over his mother's frail fingers on the blanket.
Bianca’s eyelids fluttered. For a terrifying, breathless second, her sunken eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, unfocused and lost in the fog of the pain medication. Then, she turned her head. Her gaze locked onto his face, and a flicker of pure, unmistakable maternal recognition flared in her eyes. A soft, beautiful smile played on her pale lips.
"Drake..." she whispered, her voice nothing more than a raspy, breathless sigh.
"I'm here, Mum," Drake said quietly, the dam finally breaking as hot tears rolled freely down his cheeks, tracking through the dust of the border crossing. He leaned further towards her, his voice cracking with the sheer weight of his grief. "It’s okay. I’m home now."
With an immense, visible effort that made Drake's heart shatter, Bianca lifted her trembling hand from the bed. Drake instantly leaned closer into her touch, closing his eyes tight as her cool, frail palm brushed against his cheek. His other hand kept holding hers lightly against the quilt, terrified that if he held too tight, she might break.
"I've missed you... my sweet boy," she breathed, her thumb weakly brushing away one of his tears.
"I'm so sorry, Mum," Drake choked out, the words tearing from his throat in a raw, ragged sob. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against their joined hands on the quilt, the guilt consuming him. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I wish I could’ve been close to you for all these months... I should've been here. I could have done something. If I hadn't been banished, if I had just stayed, I could have saved you..."
"Shh... no, son," Bianca interrupted softly, her fingers weakly sliding from his cheek to curl into his hair. "There was nothing anyone could have done. Don't you dare blame yourself." Drake shook his head against the quilt, but she gently nudged his chin, urging him to look up at her. He sat back slightly, meeting her gaze as she let out a shallow, rattling breath, her eyes filled with a profound, peaceful clarity. "Death is just a path we all must take... and it’s my time now. But my journey doesn't end here, Drake. Soon... soon I’ll be with your dad again. And I’ll finally be free of this suffering."
"I'm sorry my actions caused so many problems," Drake whispered, looking down at her frail form, the agony of his choices written across his face. "Losing my job at the stables, getting banished, leaving you alone to face this..."
"Don't be, my love," Bianca said firmly, a sudden, fierce strength returning to her faded voice as she kept her eyes locked onto his. "You followed your heart. You fell in love, and love is more important than anything else in this world. You should never, ever regret that."
She reached up again, her weak fingers tracing his jawline. "I am so proud of you, Drake. Proud of the boy you were, and so fiercely proud of the man you have become. You are the greatest thing I have ever done with my life."
A tear slipped from the corner of her sunken eye, lost in the wrinkles of her temple. "There have been hard times for us, my sweet boy... and I have many, many regrets about the past and the choices I had to make. But you? You could never be one of them. You have been the absolute love of my life, Drake, and I'll be forever proud to call you my son."
Drake couldn't take the pain anymore. He let out a broken, shuddering cry, leaning forward to gently rest his heavy head against her frail shoulder. He buried his face in the familiar scent of her skin, beneath the sharp smell of medicine, weeping silently as his shoulders shook. Bianca wrapped her weak arms around his neck as best she could, holding her boy tight against her chest, letting him feel her heartbeat for what they both knew would be one of the very last times.
They held each other in that quiet, amber-lit room as the minutes bled together, the silence outside the door stretching long and heavy. Drake kept his head buried against her shoulder, his massive frame trembling with a desperate, silent weeping. He inhaled deeply, trying to memorise the faint, fading scent of lavender soap that still clung desperately beneath the bitter, suffocating smell of the medicine.
Bianca’s weak arms stayed draped over his neck, her fingers loosely tangled in his hair. Her breathing grew progressively slower, each inhalation a shallow, rattling struggle that tore at Drake’s chest. Every ragged rise and fall of her ribs against his cheek felt like a ticking clock, counting down the last precious seconds he would ever have with her.
"Mum," he whispered into her skin, his voice cracked and entirely broken. "Don't leave me. Please."
She didn't have the strength to speak anymore. She simply squeezed her fingers in his hair—a tiny, feeble pressure that meant I’m here. I love you. I'll never truly leave you.
Slowly, the weak embrace around his neck began to loosen. Her arms slid down his back, her hands falling heavily onto the quilt. Drake froze, his heart stopping in his chest. He lifted his head from her shoulder, his tear-blinded eyes searching her face.
Bianca’s eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. The fog of the disease and the medication seemed to clear for one final, beautiful moment, leaving her expression completely serene, completely free of pain. The tight, strained lines of suffering that had carved themselves into her face over the last few months suddenly smoothed out. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of her lips.
She let out one last, long, sighing breath. It sounded like relief.
And then, she didn't take another.
"Mum?" Drake’s voice was a tiny, childlike whimper.
He waited. He stared at her chest, praying, begging the universe to let it rise just one more time. The silence in the room became absolute, so deafeningly loud it made his ears ring. The small bedside lamp hummed.
But nothing moved.
"Mum, please," he choked out, his hand shaking violently as he pressed two fingers against the side of her neck. There was nothing. The faint, rhythmic thrumming that had been his comfort since before he was even born was completely gone. Her skin was already beginning to lose the last of its warmth.
The reality hit him like a physical blow to the sternum, knocking the breath clean out of him.
Drake dropped his head onto her chest, his forehead pressing against her still heart. A sound tore from his throat—a raw, guttural, animalistic scream of pure agony that he couldn't hold back anymore. It was a suffocating sob that shook his entire body, tearing his throat to pieces as he clutched her frail, lifeless hand and pressed it to his wet face.
"I'm sorry," he wept, his voice dissolving into jagged, breathless gasps against her night gown. "I'm so sorry, Mum. I love you. I love you so much."
Downstairs, the muffled sound of his heartbreak echoed through the floorboards. In the hallway just outside, the soft, devastating sound of Leona breaking down into quiet, stifled tears filtered through the door.
But inside the room, Drake was entirely alone in the dark. He held his mother’s cold hand against his cheek, weeping into the heavy silence, wishing with everything inside him that he could pull her back from the path she had taken.
The brilliant, blinding white of winter, which had once covered every branch, lawn and footpath of the palace gardens, had finally surrendered; allowing the grounds to breathe once more under the lazy, enveloping warmth of spring. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a vast, unblemished canopy of pale cerulean blue, a perfect mirror to the deep, glittering expanse of the horizon where the sea met the sky.
Emilia walked slowly through the gardens, her footsteps crunching softly against the pale gravel. A constant, cooling maritime breeze rolled over the high limestone walls, lifting the stray tendrils of hair from her neck and carrying the faint, clean tang of sea salt. It cut through the heavy perfume of the grounds, keeping the sun-drenched air from feeling suffocating.
Every corner of the gardens seemed to hum with coastal splendour and new life. Cascades of purple and magenta bougainvillea spilled over the sun-warmed stone balustrades like living waterfalls, its paper-thin petals rustling softly in the wind. Emilia paused beneath a stone pergola where heavy, twisted vines of wisteria draped overhead, and admired the slow flurry of soft lilac petals that drifted downward to carpet the cream-coloured stone walkways. Her knee-length skirt brushed the plants bordering the path, causing wild rosemary and crushed lavender to release a sharp, aromatic burst of herbal scent, mingling effortlessly with the sweet, clean fragrance of the nearby citrus groves, where lemon and blood orange trees stood heavy with delicate white blossoms.
The soothing, steady hum of bumblebees navigating the gardens filled the air, accompanied by the sharp, cheerful chatter of swallows darting between the clay-tiled roofs. Beneath it all, the melodic, rhythmic splash of the stone fountains echoed through the courtyards, though during the quiet lulls, the faint, deep murmur of the tide breaking against the cliffs in the distance always filled the silence.
But it was the private orchards she was walking straight towards that held Emilia's gaze. There, rows of apple trees were waking from their slumber, their branches covered in a spectacular flush of pale pink and white petals. In just a few months, these blossoms would give way to the famous Cordonian Ruby apples—a varietal renowned for its deep, jewel-toned skin and crisp, tart flesh.
Reaching out, Emilia caught a falling blossom in her open palm, the petal soft and cool against her skin. As she looked down at the bloom, a sudden vivid memory of Drake flashed through her mind. She could still hear his voice, rough and earnest, outlining his brilliant idea for a Cordonian Ruby champagne cider. It was an ambitious project, one that Emilia had desperately hoped would finally make her father see Drake for who he truly was—a man of vision and capability, far more than the simple, disposable servant Constantine had deemed him to be.
A painful, dull ache flared in the centre of her chest at the memory, even as a small, bittersweet smile touched her lips at the phantom sound of Drake's laugh. But she couldn't afford to get lost in the past today. With a quiet, practised breath, Emilia forced herself to push the hurt down, tucking the memory back into its safe corner and refocusing her eyes on the present. For now she simply walked further into the orchard; the apple blossom petals surrounding her danced on the salt-kissed air, catching the bright, almost luminous afternoon light that bounced off the white and gold limestone palace walls.
It was a space designed entirely for show, and ordinarily Emilia would have seen straight through the pretentious façade. She would have looked past the blooms and branches, focusing instead on the high walls. A cage designed to keep others out, and her very much in. But recently there had been a change in her; she felt lighter, freer. Even in the palace, a place she had always considered more of a prison for her soul, today she felt… different. The memory of Drake was still safely tucked inside her heart—a permanent, quiet longing that would never truly leave her—but the agonising, sharp ache beneath her ribs didn't consume her quite as fiercely as it once had. The fragile thaw that had first sparked in her soul during the winter months had deepened, solidifying into a quiet, steady resilience with every day that passed.
As she walked through the apple blossoms, a flash of brilliant, iridescent colour caught Emilia's eye through the lower branches of the orchard, pulling her out of her thoughts. She slowed her steps, peering through the pink blossoms at a male peacock that had wandered out onto the emerald lawns. He moved with a slow, aristocratic grace, lifting his crested head before shifting his weight to let his trailing train catch the full glare of the spring sun. The feathers were a breathtaking, almost dizzying display of royal blues, deep teals, and emerald greens, each eye-shaped marking rimmed in a rich, metallic bronze that seemed to shift under the light.
Looking at the vivid, saturated hues, a phantom ache thrilled her fingers. Not so long ago, she would have reached instinctively for her sketchpad, her thumb tracing the familiar ridges of her watercolour pencils as she calculated exactly how to blend the deep indigo into the emerald green on textured paper.
Then, a sudden, cold realisation settled in her chest. She couldn't remember the last time she had held a pencil.
The thought made her breath hitch, because the answer arrived a second later, unbidden and sharp. It had been that sweltering afternoon down by the lake at Applewood. She could still feel the heavy humidity of that summer day, the smell of sun-baked grass and freshwater, and the scratch of her charcoal pencil against the paper as she quietly captured the sharp line of Drake’s jaw, the tousled mess of his hair, and the relaxed softness in his eyes while he sat beside her on the golden sand.
A profound, suffocating ache bloomed in her chest as the memory deepened, painting the afternoon sunlight in her mind’s eye. It had caught the edges of Drake's silhouette, turning him golden, making him look almost mythical just before he had turned to look at her. She could still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers sliding into her hair, pulling her close into the shaded sanctuary beneath the sweeping green canopy of the willow trees. The memory of that kiss—soft, desperate, and tasting of summer heat—hit her so hard she could practically feel his lips against hers, a visceral reminder of a love that had consumed her entire being. She had poured every ounce of her love into those sketched lines and that stolen moment. He was the last true thing she had drawn, he was the last true way she had lived, before the world had fractured.
A small, sad smile touched her lips, a fragile thing that barely reached her eyes, before she consciously forced her hand to drop back to her side, pushing the memory of the lake, her love, and the willow trees back down into the dark.
"What are you looking at, Your Highness?" The whispered voice, low and laced with a familiar, teasing warmth, sounded right beside her ear.
Emilia gasped, her shoulders jumping as she whirled around on the gravel path. Standing just inches away, a brilliant, sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his lips, was Liam.
The lingering shadow of the lakeside vanished from her face, replaced instantly by a genuine, bright smile that warmed her features. Over the last few months, the safe harbour of their initial friendship had quietly, steadily transformed into something deeper, something that made her chest tighten with an entirely different kind of affection. Liam had become her steady ground. And while his presence never snuffed out the fierce, eternal flame that still burned for Drake, he brought a warmth to her life that she hadn't thought she would ever feel again.
"You scared me," she laughed, one hand flying to her chest as she playfully swatted his shoulder with the other. "Do you make a habit of stalking women through the royal orchards, or am I a special exception?"
"Strictly a special exception, I assure you," Liam chuckled, bowing his head with a mock-seriousness that made his blue eyes dance. "The guard at the gate warned me you were wandering down here, and I couldn't resist the opportunity to catch you unawares. It's becoming my favourite pastime."
He stepped up beside her, tilting his upper body slightly as he offered her his arm, his elbow bent in an invitation that had become a comforting routine between them. Emilia didn't hesitate, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid, reassuring warmth of his crisp shirt beneath her fingers.
They turned together, setting off at a leisurely pace beneath the canopy of pink and white apple blossoms.
"So, what were you looking at so intently before I ruined your peace?" Liam asked, leaning in slightly as their shoulders brushed with each step.
"A peacock," Emilia said, nodding toward the edge of the emerald lawn where the bird was still lazily displaying its train. "I was just admiring the colours. They're almost unreal under this sun."
Liam followed her gaze, letting out a soft, dramatic sigh. "Ah, the palace peacocks. Pretentious little bastards, aren't they? Don't let him fool you, Emilia. They look magnificent, but they have the most atrocious, grating shrieks you've ever heard. Last week, one managed to get onto the balcony of my suite at dawn and screamed like a banshee. I nearly ordered the palace chef to turn him into a pie."
Emilia burst into a bright, clear laugh, the sound echoing lightly through the quiet orchard. "A peacock pie? I'm entirely sure that breaks at least three ancient laws of our kingdom, Liam. Besides, I think he matches the palace perfectly—designed entirely for show."
"Ouch," Liam teased, a brilliant grin cutting across his face as he looked down at her. "A direct hit to the monarchy. And here I thought I was being the perfect courtier today by helping you escape the heavy weight of your crown for an afternoon."
They kept walking, the gravel crunching rhythmically beneath their feet as Liam launched into a lighthearted story about a disastrous court meeting with a minor count from the previous afternoon. Emilia found her gaze drifting from the apple blossoms to the profile of his face. He was smiling warmly as he spoke, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine amusement under the bright spring sun. He was undeniably handsome, his neat blonde hair catching the light and his jaw clean-shaven, yet he entirely lacked the exhausting pretension and rigid posture of the other noblemen who frequented her father's court.
As his voice washed over her, Emilia found herself simply watching him, her mind wandering back over the landscape of the past few months. He had quietly woven himself into the fabric of her days, becoming an indispensable, vital presence in her life. She thought of the quiet, private dinners they had snuck away to on the rare evenings when no grand galas or political functions demanded their attendance. She thought of the playful games they had played in the gardens to escape the suffocating protocol of the palace—the breathless, laughing snowball fights during the bitter winter months, and the more recent games of croquet as the spring sun began to warm the earth. Liam had given her a sanctuary built on laughter, kindness and steady, comforting devotion.
As if sensing the weight of her gaze, Liam's story trailed off. He stopped walking, turning to her fully beneath the heavy, pink-drenched branches of a Cordonian Ruby tree. The easy, confident smile faded from his lips, replaced by a sudden, striking vulnerability. Reaching down, he gently untangled her hand from his elbow and took both of her hands in his, his fingers warm and slightly trembling as he looked deep into her eyes.
"Emilia," he began, his voice dropping an octave, losing its teasing lilt. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now."
"Oh?" she replied softly, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she looked up at him, already suspecting exactly where his heart was leading them. "What is it?"
Liam swallowed, looking visibly nervous in a way she had never seen before, his chest rising with a deep, bracing breath. "I know that since we met, we've become incredibly close. We've built this wonderful foundation, and we've become friends. But..."
"But?" she prompted gently, her smile widening just a fraction to give him courage.
Liam let out a small, sheepish laugh, a flush of colour rising on his cheekbones, but he didn't break eye contact. "But... I'm falling in love with you, Emilia. Hell, who am I kidding? I've already fallen in love with you. I am completely crazy about you. You are the most amazing woman I have ever met in my life. You're nothing like the other women in this court. You're funny, you're brilliant, you're beautiful, and I—"
Before he could offer another word of adoration, Emilia leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.
It was a soft, beautiful kiss, tasting of the fresh spring air and the quiet certainty of the sanctuary they had built together. When she slowly pulled back, Liam remained perfectly still for a beat, a breathless, radiant smile fixed on his face, his eyes still closed as if trying to memorise the feeling.
Leaning close, her breath warm against his skin, she whispered, "I love you too, Liam."
His eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, looking down at her as if he couldn't entirely believe his own fortune. "You do?"
Emilia smiled up at him, her heart swelling with the genuine affection she felt for the man holding her hands. "I do."
But even as the words left her lips, a sudden, unbidden image fractured the moment. Drake’s face flashed vividly in her mind's eye—rugged, intense, and etched with that fiercely protective devotion she knew she would never find anywhere else. A familiar pang echoed beneath her ribs, but she didn't let it pull her under. With a quiet internal breath, she pushed the phantom image away. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she would always love Drake; that fierce, eternal flame would never be extinguished. But she loved Liam, too. She loved them both, uniquely, in two entirely separate chambers of her heart.
Hearing her words, Liam's face transformed. A smile broke across his lips, wider and more radiant than any she had ever seen him wear before, completely erasing any trace of his former nervousness. His blue eyes shone with an absolute, breathless joy.
He didn't say a word—he didn't need to. Leaning in closer, he reached up, his hands gently framing her jawline as he tilted his head to capture her lips. Emilia met him halfway, her eyes closing as she slid her hands up to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, elated thud of his heart beneath her palms.
This time, the kiss changed. The initial hesitation of their first touch melted away, giving way to something much deeper, longer, and completely full of the honest, heavy love they had just confessed to one another. It was a kiss that belonged entirely to the spring—full of new beginnings, a shared future, and the fierce warmth of a man who looked at her as if she were the only person left in the world.
*****
Across the border, miles away from the manicured, pristine stone balustrades of the Cordonian palace, the arrival of spring carried an entirely different scent. There were no delicate perfumes of crushed lavender or sweet citrus groves here; instead, the afternoon air inside the stables of Château Lumière was thick with the honest, sharp aroma of fresh cedar shavings, sweet molasses feed, and the heavy musk of warm horses.
The spring sun didn't bounce off gold-trimmed limestone walls here. Instead, columns of bright afternoon light cut through the high, arched windows of the stable block, illuminating millions of dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, floating galaxies. The winter chill still clung stubbornly to the shadows of the stone floors, but where the sunlight hit, the air was warm, alive with the rhythmic, comforting sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional low whinny, and the steady, crunching sound of a broom clearing the central aisle.
Drake stood in the centre of the wash bay, the sleeves of his dark flannel shirt rolled tightly past his forearms, exposing the thick, corded muscles of his wrists. He was entirely in his element here. There was no pretension in a stable; a horse didn't care about a man's lineage, status, or title, only the steadiness of his hands and the calm authority in his voice.
Right now, those hands were working a heavy shedding blade down the flank of a massive bay stallion. With every long, practised stroke, clumps of thick, dull winter hair came away on the metal teeth, floating through the sunbeams before settling onto the damp floor. It was exhausting, repetitive work, but Drake welcomed the burn in his shoulders. It was a physical distraction from the thoughts that usually plagued him when his hands were idle.
He paused, lifting his arm to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his gaze drifting out the open barn doors. From here, he had a clear view of the rolling French countryside, where the meadows were just beginning to green and the wild clover was waking up under the April sun.
The quiet rhythm of the afternoon was abruptly shattered by a sudden commotion drifting through the open barn doors. Raised, angry voices echoed off the stone courtyard outside, the sharp words cutting right through the gentle sounds of the stables. Drake went still, the shedding blade resting against the stallion's flank as he listened. He recognised the voices immediately: André, and his son, Neville Vancoeur.
Drake hadn’t had much to do with Neville since arriving at Château Lumière; in fact, he had never truly spoken a word to him. But he had been around him once or twice. He remembered seeing Neville at the Royal Derby back in Cordonia, back when Emilia had been at his side and before King Constantine had banished him from the kingdom. He’d seen him on the odd occasion here at the chateau, too. Drake knew exactly what kind of man Neville was—the type who had absolutely no time for the staff, looking down on anyone he considered beneath his aristocratic station. He was entirely unlike his father.
Stepping forward slightly, Drake peered out of the stable doors just in time to see Neville turn on his heel, storming away across the courtyard with rigid, furious shoulders. André stood alone, looking utterly exasperated, his chest heaving with an angry sigh. As the Prime Minister ran a hand through his hair, his eyes lifted, catching Drake watching from the shadows of the barn.
Drake instantly pulled back into the wash bay, cursing himself silently. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, stepping back toward the stallion.
A moment later, the steady, heavy crunch of leather boots on the stone aisle signalled André’s approach. The older man walked into the wash bay, the sharp lines of tension still etched into his face.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Vancoeur," Drake said quickly, lifting his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear."
André let out a weary, gravelly chuckle, the anger fading from his eyes as he looked at Drake. "That is quite alright, Drake. I am entirely certain you would have heard us if you had been sitting on the moon. My apologies that you had to witness such an ugly display."
"No need for apologies, sir," Drake replied, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips. He leaned against the partition, wiping his brow. "I hope everything is alright?"
André sighed deeply, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to erase the fatigue. "Not exactly, no, to be honest. My son appears to have conducted himself in a rather unbecoming manner at one of the Cordonian royal court events. It seems he and one of the noble lords have acted rather appallingly."
Drake’s chest tightened, a cold spike of adrenaline hitting his stomach. “Oh,” he replied, his jaw clenching instinctively as a suffocating wave of worry washed over him. His mind raced across the border, straight to a pair of tropical blue eyes and a familiar, breathtaking smile. Please let this have nothing to do with Emilia, he thought. He wished more than anything that he was back there, standing between her and the viper’s nest of that court, where he could protect her from whatever mess Neville had caused. But he forced his expression to remain neutral, brushing the terrifying thought aside to let André continue.
"Yes," André went on, shaking his head. "Constantine contacted me personally about it. It happened a little while ago, and the Cordonian lord in question has already been stripped of his position and removed from the court for his actions. But as my son isn't technically an official part of their court, there is very little the King can do regarding an official punishment—other than declare that Neville is no longer welcome to attend functions at the palace, of course."
André leaned against the wooden frame of the stall, looking out at the sunlit fields. "Thankfully, Neville's behaviour doesn't seem to have caused any permanent damage to our political alliances with Cordonia, so that is something, at least. But honestly, Drake... I don't know where the boy gets it from. I suppose the blame lies with me. Perhaps I spoiled him too much, trying so hard to give him a better, easier upbringing than the one I had as a child."
Drake shook his head, his voice quiet but firm. "You shouldn't blame yourself, sir. Master Vancoeur is a grown man. He’s old enough to make his own decisions about right and wrong. You can't carry the weight of his choices."
André looked over at him, a soft, genuinely grateful smile breaking through his weary expression. He studied the young man standing before him—sweaty, hardworking, with calloused hands and an unwavering sense of integrity. André saw so much of his own youth in Drake. He recognised that same raw ambition, the fierce work ethic, and the deep, quiet passion Drake poured into the horses and his labour.
"Perhaps you are right, my boy," André said softly, clapping a heavy, warm hand onto Drake's shoulder. The gesture was full of a paternal affection that Drake hadn't realised he'd been missing. "Perhaps you are right."
André cleared his throat, deliberately shifting the heavy mood as he looked past Drake toward the bay stallion. "Now, tell me—how is this big brute getting on? Is he giving you as much trouble with his winter coat as he looks like he is?"
Drake grinned, the heavy knot of worry in his chest loosening just a fraction under André's jovial warmth. "He’s stubborn, sir, I won't lie. But we're figuring each other out..."
André looked over at him, his expression softening as he leaned his weight back against the sturdy wooden partition. "And what about you, Drake? How have you been settling into the château these past few months? I must apologise—I feel as though I haven't seen nearly enough of you since you arrived."
Drake shook his head, offering a respectful smile. "No need to apologise at all, sir. I know how busy you are."
"Too busy, if I am being entirely honest," André sighed, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "My duties require me to spend the vast majority of my time trapped in offices and meeting rooms in Paris. It can be quite suffocating. But that is exactly why every single spare moment I manage to steal, I spend right here at Château Lumière. The air is cleaner, the people are truer... everything just feels a little bit easier here in the countryside."
Drake looked out the open barn doors at the rolling green hills, a quiet sense of agreement settling into his chest. "I completely agree, sir. There's a lot less noise out here."
"Exactly," André smiled warmly, patting Drake's shoulder once more. "A man needs solid ground beneath his feet."
Before Drake could reply, the sharp, shrill ring of the telephone shattered the quiet warmth of the barn, echoing loudly from the small stable office just down the aisle.
Drake blinked, caught off guard by the sudden interruption, and looked toward the office door. He turned back to the Prime Minister with an apologetic nod. "Excuse me, Monsieur Vancoeur. I'd better go and answer that."
"Of course, go ahead," André smiled, waving a hand dismissively and stepping back to admire the stallion. "Duty calls, even in the stables."
Drake wiped his damp hands on a clean rag as he quickly crossed the stone floor, heading down the aisle toward the ringing phone. He stepped into the small, wood-panelled stable office, the shrill ring cutting off as he lifted the heavy receiver to his ear.
"Château Lumière stables," he said, his voice clipped but professional.
"Drake! It's me!"
Drake went rigid, recognising the voice instantly. "Leo? What's going on? Is everything alright?"
"I'm sorry, Drake. But no, it's not..." Leo’s voice broke, a ragged, breathless sound that was practically a sob. "It's your mum."
Drake's stomach dropped straight through his feet. A cold, suffocating wave of panic flared throughout his entire body, turning his blood to ice. The walls of the small stable office seemed to violently tilt, the air suddenly turning as thick and unbreathable as water. He gripped the receiver so hard the plastic groaned under his fingers, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white.
"What's wrong with her?" he managed to choke out, though the words felt like jagged glass scraping up his throat.
"She's getting worse, Drake," Leo sobbed openly now, the sound raw and desperate over the crackling line, though it felt miles away through the sudden, high-pitched ringing in Drake's ears. "We thought she was on the mend. She seemed to be doing so much better after spending Christmas with you, and in the weeks afterward, she seemed to be getting stronger. But she's... Drake, I don't think she has long left. You need to come home. Now."
The office spun violently, his vision narrowing down into a sharp, terrifying tunnel. Drake was panicking properly now, his chest heaving as he fought to drag oxygen into lungs that refused to expand. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal, a deafening, frantic thudding that drowned out the rest of the world.
He thought about his banishment. He thought about the icy, mocking warnings the king's guards had given him as they violently dumped him across the border like trash, detailing exactly what would happen to him if he ever set foot on Cordonian soil again. He could still see the heavy, dark steel of the guns hanging from their hips. And he didn't even have his passport—the guards had stolen his papers, his legal right to exist anywhere, leaving him completely exposed. Sneaking across a heavily patrolled border without identification meant if he got caught, he wouldn't just be arrested. He would be target practice.
But as the image of his mother's pale, frail face filled his mind, the paralysing terror gave way to a fierce, blinding desperation. A raw, primal instinct took over. None of it mattered. The guards, the guns, the prison cells, the king—let them kill him. He needed to be with his mother. Nothing else in the world mattered.
"I'm on my way," he blurted into the phone. He didn't wait for a response, his trembling hand slamming the receiver back onto its cradle with a fractured clatter.
He whirled around and sprinted back out into the main aisle of the stable, his heavy boots slamming chaotically against the hard stone. He felt completely detached from his own limbs, moving on pure adrenaline. André, who was still standing by the wash bay, turned with a startled look as Drake burst out of the office, his face entirely drained of colour and his hands shaking so violently he could barely control them.
"Drake? What is it?" André asked, his brow furrowing with instant, deep concern as he saw the sheer horror etched into the young man's eyes.
Words spilled out of Drake in a hurried, breathless, fractured rush. He couldn't even form full sentences—just jagged pieces of panic about his mother, the sudden decline, the absolute, undeniable necessity that he leave right this second. Before he could completely spiral into the suffocating weight of the attack, André stepped forward, his expression dead serious, and grabbed him firmly by both shoulders. The older man's grip was incredibly solid, a grounding anchor in the middle of Drake's internal storm.
"Don't worry about anything here, Drake. Go," André said, his deep voice carrying a calm, fierce authority that managed to cut right through the screaming static in Drake's head. "Your job will be waiting for you, if you still want it, upon your return. Some things in life are far more important than work. Go to your family."
"Thank you, sir," Drake choked out, a profound, aching flash of gratitude hitting his chest before he tore himself away.
He lunged for a wooden hook near the door, his shaking fingers ripping his heavy leather jacket from it in one fluid, desperate motion, and rushed out into the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. The heat hit him like a physical blow, but he didn't slow down. He sprinted across the gravel to where his motorcycle sat parked beneath the shade of an overhanging tree.
Throwing his leg over the saddle, he kicked the engine to life. The loud, aggressive roar of the exhaust exploded through the courtyard, echoing off the château's stone walls like gunfire.
He didn't look back. Twisting the throttle hard, he tore out of the estate, his vision blurred at the edges as the tyres kicked up a wild cloud of dust. He sped down the winding roads back toward the Theron farm, his knuckles locked tight around the handlebars. He needed to pack a bag and get moving. He had no papers, no safety net, and no idea how he was going to get across that border alive and unseen—but one way or another, he was going home.
*****
As Drake sped along the winding roads in France, back in the pristine confines of the Cordonian palace, the afternoon had dissolved into the quiet, sun-drenched sanctuary of Emilia’s private suite. She sat on the balcony, the white limestone still radiating the soft warmth of the sun's rays, flanked by Olivia and Hana. The three of them had their legs tucked beneath them on the plush outdoor cushions, tea cooling on the low glass table between them.
Emilia had just finished recounting what had happened in the orchard, her voice small but certain as she confessed that she and Liam had finally spoken the words out loud. They loved each other.
Hana’s eyes shone with immediate, gentle warmth, and Olivia offered a rare, soft smile, both of them whispering genuine murmurs of happiness for her. But as the initial excitement quieted, a lingering, heavy silence settled over the balcony. Olivia looked down at her teacup, swirling the liquid before she looked back up, her sharp eyes softening. Gently, hesitantly, she broke the silence, broaching the name that they all knew still lived in the quiet corners of Emilia's heart.
Drake.
Emilia didn't flinch at the sound of his name. Instead, a quiet, melancholic understanding washed over her features. Mechanically, her fingers traced the high neckline of her spring dress, slipping beneath the fabric to catch the delicate silver chain. She pulled it free, revealing Drake’s ring catching the bright afternoon light as it dangled against her chest. She began to play with the cool metal, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger as she spoke.
"I still love him," Emilia whispered, her gaze drifting out toward the shimmering horizon where the sea met the sky. "I always will. My love for Drake... it was… no. It is fire, passion, freedom. It was all-consuming and incredibly beautiful. I will never forget that summer we spent falling in love, and I will forever hold him in the deepest part of my heart. If I am being entirely honest with myself, I think I will always consider him the love of my life."
She paused, taking a slow, steady breath that no longer shivered with the raw grief of winter. "But the months of silence from him... the months of crying myself to sleep until my throat was raw, the pure, physical exhaustion of carrying that grief... it has all culminated in a strange sense of... peace."
She looked at Hana, then at Olivia, her eyes clear. "Whilst I wish with everything inside of me that he had written to me, that he had sent even a single word, I have to understand and accept reality. The brutal beating he received at the hands of my father, the violent banishment from his home, his family, his country... It was deeply traumatic. If Drake has decided to build a life for himself in France, away from the toxic, suffocating world of the nobility, the crown... and away from me... then I need to accept that. All I want for him now is to find peace. I just want him to be happy, and if that happiness isn't with me... well, that makes me sad, but I know I need to let him go."
Her fingers let go of the ring, letting it drop back against her collarbone as she smiled softly, her thoughts shifting back to the man in the orchard. "And then... there's Liam. Liam arrived into my life expecting absolutely nothing from me. He is so remarkably kind, he's funny, and the love we share is gentle and grounding. Liam put the broken pieces of my shattered heart back together, and I will forever be grateful to him for showing me that I could survive everything that has happened, even when I thought I wasn't strong enough. He gave me a lifeline when I was drowning. Our love is steady, safe, and warm. I love them both, uniquely. Differently, separately, and wonderfully."
Hana reached across the table, placing her hand over Emilia’s with a tender squeeze, while Olivia nodded, a look of profound respect in her eyes.
"We're just happy to see you looking like yourself again, Emilia," Hana said softly, a brilliant smile gracing her sweet features. "Even if that self is a little different than the before."
"Thanks," Emilia replied, a genuine, unburdened smile breaking across her face. She shook her head lightly, wanting to shake off the heavy, emotional air, and leaned forward with a playful glint in her eyes. "Right, enough about me. What about your love lives? Do either of you have your eye on anyone special for this social season?"
Olivia scoffed loudly, leaning back against her cushions with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Not likely. In all honesty, Emilia, the only guy in this entire court worth actually taking an interest in, has already been snapped up… by you. The rest are completely insufferable."
Emilia burst into a bright, clear laugh, the sound echoing lightly over the balcony.
"But in all seriousness," Olivia continued, her expression shifting into something proud and determined, "I’ve been back in Lythikos for the last few weeks. It won't be long until I turn twenty-one, and the duchy officially becomes mine to rule. It turns out I have a massive amount left to learn, but I am entirely up to the challenge."
"I know you are," Emilia said truly, admiring her friend’s fierce spirit. "You're going to be a phenomenal Duchess, Liv."
They turned in unison to look at Hana, who had suddenly gone remarkably quiet, her eyes fixed entirely on her own lap. "What about you, Hana? Met anyone?" Emilia teased.
Instantly, a deep, telltale blush rushed up Hana’s neck, colouring her cheeks a brilliant pink.
Emilia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god, you have! You’ve met someone!"
"Actually," Hana stammered, her blush deepening as she nervously tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, "there is someone I have met recently... someone I have taken quite a liking to."
"Well, don't leave us hanging! Tell us!" Emilia leaned over the table eagerly. "Who is he?"
Hana’s eyes danced between her two friends, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. "Actually... I'd rather not say right now. I'm still not entirely sure how serious it's going to become. It might end up being absolutely nothing, and I would honestly rather not jinx it before it even begins."
Olivia scoffed good-naturedly, tossing a crumpled napkin across the table at her. "Oh, come on, Hana, don't be such a bore. Give us a hint!"
Emilia just smiled, reaching out to take both of Hana's hands in hers, stopping Olivia's teasing. "Well, whoever he is, Hana, I just hope he makes you very happy."
Hana smiled back, though her fingers remained slightly tense in Emilia's grasp. "I'm sure they will," she murmured softly.
For a fleeting second, a small, unreadable shadow crossed Hana's delicate features, a flicker of heavy anxiety clouding her eyes. But the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived, and neither Emilia nor Olivia noticed the sudden shift, their laughter rising once more into the warm spring afternoon.
*****
The violent roar of the motorcycle engine shattered the quiet afternoon of the Theron farm before Drake had even cleared the gates. He tore into the farmyard, the tyres skidding aggressively against the loose gravel as he brought the bike to a harsh, chaotic halt. He didn't care about putting it away; he didn't care about the kickstand scraping violently into the dirt. He killed the engine, threw his leg over the saddle, and was running before the exhaust had even begun to cool.
He slammed through the door, the wooden screen rattling against its frame, and bolted down the short, narrow hallway towards his bedroom. His boots pounded against the floorboards like a frantic drumbeat, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Zeke was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand, when the whirlwind hit. He went rigid at the sound of the door clattering open, turning just in time to see a blur of dark flannel and sheer panic tear past the kitchen archway. Drake didn't even glance his way. The absolute blindness of his friend’s flight struck a chord of instant alarm in Zeke’s chest.
"Drake?" Zeke called out, his voice sharp with immediate concern.
There was no answer, just the frantic sound of drawers being ripped open from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Zeke set his mug down with a muted thud and followed the noise, his brow furrowing. When he stepped into the doorway of the small bedroom, the scene before him made his stomach tighten.
Drake was a frenzied blur of motion. He was shrugging his heavy leather jacket onto the bed while simultaneously clutching a worn canvas duffel bag, shoving clothes into it with trembling, clumsy hands. A small stack of crumpled notes, an old watch, and a few loose belongings were tossed in haphazardly, rolling around the bottom of the bag. His movements weren't just fast; they were frantic, driven by a wild, unhinged desperation. But it was his face that stopped Zeke in his tracks. Drake’s skin was entirely devoid of colour, his chest heaving as if he were running out of air, and his eyes held a raw, feral panic that Zeke had never seen in him before. This wasn't the steady, guarded man who handled massive stallions with a whisper. This was someone breaking apart.
"Drake?" Zeke stepped further into the room, his voice dropping, trying to inject some calm into the suffocating atmosphere. "What’s going on? Are you okay?"
Drake flinched violently, only just noticing Zeke standing there. He froze, a crumpled shirt clutched in his white-knuckled fist. For a second, he just stared, his jaw working as he fought to drag air into his lungs. Then, the dam broke.
"No," he sobbed.
The sound was wretched, tearing out of him like a physical wound.
"It's my mum. She’s sick, Zeke. Real sick. Leo doesn't think..." He broke off, the words dissolving into a harsh, strangled gasp. He dropped the shirt, his hands flying up to cover his face as his shoulders instantly hunched forward, shuddering violently under the weight of a sudden, brutal wave of grief.
"Doesn't think what?" Zeke moved forward instantly, his own heart hammering against his ribs as he closed the distance between them. He reached out, placing a firm, grounding hand on Drake's trembling shoulder.
"He thinks she doesn't have long left," Drake choked out, dropping his hands from his face.
The look of total devastation on Drake’s face almost knocked Zeke backward. Drake’s eyes were bloodshot and heavily rimmed in red, tears spilling over his lashes and tracking freely through the dust and sweat on his cheeks. His hair was a dishevelled, wind-blown mess from the frantic ride from the château, and he looked utterly, entirely exhausted—broken in a way that defied his broad, muscular frame.
Without a word, Zeke stepped in and pulled him into a heavy, grounding hug. Drake didn't pull away. He collapsed into the embrace, his forehead sinking heavily into Zeke’s shoulder as his entire body racked with deep, breathless sobs. The raw vulnerability of the moment filled the quiet bedroom, the heavy fabric of their shirts damp with the tears Drake had been trying to outrun since the stable office.
After a long, agonising moment, Drake pulled back, wiping his nose with the back of his trembling hand, his eyes wide with a manic necessity. "I need to go to her," he said, his voice cracked and desperate. "I need to get back to Cordonia. To Ramada."
Zeke blinked, his practical mind trying to catch up with the sheer speed of Drake’s panic. "Of course. Of course you do. But... I thought you weren't welcome there. I know Emilia's father didn't want you anywhere near that place."
"I don't care," Drake growled, a flash of fierce, protective anger cutting through the grief, though his voice still trembled. "This is too important. I don't care about him. I need to be there for my mum."
"I know you do," Zeke said firmly, his hands remaining on Drake’s arms to keep him steady. "Which is why I'm taking you. You’re in no fit state to ride your bike, Drake. Look at your hands. One loss of concentration on those winding roads and you'll end up in a ditch before you even see the border."
Drake hesitated, his breath hitching. He looked down at his fingers, which were shaking so violently he could barely clasp the zipper of his bag. Zeke was right. His mind was spinning so fast he could barely see straight; it was a miracle he had made it back from Château Lumière in one piece. But as the reality of what he was planning settled in, a cold dread replaced the heat of his panic. Zeke didn't know. He didn't know the full extent of Drake's banishment, or what kind of monsters guarded that line.
"No," Drake said, shaking his head firmly, trying to pull away. "Thank you, Zeke. For the offer. But I can't let you do that. It's too dangerous. If you're seen helping me... you could be arrested. Or worse."
Zeke let out a short, incredulous breath, his brow knitting together in deep confusion. "Dangerous? Arrested? What are you talking about? I know Emilia's father is wealthy, Drake, and clearly a bastard, but exactly how much power can one man have? He made it clear you're not welcome, he threatened you and had his goons beat you, but it's not like he can actually have you killed or thrown in a dungeon if—"
Zeke broke off, the words dying in his throat as he caught the sudden, dark expression in Drake's eyes. It was a look of terrifying, absolute gravity. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
"Drake?" Zeke whispered, his voice losing its certainty. "Who is Emilia's father, exactly?"
Drake swallowed hard, his throat tight, the truth tasting like ash on his tongue.
"...He’s the King."
Zeke’s eyes went wide, his jaw dropping slightly as his brain completely stalled. The silence in the room suddenly felt deafening. "What?" he breathed.
"Emilia... she’s the love of my life, Zeke," Drake said, the words pouring out of him now in a quiet, breathless confession, his voice thick with a profound, aching reverence. "But she’s also... she’s the Princess. Her father is King Constantine."
Zeke stood totally gobsmacked, completely without words. The modest, hard-working guy who had been sleeping in his spare room and shovelling manure in the Prime Minister's stables for months was talking about royalty. The world seemed to shift slightly on its axis, the sheer absurdity of it colliding with the absolute sincerity in Drake's eyes.
"I know how I sound," Drake muttered, a bitter, self-deprecating shadow passing over his face. "It's nuts, right? What would a Princess see in a guy like me? But she did see me, Zeke. We fell in love while she was staying at her family’s country home for the summer. I thought she was part of the estate staff at first. But she wasn't. She’s royalty. And she loves me. And I love her. I always will." He took a sharp, bracing breath, his chest expanding. "But that's why I can't let you risk yourself. This isn't just an angry father who doesn't like his daughter's choice of prom date. This is a ruthless King who doesn't approve of the Princess’s choice of suitor. If he finds out I crossed over the border... if he finds out you helped me... I don't know what he'll do. I can't let you risk your life for my mess."
Zeke looked at him. He watched the way Drake’s jaw set, the way he was trying so hard to protect him even while his own world was actively burning to the ground. Slowly, the initial shock in Zeke’s chest began to recede, replaced by a deep, immovable loyalty.
In the months Drake had spent living at the Theron farm, he had become far more than just a tenant or a reliable hand in the barns. He had become the brother Zeke had never had. Zeke knew what it felt like to stand in an empty house; his own parents had passed away a few years ago, and the agonising memory of that loss was a permanent shadow in his heart. He couldn't imagine the horror of being forced to stay away, of letting a mother take her last breaths alone because of a crown and a border.
A fierce, iron resolve hardened Zeke’s features. The confusion vanished, replaced by an absolute certainty.
"I'm taking you," Zeke said, his voice dropping into a low, unyielding tone. "If you try to cross the border on your motorcycle, you'll draw too much attention. Even if you park it in the woods and try to cross on foot, it's miles to Ramada, Drake. It'll take you days you don't have. We'll take my truck."
Drake opened his mouth to protest, but Zeke cut him off, stepping forward and placing both hands squarely on Drake’s shoulders. The pressure was intense, deliberate—a physical anchor forcing Drake to stop spinning.
"I cross that border all the time to go to the livestock markets," Zeke continued, his eyes locked onto Drake’s with fierce determination. "The guards know my face. No one will think anything of it. You can hide in the truck bed, under the heavy canvas tarpaulin and the feed sacks. No one will suspect a thing."
"No, Zeke—"
"Yes." Zeke squeezed his shoulders, refusing to let him pull away. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Drake. You're my brother, and we're getting you home. Now come on, we don't have a single minute to lose."
Drake nodded, the frantic tightness in his chest easing just a fraction under the weight of his friend's fierce resolve. Reaching down, he snagged the strap of his canvas duffel bag and his leather jacket from the mattress. The two men moved in unison, their heavy boots throwing up a hurried rhythm against the floorboards as they headed down the narrow hallway and pushed through the wooden screen door into the bright, dust-moted air of the yard. The sheer, blinding panic that had gripped Drake at the château had solidified into a quiet, focused adrenaline.
In the center of the yard, his motorcycle still stood haphazardly, the engine ticking quietly as it cooled.
"I'll move my bike out of the way," Drake said, his voice clipped but steady as he gestured toward the machine.
Zeke gave a firm nod. "Right. I'll go round the side and bring the truck around. Be ready."
Zeke turned on his heel, his boots crunching loudly against the stones as he walked around the corner of the farmhouse toward the shaded overhang where his old farm truck was parked. The scent of damp earth and diesel hung in the shadow of the building. But as he neared the vehicle, the gate to the chicken coops creaked open, and Kiara stepped into the path. She was carrying a woven wicker basket, the fragile, pastel-coloured shells of freshly gathered eggs resting against a bed of straw.
She stopped short, her sharp eyes darting from Zeke’s tense expression to the keys clutched tightly in his fist.
"Going somewhere?" she asked, her voice carrying a sharp, probing edge.
"I'm taking Drake back across the border," Zeke said bluntly, not slowing his stride as he reached for the truck's driver-side handle. "I'm taking him to Cordonia."
Kiara gasped, the basket trembling in her hands as the colour rapidly drained from her face. "What? No, you can't!"
"I have to, Ki," Zeke replied, his voice strained as he unlocked the door. "His mum is sick. She's dying."
"No, she was doing better!" Kiara snapped, her voice rising an octave, a defensive, frantic edge cutting through her tone. "The last we heard from Leo, she was on the mend. She was fine!"
"Well, it looks like she's taken a massive turn for the worse," Zeke said, his patience thinning under the ticking pressure of the clock he could hear in his mind. "Leo doesn't think she has much time left. Drake needs to be there, and I am taking him. Now."
Zeke pulled the heavy metal door open, but before he could climb into the cab, Kiara lunged forward. With a sharp, violent motion, she forcibly slammed the truck door shut, the heavy metal clanging loudly through the quiet yard. She stood mere inches from him, her chest heaving, looking up at her brother with eyes full of pure venom and an unhinged, possessive anger.
"This isn't about Bianca at all, is it?" she hissed, her fingers clawing tightly around the handle of the wicker basket. "That's just an excuse. A ruse. This is about her."
Zeke stared at his sister, utterly bewildered. "Who?"
"Emilia!" Kiara shrieked, the name tearing from her throat like an accusation. "He's going back to see Emilia, isn't he?! Well, I won't let you! I won't let you take him away from me! He's mine! That spoiled bitch doesn't deserve him!"
A wave of pure, white-hot fury crashed through Zeke’s chest. The sheer, blinding selfishness of her words made his blood run hot. "Would you listen to yourself?!" he roared, stepping into her space, his voice echoing off the barn walls. "This has absolutely nothing to do with Emilia! This is about his mother! She is dying, Kiara! He needs to be there for her, he needs to see her while she is still breathing!"
"No!" Kiara screamed back, tears of bitter rage spilling over her lashes as she shook her head frantically. "If you take him back to Cordonia, he might never come back here! I won't let you take him from me! He's mine, Zeke! I can make him happy if he just stays!"
"He is not yours, Kiara!" Zeke’s voice dropped into a low, fierce snarl, his eyes blazing with a disgust he had never felt toward his own blood before. "I know you have feelings for him. I know you wish to God he would look at you the way you look at him, but he doesn't! He loves Emilia! His heart belongs to her! But this isn't even about that! This is about his mother! Do you remember what it was like when Mum and Dad passed away? Do you remember the absolute devastation of that empty house?"
Kiara flinched, but her jaw remained locked in a stubborn, ugly line.
"Drake needs to be there for his family, and I will help him any way I can," Zeke growled, his knuckles tense as he gripped the door handle once more. "And I will not allow your sick jealousy and obsession with him to stop me from doing what is right!"
"He's mine, Zeke!" she sobbed, completely blind to anything but her own desperate possessiveness.
"Listen to yourself! Could you be any more utterly selfish?!" Zeke wrenched the truck door open, the hinges groaning loudly. He turned back to her one last time, his face set in stone. "You need to let him go, Kiara. You need to stop living in this pathetic fantasy world and you need to face the facts. He loves someone else, he needs to go home to be with his dying mother, and I am taking him. I suggest you stay right here and think about how you've been acting. Because this obsession you have... it's turning you into someone I don't even recognise."
Without waiting for her reply, Zeke climbed into the high cab and slammed the door behind him. He turned the key, the truck’s heavy diesel engine roaring to life with a loud, smoky rumble that completely drowned out his sister's protests. He threw the vehicle into gear and pulled sharply out from the side of the house, leaving Kiara standing frozen in the dirt.
He drove around to the main yard, bringing the truck to a stop just as Drake finished rolling his motorcycle into the safety of the equipment shed. Drake hurried over, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and climbed quickly into the passenger side of the cab.
"We'll keep you in the front for now to get some distance," Zeke muttered, his voice tight with lingering anger as he shifted gears. "We'll pull over into the treeline and get you under the canvas before we hit the border patrol."
Drake nodded, completely unaware of the storm that had just occurred on the other side of the house. "Let's go," he whispered.
Zeke hit the accelerator, and the truck tore out of the Theron farmyard, kicking up a massive, swirling cloud of pale dust that drifted lazily in the afternoon sun.
From the shadow of the house, Kiara watched the truck speed away until it disappeared over the crest of the winding road. A suffocating bitterness settled deep into her throat. She hated the fact that the truck hadn't stopped. She hated the fact that Drake hadn't even looked back through the rear window to see her standing there.
But as she squeezed the wicker basket so hard that the fragile white eggshells finally cracked beneath her fingers, oozing thick, ruined yolk over her hands, the hatred she felt completely shifted. It narrowed, sharpening into a lethal, pinpoint focus. The rage wasn't directed at Drake. It was entirely, completely focused on Emilia.
A woman she had never met, but a woman she now hated with a savage, burning fire unlike anything she had ever felt in her life.
As the sun began to rise over the Languedoc region of France, the Theron farmhouse hummed with a deep, slumbering warmth. In the sitting room, the great stone hearth had been stoked late into the night, and that heat now radiated throughout the home, chasing away the chill of the mid-winter dawn.
Drake sat up, the thick wool blankets sliding against his chest and pooling around his waist as he stretched, his muscles loosening with a satisfying ache. He listened to the house—the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the distant, muffled crackle of logs still settling in the grate, and the whistle of the wind as it whispered through the eaves. It was Christmas morning, and the crushing weight which had been a constant pressure in his chest for so long had shifted with a sharp, complicated ache. He was desperate for the arrival of his family, yearning to bury himself in their warmth, yet the agonizing silence from across the border felt louder than ever on a day like today.
He swung his legs out of bed, his feet finding the warm, polished grain of the floorboards, and walked to the window to pull back the curtains. The sight that met him stole his breath.
Outside, the world had been transformed into a pristine, crystalline white. A heavy, undisturbed blanket of snow clung to every branch and fence post, glistening like crushed diamonds under the soft, pre-dawn light. It was breathtakingly beautiful—a silent, icy sanctuary. It pulled a smile from his lips, tethering his heart to his roots with a sudden, visceral ache of nostalgia. He could practically see himself as a child, racing through snow just like this with Leo when they were barely tall enough to reach the fence line, their mittens soaked through, their boots leaving chaotic, sprawling tracks through the slush as they engaged in breathless snowball wars. He could almost feel the phantom sting of cold on his nose and the weight of the lumpy, uneven snowmen they’d built—the ones with pebble eyes and wonky carrot noses that always seemed to slide askew. Then the memories shifted with the passage of years as he recalled the teenage winters where Max had joined them, the three of them sledging down the steep, treacherous slopes of Duchy Ramada until the stars came out, or the exhilarating, dangerous speed of skating across the frozen lake, the ice ringing like a bell beneath their blades.
And today, the past would reach out and touch the present. Leo and Max were crossing the border to spend Christmas with their friend, their brother in every way that mattered, and they were bringing Bianca.
Drake’s smile tightened, a sliver of icy worry cutting through the warmth of the room and tempering his excitement. It had been weeks since he’d seen his mother. The phone calls from the stable office at the château had become the highlight and the bane of his existence. She was always "better," always "getting there," but he couldn't un-hear that rasping edge to her breath or the way her cough hitched, sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. Just let her be okay, he thought, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned pale. Let her be strong enough for the journey. He needed to see her with his own eyes, to see the colour back in her cheeks, to know she wasn't just weathering the storm, but surviving it.
He exhaled a long, shaky breath, intending to head straight down to the kitchen. But as his gaze drifted across the room, it locked onto the scarred wooden desk in the corner. The soft orange glow of the bedside lamp seemed to pull him toward it, entirely dismantling the mental barrier he had tried to build against his heartbreak. He couldn't do it. Before the rest of the world stirred, before his family arrived to occupy his time, he had to reach across the distance. He had to write to the only woman who had ever, and would ever, own his heart.
Defeated by his own desperate longing, he sat down, the wood cool and solid beneath his hands, and pulled a fresh sheet of crisp white paper toward him.
He didn't hesitate—he never did—and the ink flowed with the practiced determination of a man who spoke with his heart and soul. My dearest Emilia, he began.
The frantic desperation of the early days of his banishment, and the fire of his later anger, had burned itself out weeks ago, leaving behind a vast, hollow ache—a quiet, persistent sorrow that defined his days. He traced the words, imagining her sitting in the palace, perhaps holding one of these letters, perhaps reading them before setting them aside. He didn't know what she was doing. He didn't know if she was even alive in her heart, or if she had buried the memory of him deep enough to stop it from hurting. But he didn't write to blame her or to demand answers for why she had never replied to him; he wrote because she was the only anchor he had left in a world that felt increasingly uncertain. He wrote to keep her memory vivid, to keep the dream of them alive, even when the silence from the other side of the border felt like a door slamming shut.
I miss you, he wrote, the pen lingering on the page. I miss the way you look at the stars, the way you laugh when you think no one is watching, the way your skin feels against mine. I miss the passion you have for music and sketching, and the way your smile makes me feel like the most important man in the world.
He loved her with a terrifying, absolute certainty. It was the marrow of his bones, the blood in his veins. He was convinced, with a stubbornness that defied logic and distance, that they were two halves of a whole, and that the universe wouldn't be cruel enough to keep them apart forever. He had to believe it; it was the only thing that kept him going.
He finished the letter, his hand steady even as his heart stuttered and tears welled in his eyes. He sealed the envelope, watching as the white paper disappeared into the slot—a tiny, paper coffin for a declaration of love that might never be answered.
He didn't know if she would ever write back. He didn't know if she even wanted to. For all Drake knew, Emilia had chosen her duty—her crown and her title—over the man she had spent the most magical summer falling in love with amongst the roses. But for today—on this quiet, frost-bitten Christmas morning—and for every day until he saw her again, he would keep writing. He would send his soul and his love to her across the border, piece by piece. He would keep waiting, he would keep hoping, and he would keep breathing in the silence of this farmhouse, until the day he finally saw her again.
Drake quieted his mind, pulled on his jeans and a heavy wool jumper, and placed the letter securely in his pocket before walking down the long, dim hallway toward the kitchen. The deep, comforting warmth of the house grew thicker with every step, accompanied now by the rich, roasted aroma of chicory coffee and the sharp, festive scent of cinnamon and cloves.
When he pushed open the kitchen door, however, the domestic scene that met him was not the one he expected.
Kiara was standing by the heavy cast-iron stove, but she wasn’t wearing her usual practical woollens or a stained cotton apron. She was framed by the soft morning light in a dress of deep, devouring burgundy velvet. It was an exceptionally fine dress, tailored beautifully to nip sharply at her waist before clinging directly to the curve of her hips, the portrait neckline exposing the smooth line of her collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts.
Kiara’s pulse had quickened at the sound of his boots on the floorboards. She had spent hours altering the seams by the dim light of her bedside lamp, pricking her fingers just to ensure the velvet hugged her body like a second skin. She had saved for months for the fabric, scrimping on everything else, all for this exact moment. She knew he would have written one of his letters of love and devotion this morning, just as he always did. She knew he had been thinking of her. Emilia.
Let the ghost across the border try to compete with this, Kiara thought, her jaw tightening as she maintained a bright, effortless smile. Let a piece of paper and a memory compete with flesh and blood.
"Good morning, mon cœur," she purred, turning away from the stove. Her voice was a warm, inviting melody that cut through the quiet hum of the kitchen. "And Joyeux Noël."
"Merry Christmas, Ki," Drake replied, not reacting to the use of the pet name. He offered a friendly smile to the woman he thought of as his friend and saviour. "You look... very festive. That's a beautiful dress."
A rush of genuine, intoxicating warmth flooded Kiara’s chest. He had noticed. The irritation she usually carried at his perceived lack of interest in her melted away, replaced by a fierce, triumphant delight. He had called her beautiful, and she relished the words, letting them settle over her like a victory.
"Do you really think so?" she asked softly, stepping into his personal space. The heavy velvet of her skirt rustled softly against his jeans, a rich, sliding sound in the quiet room. "I wanted today to feel special. It's our first Christmas together, after all."
Drake looked at her, his smile widening slightly with genuine appreciation. "It is. Thank you again for offering to host my mum, Leo, and Max."
"It's my pleasure, Drake," she replied, her voice softening as she looked up at him. "You’re important to me, and therefore so are they."
Drake just smiled, a quiet warmth in his eyes, and tried to step around her toward the counter. But before he could take a full step back, she reached up, her expression shifting into one of tender, domestic care.
"Hold still a moment," she whispered. Her fingers were warm and delicate against the rough wool as she brushed a stray piece of lint from the neckline of his jumper. She let the tips of her fingers linger against the skin of his throat for a second too long, before slowing and deliberately moving her hand downward, tracing the hard lines of his chest through the heavy knit before slowly drawing her hand back. "There. Can't have a handsome man like yourself looking untidy on Christmas morning."
Drake merely offered a nod of gratitude, completely blind to the heavy, loaded nature of the touch. He stepped past her toward the counter, his mind already shifting to the day's logistics. "Thank you. Is the coffee ready? I wanted to get a hot cup into me before I head down to the barn to check the cattle’s water troughs."
"It’s just settling," Kiara said, watching the broad line of his back as he moved. She picked up a heavy ceramic mug, pouring the dark, steaming chicory coffee. "You shouldn't work too hard today, Drake. You already work so many hours at the château. Besides, Zeke has already headed down to the barn. Sit, enjoy the warmth."
She handed him the mug, ensuring her fingers slid slowly across his knuckles as the ceramic changed hands. Drake took a prescriptive sip, the dark liquid chasing away the last remnants of sleep.
"Are you sure?" he asked, glancing toward the window.
"Of course."
"OK. Well, in that case, I'll head into the village after this coffee," he added casually, leaning against the wooden counter. "I want to mail my letter before my mum and the guys arrive. I can pick up any last-minute things we might need for dinner whilst I’m there."
Kiara turned fully toward him, her entire body subtly stiffening. A cold, sharp blade of resentment pierced straight through her earlier joy. The letter. Even today, on Christmas morning, with her standing right in front of him in a dress that had cost her months of sacrifice, he was still planning his morning around that woman. She carefully set down the cloth she was holding, swallowing the sudden, bitter tightness in her throat. He didn't notice the sharp intake of her breath or the way her jaw set before she forced her expression into one of gentle concern.
Instead of turning back to the stove, she stepped across the small space between them. She reached out, her hands soft but firm as she took the warm ceramic mug from his grip and placed it on the counter behind him.
"Drake," she murmured, taking his hands in hers. They were still cool from him standing by his bedroom window, and she began to rub them gently between her own palms, bringing them close to the plush, heavy velvet across her breasts. "It’s Christmas morning. Look outside—the roads are going to be treacherous."
She looked up into his eyes, her gaze full of a soft, pitying affection that masked her deep frustration and longing. "You work yourself to the bone at the château, and I know you're sick with worry about your mother. Yet the very first thing you think to do today is walk through the freezing cold to drop a piece of paper that you know won’t be answered into an empty box?"
Drake frowned slightly, opening his mouth to reply, but she squeezed his hands, stepping closer until the heat of her body practically radiated against his jeans.
"You have been carrying the burden of a broken heart around with you for so long," she whispered, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register as she brought her hand up to caress his cheek. "And for what? For a daily dose of disappointment when you hear nothing back. Let the village wait today. Let the border wait. The people who truly care about you—the ones who are actually crossing borders to see you, the ones who are here right now—we are the ones who really matter. We are the ones who really care about you. Don't exhaust yourself for a memory before your mother even gets here. Let yourself have a break."
Drake didn't pull away from her touch, but a shadow crossed his face, his broad shoulders dropping as the brutal truth of her words settled into his chest. He looked away, his voice raw and thick with months of exhaustion. "I don't know how to stop, Ki. It’s all I have left of her."
Kiara’s thumb swept gently across his cheekbone, her eyes shining with a deeply calculated pity. "I know, mon cœur. But how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? I care about you, Drake. So much. I hate seeing you break your own heart over a woman who can't even be bothered to reply to you—not when you have so much love inside you. Love that deserves to be returned."
Before the dangerous weight of her words could fully register in his mind, before he could question exactly what she meant by it, she closed the remaining distance and moved completely into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.
To Drake, it was a perfectly natural gesture—a continuation of the deep, familiar comfort they had shared when she had nursed him back to health in his darkest hours. He didn't think twice about the embrace; he simply let out a long, weary sigh and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in return, grateful for the support of the woman he considered his saviour.
But as he rested his chin on the top of her head, completely lost in his anxieties about his mother's health and his unanswered letters, Kiara held him a little tighter. She pressed her face into the rough wool of his jumper, letting her hands slide flat against his back, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his breathing. Emilia was nothing but a fading echo across a distant border, but Kiara was here, rooted in his life. And as long as he stayed in this house, she knew it was only a matter of time before he would forget all about Emilia entirely and become hers.
*****
The sharp, metallic click of the back door latch suddenly severed the heavy silence of the kitchen. It was followed immediately by a blast of winter air that cut through the room's cloistered heat, and the familiar, heavy thud of boots stamping thick crusts of snow onto the hallway doormat.
Kiara didn't release Drake right away. She remained frozen for a fraction of a second, her fingers clenching into the wool of his jumper, desperately anchoring him to her chest as she inhaled the delicious, intoxicating scent of his bay rum aftershave. She wanted to stay exactly like this, in his arms, sheltered from the world, but to her sharp disappointment, Drake’s posture instantly shifted. The comforting illusion shattered as he stepped back, a polite clearing of his throat breaking the intimate spell. He turned toward the hall doorway, a genuine, easy smile wiping the vulnerability from his face.
"Merry Christmas," Zeke said, stepping out of the shadows of the porch. A crisp, icy gust seemed to follow him, clinging to the heavy wool of his dark coat. He pulled off his thick leather mittens, slapping them together, his dark skin flushed a deep, warm crimson from the biting valley wind. He looked between the two of them, his perceptive gaze lingering just a moment too long on his sister's tense, flushed face before he offered a warm, easy smile.
"Merry Christmas, mate," Drake replied, his voice returning to its normal, grounding register. He felt a sudden surge of relief at the sight of his friend. "I was just about to come down to the barn to give you a hand with the water troughs, but Kiara said you had the morning shift completely sorted."
"Yeah, it's all put to bed, don't you worry," Zeke said. He hung his coat on a wooden peg by the door, unhooking a clean ceramic mug from the tree on the counter. He walked over to the stove, pouring himself a stream of the steaming, pitch-black chicory coffee. Leaning back against the worn timber counter, he cradled the hot mug in both hands and looked at Drake with a deep, quiet affection. "Besides, I figured you’d have a hell of a lot on your mind today. I know how much you’ve been pacing the floors over your mother."
Drake’s expression softened, the brief reprieve of the morning dissolving as that persistent shadow of anxiety re-established itself in his eyes. He stared down at his own hands. "Yeah. I just hope when they get here and I see her with my own eyes, I’ll finally feel a bit better. She hasn't sounded herself on the phone the last few weeks. It’s like... a frailty I’ve never heard in her before."
Zeke crossed the small space between them, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, and clapped a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Drake’s shoulder. "I'm sure she’s going to be just fine, mate. She’s a fighter, same as you. But no matter what happens today, or any other day, we’re here for you. We’ve got your back. Right, Ki?"
"Always," Kiara chimed in. The word was smooth, but it lacked the easy warmth it usually carried; her jaw had set into a hard line the exact second Drake had stepped out of her embrace. She moved to Drake’s side, her burgundy velvet skirt rustling like dry autumn leaves against his jeans. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and intense, filled with a desperate, heavy meaning that she practically willed him to decipher. "You're our family now, Drake. You don't have to carry anything alone."
Drake simply smiled, entirely oblivious to the possessive undercurrent of her words. To him, it was just the profound kindness of the people who had saved his life. "Thanks, guys."
Zeke took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting downward. His eyes locked onto the sharp, distinct rectangular crease straining against the denim of Drake’s jeans pocket. "To be honest, mate, I expected you to already be gone by the time I came up from the barn. Knowing you, I figured you’d be itching to get out to the village mailbox before the snow got any deeper."
Kiara shot her brother a look of pure, unadulterated venom. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her fingers tightening around the handle of the copper coffee pot until the rich brown skin over her knuckles stretched taut, her hand trembling slightly with the force of her grip. Zeke, focused entirely on Drake, didn't notice the silent threat radiating across the stove.
"Actually, we were just talking about that very thing, weren't we, mon cœur?" Kiara said. Her voice dropped into a sweet, artificial purr, a honeyed tone that made Zeke’s eyes instantly snap toward her. His brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he caught the jarringly intimate pet name. Kiara ignored her brother, forcing a tight, paper-thin smile as she looked back at Drake. "I was just telling him he needs to let it go today. It’s Christmas morning. He shouldn't be wasting the holiday chasing after ghosts at an empty post box."
Drake shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his thumb nervously tracing the glazed rim of his coffee mug. The internal war raged in his eyes—the desperate compulsion to send his soul and love across the border clashing with the brutal reality of the weather and the silence from Emilia. "I don't know... It... it just feels wrong not mailing it. Like I’m breaking a promise. I think I might try the walk anyway."
"Drake, I told you, the drifts in the lanes are treacherous," Kiara countered quickly, her voice rising slightly, pitched with a sharp undercurrent of panic. She couldn't let him leave this house; she couldn't let him prove, yet again, that the ghost across the border held more power over him than she did. "It’ll take you hours to walk through the snow, and you can't exactly ride your motorcycle in this weather. It’s too dangerous."
Drake looked out the frost-rimmed window at the heavy white landscape, his chest heaving with a long, defeated sigh. His shoulders sagged, the sheer physical impossibility of the journey crushing the fragile hope he had spent the morning nursing. "Oh... right."
"You could take the truck," Zeke offered casually, setting his mug down on the counter with a soft clink. "The winter tyres have plenty of tread left on them, and the bed is weighted down. It drives pretty well in the snow."
Kiara’s head snapped toward her brother, a silent, murderous fury flashing through her eyes. She wanted to scream at him, to choke the words right out of his throat, but Zeke completely refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes locked onto Drake, watching the instant transformation in his friend.
Drake’s face lit up, a sudden, brilliant spark of hope cutting through the exhaustion that had weighed him down just moments ago. It was as if Zeke had handed him a lifeline in the middle of a storm. "Are you sure, mate? I don't want to risk your engine if the roads are that bad."
"Absolutely certain. It needs a run anyway to keep the battery from freezing." Zeke reached into his pocket, his fingers jingling against metal, and pulled out the heavy brass key ring. With an easy, practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed them across the kitchen.
Drake caught them out of the air, the brass cold against his palm, and a genuine, breathtaking smile broke across his handsome features. "Thanks, Zeke. I owe you one. I’ll go right now so I'm back in plenty of time before the guys and my mum arrive."
He hastily downed the last of his lukewarm coffee and grabbed his heavy leather jacket from the wooden hooks near the door, shoving his arms into the sleeves with a renewed, frantic energy. The letter in his pocket seemed to burn against his skin, urging him forward. Before he stepped out into the cold, he paused with his hand on the iron latch, looking back at the siblings. "Do we need anything last minute from the bakery or the dry goods shop while I'm out near the village square?"
"No, we’re all good here," Zeke said quickly, intentionally cutting in with a loud, firm voice before Kiara could invent some imaginary household emergency to drag Drake back into the room.
"See you soon, then. Merry Christmas."
The door clicked shut, and a heartbeat later, the heavy, metallic rumble of the truck’s diesel engine roared to life in the snowy farmyard. The sound vibrated through the kitchen floorboards, a slow, steady pulse that gradually faded into a distant hum as the truck navigated the long, snow-packed driveway, eventually disappearing into the suffocating silence of the winter morning.
The stillness that settled over the kitchen was immediate, thick, and utterly suffocating. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed to grow deafeningly loud.
Zeke slowly turned his head, his easy going demeanour vanishing as he levelled a hard, uncompromising stare at his sister. "What the hell is going on with you, Ki?"
"Nothing," Kiara huffed. She spun around on her heel, turning her back to him so he couldn't see the raw anger contorting her features. She violently snatched up a cotton kitchen towel and began scrubbing at a clean spot on the cast-iron stove, her movements erratic and tense. "I just don't think we should be encouraging his delusions, that’s all. We shouldn't be helping him chase after a woman who discarded him like a piece of trash."
"Kiara," Zeke sighed. The sound was heavy, filled with a deep, protective older-brother exhaustion that had carried the weight of her moods for years. He walked over, grabbing the towel from her hand and forcing her to stop the frantic, useless scrubbing. "Look at me."
"What?" she snapped, spinning around to face him. Her jaw was set, her chest heaving beneath the tight burgundy velvet, her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides.
Zeke looked down at her, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register. "Do you have feelings for him?"
Kiara lifted her chin, her expression instantly hardening into a defensive, stubborn mask that she had used since childhood whenever she was cornered. She gave a sharp, careless shrug of her shoulders, though her eyes remained fiercely alight. "And what if I do? That’s not really any of your business, is it, Zeke?"
"Kiara, look at him," Zeke said softly, his voice a mixture of profound pity and absolute, brutal honesty. "He is in love with another woman. It isn't a crush, and it isn't something he’s just going to wake up and shake off."
"So?" Kiara stepped closer to him, her heels clicking sharply on the stone, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, calculating intensity that made her look entirely unrecognizable. "She’s not here, is she? She’s miles away in a completely different country. I am here. He’s breaking out, Zeke, and I am the one who is actually standing in this house to pick up the pieces. I’m the one who nursed him back from the dead. In time, he will see that I'm the one he’s supposed to be with. Flesh and blood always wins over a memory."
"And what if he doesn't see it?" Zeke asked, his voice steady but laced with a growing sense of dread. "What if he never looks at you that way?"
"He will, Zeke!" she insisted, her voice cracking in a sharp, defensive burst that echoed off the cold kitchen walls. "At some point, he has to face the hard, cold facts. Emilia is not coming back for him. She doesn't love him—if she loved him even a fraction of the amount he loves her; she would be standing in this kitchen right now! She would have replied to at least one of those damn letters! She chose her family's money, her luxury, and her father's approval. She let him be beaten and cast out, and he’s killing himself for nothing."
Zeke looked at his sister, a profound wave of sadness and worry washing over his rugged features. He shook his head slowly, reaching out to touch her arm, but she flinched away from him.
"Kiara, I’m sorry, but you are blind if you think you can just rewrite what’s inside him," Zeke said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. "That man is completely, utterly consumed by her. It’s in the way he breathes; it’s in the way he looks at the stars. He loves Emilia with every single thing he has left in his soul. You need to realise right now, before you drown yourself in this, that he might never be able to love anyone else the way he loves her. He literally calls her the love of his life, Ki. You can't compete with that."
"For now, maybe," Kiara whispered. Her voice lost its frantic edge, sinking into a quiet, chilling register that made Zeke's blood run cold. She looked past her brother's shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the empty doorway where Drake had stood just moments before. The raw, manipulative certainty in her eyes was terrifyingly absolute. "But passions fade when they're met with silence. I can make him forget her, Zeke. I know I can. I just have to be patient."
Zeke let out a long, defeated breath, staring at her with a heavy heart. "Kiara, please. I don't want to see you get hurt when this completely blows up in your face. If she ever comes back—"
"She won't," Kiara interrupted, her voice steady and her lips curving into a cold, unwavering smile as she smoothed down the rich, heavy velvet of her dress. "I know exactly what I'm doing, Zeke. Drake will be mine, one way or another. Now drop it. We have a dinner to prepare."
*****
The heavy silence that had settled over the kitchen in Drake’s absence didn't truly dissipate when he returned; it simply reshaped itself. He had walked back into the farmhouse a different man than the one who had left it an hour ago. The denim of his right thigh no longer bore the sharp, rigid outline of the envelope, and its absence left him feeling strangely weightless, almost hollowed out. Yet, beneath that raw vulnerability, a fragile, stubborn spark of hope still refused to be dimmed. He had dropped his soul into that cold metal box in the village square, and on a morning as miraculous as Christmas, he couldn't stop the quiet, desperate prayer echoing in his mind—that across the border, in a palace he could only see in his dreams, Emilia might finally break the silence.
For now, he forced that longing deep into his chest, anchoring himself to the reality of the present. There was no more time for ghosts. Today was for his family.
The kitchen was a battlefield covered in a pristine white tablecloth. The rich, deep aroma of roasting meat and caramelised winter vegetables filled the air, mingling with the festive sharpness of cinnamon and cloves from the stove. On the surface, everything was perfect. But beneath the domestic warmth, the tension between Zeke and Kiara was palpable—a fragile veneer of Christmas hospitality stretched so thin it practically vibrated.
Kiara moved around the space with a rigid, graceful efficiency, her burgundy velvet dress swishing with a sharp, defensive snap every time she passed her brother. Zeke remained leaning against the counter, his large hands cradled around a fresh mug of coffee, his quiet, watchful eyes tracking her movements with a heavy, protective sorrow. Whenever Drake looked their way, Kiara would instantly flash a bright, effortless smile, her voice dropping into that sweet, honeyed register as she asked him to check the carving knife or stoke the grate. But it wasn't just her voice that claimed him. Every time she crossed the kitchen, her hand would press firmly against his shoulder, her fingers lingering as they slowly traced the strong, broad lines of his back. She was incapable of passing him without making physical contact, deliberately marking her territory before his family arrived. Each touch was an aggressive, tactile design to claim him as her own—a desperate attempt to print herself onto his skin and crowd out the lingering memory of Emilia.
And then, the silence was shattered.
The distant, unmistakable rattle of a diesel engine echoed down the long, snow-packed driveway. Drake froze, a wooden spoon hovering over a bubbling pot of gravy, his ears straining as the heavy, rhythmic thrum grew louder, bouncing off the stone walls of the barn before finally dying down into a low, rumbling idle right in the middle of the farmyard.
"They're here," Drake breathed.
He didn't just walk to the door; he moved with a sudden, frantic urgency, abandoning the kitchen and sprinting into the dim hallway. His heart hammered against his ribs, a fierce, desperate joy completely obliterating the anxiety that had clouded his morning. He reached the door just as the floorboards in the hall groaned behind him, Zeke and Kiara following at a more measured pace.
Drake grabbed the iron latch and yanked the door inward.
A violent swirl of winter air and powdery white snow swept into the hallway, but Drake didn't feel the chill. Before he could even step onto the porch, the doorway was completely filled by two large, snow-dusted figures.
"Merry Christmas, mate!" Max’s boisterous voice boomed through the quiet house, completely shattering the suffocating solemnity of the morning.
Before Drake could even open his mouth to reply, Max lunged forward. He didn't just hug Drake; he practically tackled him, his heavy, snow-damp woollen coat slamming into Drake's chest. Max’s hands thudded violently against Drake's back in a series of fierce, bruising slaps, burying his face into Drake’s shoulder with a rough, breathless laugh.
"God, it's good to see you," Max muffled into Drake’s jumper, his grip tightening until Drake’s ribs creaked beneath the pressure.
"Okay Max, don't hog the man!" Leo’s voice cut in, smoother and carrying an undeniable, trembling warmth.
Max finished releasing Drake, stepping back with a wide, wolfish grin, only for Leo to instantly step into the space. Leo didn't say another word. He just reached out and pulled Drake into an embrace that was entirely different from Max's chaotic assault. It was deep, grounding, and fiercely protective. Leo locked his arms around Drake’s shoulders, squeezing him with a silent, desperate strength that spoke of every single boundary, border, and mile they had crossed just to be here. He held him like a man making sure a missing piece of his own soul was actually real, his hand coming up to firmly grip the back of Drake's neck.
Drake closed his eyes, burying his face against Leo’s shoulder, his hands gripping the fabric of his friend's coat as a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion threatened to crack his throat wide open. This was his history. This was his blood.
"Missed you, brother," Leo whispered, his voice thick as he gave the back of Drake's neck one final, reassuring squeeze before pulling away.
Max immediately shoved his way back between them, throwing a heavy arm around Drake’s neck. "Alright, enough of the soft stuff, Leo. Come on, Walker, show us where the fire is. We're freezing our bollocks off out here."
Drake laughed—a genuine, booming sound that felt like it was clearing out months of stagnant, lonely air from his lungs. He stepped back with a breathtaking smile, his eyes shining with absolute devotion as he looked at the two of them. "It's so good to see you both. I can't believe you actually made it through the drifts."
The warmth of the moment lingered for a heartbeat, his smile remaining bright as he looked between his two best friends. But as he glanced from Max’s grin to Leo’s quiet eyes, the joyful commotion suddenly felt incomplete. The farmyard behind them was quiet, save for the steady low of the cattle.
The playful edge instantly dropped from his face, his gaze cutting past his friends' broad shoulders to track back out toward Leo’s truck. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice tightening with an immediate, baseline anxiety. "Where's Mum?"
"She's coming, mate. We just made her stay in the cab while we checked the porch wasn't too slippery," Leo said softly, stepping aside.
Max walked back, opening the passenger side door of the truck, and offered a steadying hand. When Bianca stepped down into the thick snow, a sharp, visceral shock slammed into Drake’s chest, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.
She was noticeably, undeniably thinner. The heavy winter coat he had bought her for her birthday last year—the one that used to fit her perfectly—now hung loosely from her frame, the fabric bunching awkwardly around her shoulders as if she were drowning inside it. The vibrant, indomitable posture he had known his entire life had vanished, replaced by a delicate, slightly rounded stoop. As she walked toward the porch, her steps lacked their usual rhythmic, confident snap. She looked small against the vastness of the snowy farmyard.
Drake’s eyes instantly darted to Leo.
Standing on the threshold, the two lifelong friends locked eyes, and an entire, heavy conversation passed between them in absolute silence. It was a look between men who carried a shared burden—an unspoken admission from Leo that said, We’ve been watching over her for you. We’ve tried our absolute best, Drake, but she’s slipping. He gave a slow, barely perceptible shake of his head, a shadow of profound sorrow crossing his face, his jaw tight set with a grim, apologetic helplessness. He and Max had protected Drake's mother as surrogate sons in his absence, but they couldn't protect her from whatever had been ravaging her from the inside out.
The guilt that flooded Drake’s veins was nearly suffocating, a toxic heat that made his stomach turn. This is because of me, he thought brutally. My exile is doing this to her.
Before the panic could completely seize his throat, Max helped Bianca step up onto the porch and cross the threshold into the hallway. The dim light fell across her face, revealing a hollow sharpness to her cheekbones and a deep, grey exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes. When she lifted her hands to pull off her knitted gloves, they trembled—a fine, persistent shaking that Drake immediately tried to rationalise as nothing more than the biting effect of the winter wind.
But before he could even open his mouth to voice the terrifying questions screaming in his mind, Bianca looked up.
She caught the stark, naked fear freezing his features, and in an instant, her maternal instincts kicked right in. The frail, exhausted woman vanished, buried beneath a fierce, protective shield. She broke into a brilliant, genuinely radiant smile—the same warm, unconditional smile that had kept the dark at bay throughout his entire childhood.
"Look at you," she breathed, her voice carrying that familiar, melodic warmth, completely ignoring her own state as she reached for him. "My beautiful boy."
She lunged forward, pulling him down into her arms. Drake collapsed into her embrace, burying his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the comforting, unchanged scent of her familiar lavender soap. But as his arms wrapped around her back, the dread returned tenfold. She felt lighter, more fragile, as though her bones were made of nothing but balsa wood and glass.
Yet, despite her terrifying physical lack of weight, her hug was fierce. She locked her arms around his broad shoulders with a desperate, unyielding strength, holding onto her son as if she were anchoring them both to the earth.
When she finally let him go, her hands lingered on his arms for a split second, anchoring her balance before she let him guide her down the hallway and into the warmth of the kitchen.
The transition into the bright, sensory-rich room brought her frailty into even sharper focus. As she unbuttoned her loose coat, the light from the hearth caught the hollowed contours of her throat and the translucent, fragile quality of her skin. Max took her coat with a quiet, practiced gentleness, while Leo smoothly pulled out the sturdiest armchair, positioning it right beside the roaring fire.
"There you go, Bee," Leo murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, affectionate register. He and Drake, and later Max, had spent their entire childhood running through her home and taking her sharp, loving scolds whenever they tracked mud across her floors. To him and Max, she was a second mother. They had done everything they could to care for her across the border, but as Bianca sank heavily into the cushions, her eyes never once strayed from her son.
Drake stepped closer, kneeling down by the side of her chair so he was at eye level with her. He reached out, his large hands carefully covering her smaller, trembling ones.
"Mum," he said softly, his voice thick with a desperate, mounting panic. "You’ve lost so much weight. You look... you look completely exhausted. What’s going on?"
Bianca let out a soft, scoffing laugh, a weak wave of her hand trying to dismiss his terror as if it were nothing more than silly drama. "Oh, don't you start, Drake. I’ve had these two clucking over me like a pair of old hens the entire drive. I’m fine."
"You're not fine," Drake insisted, his thumb gently tracing the prominent, fragile bones of her wrist. "Don't lie to me. Please."
She sighed, a small, weary smile touching her lips as she leaned her head back against the chair, absorbing the heavy heat of the flames. "I’ve had a nasty chest infection, that's all. But I’ve been to see the doctor in the village, Drake. Leo took me himself. He ran some tests, checked me all over, and gave me some medication."
Drake’s chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And? What did he say? Is the medicine working?"
"I'm on the mend, sweetheart, I promise," Bianca reassured him softly, her fingers gently threading through Drake’s hair. "The doctor thinks the infection only took such a fierce hold because my system was so run down. He concluded it's basically stress—brought on by the shock and the heartbreak of..."
She hesitated, her eyes flicking past Drake's shoulder to where Zeke and Kiara stood listening in the warmth of the kitchen. Bianca knew her son had never told them the full, terrifying truth of his exile. They knew he had fled across the border because Emilia's father had threatened his life, but they had no idea his banishment had actually been ordered by none other than the King himself.
Steeling her expression, Bianca brought her gaze right back to her son, continuing smoothly. "...of you having to leave. He said the worry just weakened my body's defences."
The words hit Drake like a physical blow to the sternum. The air left his lungs in a sharp, silent gasp, and a cold, suffocating wave of guilt flooded his veins, heavy as lead.
This is my fault. The thought was brutal, a jagged blade turning in his chest. I did this to her. It wasn't just a random winter bug; he had caused the vulnerability. His choices, his exile across the border, had stripped away her strength and left her body defenceless against the sickness. He was killing her just by existing in this forced silence. He looked down at her hands, unable to meet her gaze, the sheer weight of the self-reproach threatening to crush him right there on the floor.
Seeing the sudden, agonising slump of his shoulders, Bianca knew instantly where his mind had gone. Her maternal shield flared back to life.
She reached down, her warm, trembling hands cupping his jaw, forcing him to lift his head and look at her. "Look at me, Drake Walker."
When his tear-bright eyes met hers, her expression was fierce, blazing with an absolute, unconditional devotion.
"None of this is your fault, okay?" she whispered, a brilliant, radiant smile breaking across her face. "And seeing you today, holding you, knowing we are spending Christmas together under the same roof... that's the best medicine I could ask for. It makes me feel like a new woman, Drake. Leo and Max have been wonderful, absolute saints to me, but you are my heart. Being here with you is the only medicine I actually need to get better."
Drake stared at her, his jaw tight as he fought to keep his breathing steady. He could see the exhaustion still lingering deep in her eyes, could feel the slight tremor in the fingers pressing against his cheeks. But looking at her radiant smile, he chose to believe her. He slammed the door on his panic and clung to her words like a drowning man gasping for air. He desperately needed to believe that his presence could cure the damage his banishment had caused.
"Then we're not wasting a single second of today," he breathed, managing a fragile, fierce smile of his own as he held onto her hands. "I'm so glad you're here, Mum.”
*****
The afternoon dissolved into the golden, heavy warmth of a perfect Christmas. With Drake, Leo, and Max all under the same roof, the quiet, melancholic corners of the Theron farmhouse were utterly conquered. Zeke stepped over to the corner of the room, switching on the heavy wooden wireless set, and soon the warm, crackling hum of the valves filled the home, casting a comforting, familiar shield of festive music against the cold winter howling outside.
When they finally sat down at the kitchen table, the feast was a triumph of sensory distraction. The rich, savoury steam of the roast, the gleam of the white tablecloth under the amber glow of the candles, and the constant clatter of cutlery created a lively, safe haven.
Bianca sat at the head of the table, watching her son and his friends with a look of absolute, radiant pride. The grey exhaustion in her face seemed to recede under the magic of the afternoon, her eyes shining as she looked at Drake. Max was in rare form, boisterously recounting a disastrous gardening job he, Drake, and Leo had bungled back home as teenagers for his mother's neighbour, his loud, rolling laughter filling the room. Leo sat steady beside him, anchoring the conversation, chiming in with dry, perfectly timed corrections that had Drake laughing so hard his chest ached.
"Honestly, Bee, Max took a pair of rusty shears to the hydrangeas and left them looking like plucked chickens," Leo said, shaking his head.
"They grew back thicker the next spring, didn't they?" Max fired back defensively, pointing his fork at Leo. "That's standard pruning, mate. Tell him, Zeke. You know about land."
Zeke offered a slow, amused grin from his side of the table, leaning back slightly. "Sounds to me like you're lucky she didn't set the dogs on you, Max."
As the laughter rippled around the table, Kiara smoothly reached over, pouring a fresh measure of wine into Drake’s glass before resting her hand firmly over his. "Well, thank goodness Drake doesn't have to worry about any of that anymore," she said, her voice dropping into a sweet, honeyed register that hummed with a quiet possessiveness. "Between his long shifts down at the château stables and everything we do together when he gets back to the farm, he barely has time to think about gardening. I make sure he's looked after, don't I, mon cœur?"
Drake offered her a distracted, friendly smile, completely missing the loaded weight of her words as he gently pulled his hand away to gesture toward Max. "Don't listen to her, Max. I can still out-dig you any day of the week."
A flash of tight frustration rippled across Kiara’s features before she quickly masked it with another elegant sip of her wine. She kept her eyes locked on him, watching the animated line of his jaw and the brightness in his eyes, wishing with absolutely everything in her that he would finally just look at her. That he would love her, claim her, and forget all about his precious Emilia.
For a couple of hours, Bianca was right there in the middle of the joy, smiling and listening to the banter, though Drake noticed she was mostly picking at her food. When Max offered her a second helping of potatoes, she waved it away with a soft, weary laugh.
"I’m fine, thank you," she murmured, leaning back into her chair with a small sigh. "It’s absolutely wonderful, but I can’t seem to eat very much nowadays. I think the long drive this morning tired me out."
"Yeah, Leo’s driving would ruin anyone's appetite," Max chimed in with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, smoothly keeping the mood light. "You take it easy. We’ll finish off the heavy lifting."
Leo offered her a warm smile, reaching over to pour her a fresh glass of water. "Just sit back and enjoy the music, Bee. You've earned a rest."
"I've left some extra blankets by the hearth for you, too," Zeke added quietly, his eyes tracking Bianca with a respectful, protective consideration. "Whenever you’re ready to move away from the table, the fire is stoked."
Drake let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, a relaxed smile settling on his face as he looked at his mother. It made perfect sense, after all. She was recovering from a fierce chest infection and had just endured an exhausting trip across the border. Of course, she was completely spent and not quite ready for a heavy meal. He placed his hand over hers on the table, choosing to focus on the vibrant warmth of the room and the fact that she was here, safe and smiling.
Before long, the meal was finished, the dishes cleared, and the dark, uncertain shadow of his exile was completely locked outside in the snow. For a few beautiful hours, Drake was just a man surrounded by the people who loved him most. Across the room, Leo and Max were arguing in low, affectionate murmurs over who had to do the washing up, their familiar bickering a comforting soundtrack against the crackle of the hearth.
Moving away from the table, Drake crossed to the sofa where Bianca had settled to watch the flickering flames, looking warmer and more content than she had in months. He sat down beside her, smoothly lifting his arm to wrap it securely around her frail shoulders, and she sighed, resting her head against him with a peaceful familiarity.
As the heavy heat of the fire and the warmth of the afternoon washed over them, an overwhelming, monumental sense of peace settled deep into Drake’s chest—a feeling so vast and pure it felt almost holy. For the first time since his exile, the crushing weight he had felt completely lifted from his shoulders, leaving him lighter than he had ever thought possible. He had his friends by his side, their quiet laughter anchoring him to the room, and his mother was safe in his arms, her steady breathing proof that she was on the mend, cured by the simple medicine of being together.
Holding her close, he allowed his mind to drift across the border to the other half of his soul—Emilia, the woman who held his heart in her hands. He thought of her now, wondering what she was doing right in this exact moment, wrapping himself in her memory so vividly she almost felt close enough to touch. A soft, beautifully genuine smile touched his lips, a quiet prayer of pure hope echoing in his mind as he leaned his head gently against his mother's.
He closed his eyes and just breathed her in, holding her tightly against him, completely, tragically unaware of the unforgiving clock ticking down over Bianca’s life.
Warnings – Mention of sexual assault, victim blaming.
The transition into winter did not arrive with a whisper, but with a profound, breathless silence that blanketed the entire Royal Palace overnight.
The pale gold of the morning sun spilled effortlessly across the brilliant, crisp blue sky, casting a dazzling glare over the flawless coat of fresh snow that lay thick over the Cordonian capital. The world was utterly still, as if the cold had frozen time itself, capturing the estate in a quiet, sparkling tranquillity.
Stepping to the towering glass doors of her balcony, Emilia pressed her hand against the cool pane, her warm breath immediately blossoming into a delicate cloud of mist on the glass. She blinked against the clean, blinding glare of the white landscape. It was a winter wonderland, breathtakingly beautiful, offering a quiet, clean slate that seemed to soothe the raw edges of her spirit.
Below her, the grand palace gardens had been completely transformed. The rows of frost-hardy chrysanthemums that had fought so bravely against the autumn chill were now buried beneath a thick, heavy duvet of snow, their colourful faces entirely hidden. The towering, ornate fountains, which had spent the summer splashing music into the warm air, stood completely silent, the water in their wide stone basins frozen into smooth, glittering pools of ice that caught the morning light like polished mirrors.
Further out, the great hedge maze looked like a labyrinth of sculpted marble, its high, dark green walls capped in thick, pristine ridges of white. Every perfect line and sharp angle was softened by the snow, making the maze look less like an impenetrable fortress and more like a peaceful, sleeping giant.
Adjacent to the maze, the woodland area was a study in stark contrasts. The skeletal branches of the ancient oaks, stripped bare by the autumn winds, were now outlined in delicate, sparkling ice, reaching up toward the brilliant blue heavens like fragile fingers of glass. Beside them, the dark, stoic pines bowed their heavy branches under the weight of the snow, releasing quiet, soft flurries to the ground whenever the biting winter wind dared to whisper through their needles.
Running straight through the heart of the estate, the long gravel drive was slowly being reclaimed from the winter. Below the balcony, a solitary palace gardener was already at work, the rhythmic, scraping sound of his shovel clearing a path through the heavy white powder.
Emilia watched him for a long moment, observing the steam rise from his lips as he worked. As if sensing her gaze, the gardener paused, wiping his brow before looking up toward her balcony. Emilia didn't draw back into the shadows of her room. Instead, a genuine, soft smile brushed her lips, and she raised her hand, offering a gentle wave.
The gardener's face lit up, and he quickly returned the wave with a wide, respectful smile and a small bow before returning to his work.
Emilia wrapped her heavy velvet robe tighter around her shoulders, but for the first time in months, she didn't shiver. The world outside was cold, yes, but it was blanketed in a peaceful, healing quiet. As she stared down at the snow-covered lawns directly beneath her balcony, the familiar, aching hollow in her chest felt... lighter.
She no longer hovered anxiously by her door at the sound of Rose’s morning footsteps, her pulse racing with a desperate, agonizing hope that only crashed into devastation when the silver mail tray proved empty. She had stopped checking the post with that frantic, trembling urgency. The raw, bleeding wound of those early autumn months had finally closed, leaving behind a quiet, tender ache. She still wished, with a soft and persistent sadness, that a letter would arrive. She still carried the quiet, heavy shape of Drake’s absence in every breath, a steady, physical pull in her chest that anchored her to the memory of him, and there wasn't a single day where he didn't occupy the quiet corners of her mind and heart. She still loved him with a desperate, soul-consuming intensity, and she knew she always would.
But the furious, destructive anger that had consumed her on the night of the Homecoming Ball had finally burned itself out. In its place was a quiet, sober acceptance of the silence. She had come to terms with the reality of their separate worlds. She had accepted the heart-breaking possibility that Drake had simply chosen to move on—to build a new, uncomplicated life for himself across the border that didn't involve the impossible, suffocating reach of a Cordonian princess and her crown.
It was a deep, permanent bruise on her soul, but she was learning to live with the grief. She was carrying her love for him like a warm coal beneath the winter snow, keeping her spirit alive rather than letting the sorrow freeze her completely.
Stepping away from the towering balcony doors, Emilia let the quiet warmth of her suite envelop her. She walked slowly toward the ornate mahogany vanity, her bare feet pressing into the plush, thick carpet. Sitting down on the cushioned stool, she picked up her silver-backed hairbrush, letting the rhythmic, soothing motion of the bristles sliding through her golden curls ground her in the quiet morning.
As she raised her arm, her heavy velvet robe parted slightly at her collarbone.
There, resting against the soft skin of her chest, was Drake’s silver ring, catching the pale gold of the morning sun.
Emilia’s hand paused, her breath catching in her throat—not in panic, but in a sudden, sweet wave of quiet affection. She set the brush down on the cool glass tabletop, her hand drifting instinctively to her neck. Her fingertips curled around the familiar, worn metal, and a soft, genuine smile played on her lips. She hadn't taken it off, not for a single moment, since she had gotten it back.
As the cool silver warmed against her skin, her mind drifted backward, slipping effortlessly into the memory of the morning she had reclaimed it.
Two Months Earlier
The morning after the Homecoming Ball had arrived with a sharp, crisp bite. The dew was heavy, clinging to the grass blades in the palace gardens like tiny, liquid glass beads, and a thin layer of frost dusted the stone paths.
Liam Rhys stood near the edge of the formal garden beds directly beneath Emilia’s private balcony, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his structured charcoal wool overcoat. The collar was turned up slightly against the biting breeze, and his boots crunched softly as he shifted his weight on the gravel. He wore a simple, dark green knit sweater beneath his coat, looking rugged yet effortlessly elegant in the pale morning light.
He was waiting.
When his mother had first written to him in Italy, practically commanding his return to Cordonia to attend the social season and meet Princess Emilia, Liam had let out a long, defeated sigh. He had assumed she would be like all the rest of the debutantes—hollow, pretentious, and entirely consumed by the superficial glitter of court gossip and inherited titles. He had expected to meet a fragile, porcelain doll of a girl with a practiced smile and nothing of substance behind her eyes.
But Emilia had completely shattered every single one of his expectations.
She wasn't like them at all. Over the course of the previous evening, and their quiet escape on the terrace, he had discovered a woman who was remarkable. She was smart, carrying a sharp, observant wit that kept him on his toes. She was funny, possessing a quick, feisty spark that refused to be dimmed by the stifling protocol of her father’s court. And she was so unbelievably beautiful—not with the empty, painted perfection of the other noblewomen, but with a vibrant, raw, and fiercely genuine fire.
Yet, beneath that spark, Liam had noticed a deep, quiet sadness clinging to her. It was in the way her eyes lingered on the dark horizon, and the faint, guarded tension in her shoulders. She had told him she had been through a very difficult few months. Liam hadn't pushed for details; it wasn't his business to pry, and he respected her privacy too much to demand explanations she wasn't ready to give. He suspected, more than anything, that she was profoundly lonely. In a court full of vultures and sycophants, there were only a select few she could truly trust. She could use a friend—a real, unyielding anchor who wanted nothing from her but her company. And Liam was more than happy to be that friend.
The soft rustle of dry leaves caught his attention.
Liam turned, a warm, genuine smile instantly gracing his lips as he saw Emilia walking down the gravel path toward him.
The morning chill had painted a delicate, rosy flush across her cheeks. She was dressed warmly, wearing a tailored, forest-green wrap coat that hugged her waist, with a soft cream cashmere scarf looped snugly around her neck. Her hair, free from the rigid curls of the previous night, was pinned back simply, a few loose strands framing her face and dancing in the wind. She looked breathtakingly real, a stark and lovely contrast to the cold limestone walls of the palace behind her.
As she reached him, her eyes met his, and for the first time since he had met her, the heavy shadow in her gaze seemed to lift, if only by a fraction.
"Good morning, Liam," she said, her voice soft in the quiet air.
"Good morning, Emilia," he replied, taking his hands from his pockets and bowing his head slightly in greeting. "You're exceptionally punctual for someone who survived a royal homecoming ball."
Emilia let out a small, genuine laugh, the sound clear and bright against the autumn chill. "I could say the same to you. I half-expected you to have fled back to Rome by sunrise."
"It wasn’t for want of trying," Liam joked, a playful, warm spark dancing in his ice-blue eyes. "But I was informed my flight was cancelled. High winds, apparently. Or perhaps a sudden, tragic lack of willpower."
Emilia's laugh rang out again, a lighter, happier sound than she had produced in months.
Liam watched her, his smile softening into something deeper. There was a quiet touch of longing in his gaze, a silent appreciation for the easy way she fit into the morning air. "In all honesty, Emilia... I'm actually enjoying myself here far more than I ever expected to."
Emilia met his eyes, and the sincerity she found there made a small, fragile warmth blossom in her chest. She simply smiled back, a quiet, unspoken understanding passing between them.
"Right, well," Liam said, clearing his throat gently to break the spell. "Let's find that necklace of yours."
"Let's," Emilia agreed, her smile widening.
They moved toward the garden beds directly beneath her private balcony, stepping carefully onto the damp lawn. The grass was crisp underfoot, crackling softly with the morning frost. They bent down, parting the cold, heavy leaves of the slumbering chrysanthemums and scanning the dark, damp earth.
As they searched, the silence of the morning was filled only by the rustle of dry leaves and their own steady breathing. Emilia glanced over at him, feeling a sudden, deep swell of gratitude.
"Thank you again, Liam, for offering to help me with this," she called out, brushing a stray dirt particle from her sleeve. "I'm sure there are many other ways you would have preferred to spend your first morning back in the capital."
"Not at all," Liam replied, shrugging his broad shoulders as he peered beneath a low-hanging evergreen branch. "Besides, I'll have you know that I was the undisputed champion of the family scavenger hunt as a child. I'd be highly remiss if I didn't put my legendary skills to good use for the Princess."
Emilia laughed, the sound warm and clear. "Well, I certainly hope those legendary skills are at their absolute best today. I honestly don't know what I'll do if we don't find that ring."
Liam paused, straightening up. His brow furrowed in mild, amused confusion. "Ring? I thought we were looking for a necklace."
Emilia froze, her cheeks instantly burning with a delicate, rosy flush that had nothing to do with the autumn wind. She bit her lip, cursing her slip of the tongue, before letting out a soft, defeated sigh.
"We are. Sort of," she confessed quietly, looking down at her hands. "It's... it's a silver ring. I wear it on a chain around my neck. It's incredibly important to me."
Liam looked at her, his blue eyes soft and entirely devoid of judgment. He took in her flushed cheeks and the protective, almost fragile way her fingers had drifted to her collarbone. "I assume," he said gently, his voice carrying a quiet, respectful warmth, "whoever gave you this ring is very important to you?"
Emilia’s throat tightened. The image of Drake—his fierce hazel eyes, his rough calloused hands, and his easy, lopsided smile—flashed behind her eyelids, sending a sharp, sweet ache straight to her heart.
"He is," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the breeze. "He... he was."
Liam didn't pry. He didn't ask for a name, a status, or an explanation for why the ring was lost in the dirt. He simply offered her a reassuring, comforting smile that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket.
"We'll find it, Emilia," he promised, his voice firm and steady. "Even if I have to stay out here until the sun goes down and come back again tomorrow. I'm not leaving until it's safely back where it belongs."
Emilia’s heart swelled. The sheer, unyielding decency of his words brought a sudden sheen of tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back, offering him a brilliant, genuine smile. "Thank you, Liam."
They returned to the search with a renewed, quiet focus. Emilia felt a profound sense of relief settling over her spirit. Liam didn't look at her with the fragile, suffocating pity she had grown so tired of receiving from her friends. He simply accepted her as she was, standing by her side as a steady, quiet anchor.
They searched for another ten minutes, moving deeper into the shadows of the formal boxwood hedges, when Liam suddenly gasped.
"Ah-ha! I think I have something."
Emilia’s heart stopped. She spun around, her breath catching in her throat as she watched Liam bend low, reaching deep beneath the thick, frost-dusted branches of a large chrysanthemum bush.
When he pulled his hand back, a glint of bright silver caught the morning sun.
The delicate silver chain hung from his fingers, and dangling securely at the bottom was Drake’s worn, heavy ring.
A breathless sob of pure relief broke from Emilia's throat. Tears finally spilled over her lashes as she scrambled across the damp grass to his side. She snatched the chain from his open palm, clutching the cold metal tightly against her chest as if she could pull its warmth straight into her soul. She tipped her head back toward the brilliant blue sky, a dazzling, tear-stained smile breaking across her face.
"Oh, thank God," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Thank you, Liam. Thank you so much."
Liam stood up, brushing a few stray leaves from his knees. The sight of her radiant, tearful joy made his own chest tighten with a quiet, profound warmth.
"It was no problem at all, Emilia," he said softly, his blue eyes holding hers. "I'm here for you. Anytime."
Emilia looked down at the ring in her hand, her heart hammering a steady, triumphant rhythm. The metal was cold against her palm, but she knew that beneath her skin, the memory of Drake would always burn warm. She carefully slid the chain and the ring into the deep, secure pocket of her coat, gently patting the wool to make sure it was safe.
Then, she turned back to Liam. The sheer weight of what he had done for her—without question, without expectation—overwhelmed her defences.
Stepping forward, Emilia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight, incredibly warm hug.
Liam froze in surprise for a fraction of a second before his arms came up, wrapping securely around her waist to pull her close. He leaned into the embrace, inhaling the sweet, complex scent of jasmine and fresh linen that clung to her hair and her skin. It was a perfect, grounding moment of comfort in the quiet garden.
As they slowly pulled back, Liam offered her a soft, boyish grin.
"It was entirely worth it," he whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "just to see you smile."
Slowly, the golden-hued memory of that crisp autumn morning faded, gently pulling Emilia back to the present.
She blinked, focusing on her reflection in the heavy mahogany vanity mirror. The pale, winter-bright light of the morning poured through her balcony doors, illuminating the quiet warmth of her suite. Down in her palm, Drake’s silver ring had grown warm, absorbing the heat of her skin. She smiled softly, tracing the worn metal one last time. Slowly, she raised the band to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the familiar silver, letting its smooth shape anchor her heart. With a quiet breath, she let it rest back against her collarbone, tucking it safely beneath the soft velvet of her robe.
She picked up her hairbrush again, but her mind remained anchored in the quiet gratitude she felt for the young lord who had helped her find it.
Liam hadn't left after that day.
As the social season had swung into full, exhausting motion, it was entirely customary for the heads of the Great Houses and their eligible heirs to take up semi-permanent residence in the sprawling guest wings of the Royal Palace. It spared them the daily limo rides from their grand estates and kept them in the direct orbit of the King's favour. When Liam had quietly informed her that he had accepted her father's invitation to stay at the palace for the duration of the social season, Emilia had felt a profound, genuine wave of relief wash over her.
She had desperately needed a friend, and Liam had stepped into that empty, echoing space in her life with an effortless, unpressured grace.
Over the last two months, they had become nearly inseparable. When the suffocating protocol of the court threatened to choke her, Liam was always there, offering a quiet escape.
Emilia closed her eyes, a warm, genuine smile gracing her lips as she recalled their afternoon rides. They would escape the palace gates on horseback, tearing through the crisp, leaf-strewn valley trails of the royal estate. She remembered the powerful, rhythmic stride of her horse beneath her, the biting wind stinging her cheeks and whipping her loose curls into a wild tangle. Liam would ride alongside her, his laughter rich and free, a brilliant contrast to the rigid, silent guards who trailed at a respectful distance. Up in the hills, away from the watchful eyes of the King, they would pull their horses to a halt, letting the animals breathe as they looked out over the sprawling capital, sharing a comfortable, healing silence that required no performances.
And then there were the walks. Even as the autumn gold withered into grey December frost, they would bundle up in heavy wool coats and cashmere scarves, walking the winding paths of the formal gardens. Liam would listen to her—really listen—whenever she spoke, never looking at her with the fragile, suffocating pity she had grown so tired of receiving from Hana or Olivia. Nor did he ever look at her with the hungry, predatory appraisal she so routinely endured from the other eligible bachelors of the court, who treated her like a prize to be won or an asset to be calculated for their family lines. With Liam, there were no hidden agendas, no suffocating expectations, and no prying eyes. He simply met her where she was, offering a steady, unyielding presence that helped ground her fluttering spirit.
But perhaps her favourite memories were of the endless, tedious balls.
Emilia opened her eyes, her smile widening as she recalled the sheer, ridiculousness they had managed to find in the middle of her father's glittering cage. During one particularly stuffy banquet, trapped at a table between a pompous duke and an incredibly dry minister, she had caught Liam’s icy-blue eyes from across the room. He had offered her a barely perceptible, deadpan raise of his eyebrow, nodding toward a minor count who was currently asleep in his soup.
They had taken to finding quiet corners during those long nights, standing near the heavy velvet drapes with champagne flutes in hand. In hushed, conspiratorial whispers, they would make fun of the preening nobility, sharing a private world of quiet, breathless laughter. They would dissect Lord Thorne's increasingly ridiculous, towering wigs, or predict exactly how many minutes Lady Vescovi could hold her breath while trying to look poised in her suffocating corset.
In a room full of vultures and sycophants, Liam had become her sanctuary. He had shown her that she could still laugh, that she could still find joy, and that she didn't have to carry the crushing weight of her heartbreak entirely alone.
He hadn't made her forget Drake—nothing ever could, and she still carried the quiet, heavy shape of his absence in every beat of her heart. But Liam had made the winter feel warm. He had made her existence feel like a life again, rather than a death sentence.
*****
A short while later, a soft, tentative knock rattled the heavy ornate wood of the door, breaking the quiet sanctuary of the suite.
Emilia paused, her silver hairbrush resting against her curls. "Come in," she called out, her voice calm and even.
The door groaned open, and Queen Eleanor stepped inside. She wore a beautifully tailored, slate-blue wool day dress, her posture as impeccably straight and statuesque as ever, but her eyes held a soft, searching warmth.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Eleanor said gently, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
"Good morning, Mother," Emilia smiled, turning slightly on her cushioned vanity stool to face her.
Eleanor crossed the room, her elegant heels sinking silently into the plush carpet, and stood beside her daughter, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I just wanted to see how you are. You seem to have been very busy recently. The winter social season is always a whirlwind, of course." She offered a soft, knowing smile.
"It is," Emilia laughed softly, setting her brush down on the glass-topped vanity. "But in all honesty, it's been fun. Better than usual, actually."
Eleanor watched her daughter’s face closely, noting the subtle brightness in her eyes—a light that had been missing for so many painful months. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. "Does that have anything to do with Lord Rhys?"
Emilia turned to face her mother fully, her cheeks warming with a delicate, shy flush. "It does," she admitted softly, her fingers tracing a fold of her velvet robe. "He’s a wonderful man, Mother. He’s kind, and he’s funny, and... well, he’s nothing like the other men at court. He's been an incredibly good friend to me."
"I’m glad," Eleanor murmured, her thumb gently caressing Emilia’s shoulder. She paused, her voice dropping to a tentative, delicate whisper. "Is... is that all it is, darling?"
"Yes," Emilia replied without hesitation, her gaze steady and honest. "I like him, Mother. A lot. He is a truly wonderful person. But he’s a friend, and that’s all."
Eleanor smiled, a soft knowing expression crossing her features, though she remained quiet, waiting.
"Besides," Emilia added, turning back toward the mirror to pick up her hairbrush, "I owe him a lot."
Eleanor’s brow furrowed slightly in mild confusion. "What do you mean, sweetheart? What do you owe him?"
Emilia let out a long, heavy sigh, setting the brush back down. She turned back to her mother, her expression softening into something intensely raw and honest. "Before I met him, Mother, I was drowning. The grief... it was consuming me entirely. I hadn’t heard from Drake, and my heart... it was completely broken. It still is, in many ways. I love Drake. I always will. He is the love of my life, and nothing will ever change that."
Eleanor’s chest tightened, a quiet pang of sorrow reflecting in her eyes, but she didn't interrupt.
"But the grief... it isn't controlling me anymore," Emilia continued, her voice gaining a quiet, mature strength. "I've accepted the reality of things. I've accepted that perhaps all of this—" she gestured around the room, “—the Crown, my title, the constant, suffocating reach of this life—perhaps it was just too much for him to carry after what Father did to him. And I can’t blame him for that. I can’t blame him for choosing a life where he can breathe. But what we had... I will never forget what it felt like to be loved by him. I'll never forget him. But the pain isn't as raw now. And I think a lot of that healing had to do with Liam. He was simply there for me when I desperately needed someone."
"I am so glad to hear it, Emilia," Eleanor whispered, her eyes shining with a rare, watery sincerity. "You deserve peace, my love."
"Plus..." Emilia started, her voice suddenly tightening as a sharp flash of anger and anxiety crossed her features. "The night of the Homecoming Ball... Liam saved me."
Eleanor’s posture instantly stiffened, her hand tightening on Emilia’s shoulder. "He saved you? From what?"
Emilia let out a ragged breath, her fingers tightening into fists in her lap. "I went out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air. I was upset, and... Lord Tariq and Neville Vancouer followed me out. They cornered me, Mother. They actively, physically backed me against the freezing stone balustrade so I couldn't escape. They were... insistent. They made disgusting, suggestive comments about how they could act as my 'comfort,' and how they could help me forget all about Drake."
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in absolute horror. "They did what?"
"Nothing happened," Emilia said quickly, trying to soothe the sudden, violent panic in her mother’s eyes. "Thanks to Liam. He came outside for a break from the formalities just before they could do anything. He challenged them. They actually attacked him, but Liam fought them both off effortlessly. He pinned Neville against the wall and told them if they ever spoke to me, looked at me, or came near me again, he would make them deeply regret it. And they haven't bothered me since, thankfully. But... I don't know what would have happened if he hadn’t stepped onto the terrace when he did."
"Emilia..." Eleanor’s voice trembled, a mixture of terror and white-hot maternal instinct vibrating in her throat. "Why did you never say anything? Does your father know?"
Emilia let out a harsh, bitter scoff, her jaw setting into a cold, hard line of pure disdain. "No, Mother. I never told him. What would be the point?"
"What do you mean, what would be the point?!" Eleanor cried softly, her voice cracking. "You can’t allow them to get away with this!"
"I haven’t. Liam hasn’t. But you know exactly what Father is like," Emilia spat, the words dripping with a deep, permanent resentment. "That man has proven, over and over again, that all he cares about are appearances, alliances, and duty. He would have brushed my complaint off as me being 'too sensitive.' He would have told me I was overreacting, or that I had misunderstood their 'gentlemanly' advances as something more sinister. He would have protected Tariq’s family line and Neville’s standing before he ever protected me. That’s why I never told him about Applewood, either."
Eleanor froze, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. "What about Applewood, Emilia?"
Emilia looked up at her mother, her eyes entirely devoid of fear, filled only with the bitter truth of her reality. "Tariq tried to force himself on me there, too. Before you and Father even arrived at the estate. He insisted on walking me to my suite after dinner, and the moment we were alone, he pinned me against my door and kissed me. I tried to push him off, I told him no, but he completely ignored me. He thought his title gave him the right to take whatever he wanted. Luckily, I managed to knock some sense into him when I slapped him across the face and threatened to ruin his family line if he didn't leave."
"He... he did what?!"
Eleanor’s voice was no longer a royal whisper. It was a low, dangerous hiss, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The pristine, stoic queen was completely gone, shattered by the visceral, protective rage of a mother whose child had been hunted in her own home.
"It’s okay, Mother," Emilia said quietly, her voice entirely calm. "I handled it."
"It is absolutely not okay, Emilia!" Eleanor said, her chest heaving as a fierce, dangerous fire flared in her eyes. "How dare he? How dare he touch you? How dare they treat the Princess of this country—my daughter—like prey in our own palaces?!"
"Mother, please. I’m okay," Emilia insisted, reaching up to gently squeeze her mother's hand. "Neither of them have dared to look in my direction since the Homecoming Ball. Liam made sure of that. I’m safe."
Eleanor took a long, trembling breath, forcing her shoulders back as she fought to rein in the violent anger threatening to tear through her regal composure. She looked down at her daughter, her eyes softening with a fierce, protective devotion. "Well... I am endlessly glad you have Liam looking out for you. Are... are you seeing him today?"
Emilia offered a soft, genuine smile. "Yes. We’re going for a walk in the hedge maze."
"Good," Eleanor murmured, her voice tight but loving. "I will leave you to get dressed, then."
She leaned down, pulling Emilia into a tight, fierce hug, holding her as if she could shield her from the entire world. "Are you absolutely sure you are okay, Emilia?"
Emilia smiled against her mother’s shoulder. "Yes, Mother. I'm fine. Truly."
Eleanor pulled back, gently kissing her daughter's hair. "That is all that matters."
With a stiff, precise nod, Eleanor turned and left the suite. But the moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind her, the fragile restraint she had forced herself to maintain shattered completely.
The cold, calculated anger came flooding back, hot and merciless. She stood in the empty, gilded hallway, her breathing shallow, her hands clenching into tight, trembling fists at her sides.
They had dared to touch her daughter. Constantine had allowed this toxic, predatory behaviour to fester in his court, all for the sake of political alliances and empty sashes. He had banished the only man who had ever truly loved and protected their daughter, leaving her vulnerable to the wolves.
Turning on her heel, Eleanor did not walk. She marched. Her heavy wool skirts hissed violently against her silk stockings, and her heels struck the ground with a rhythmic, thunderous cadence of pure, unyielding fury as she headed straight toward the King's private study.
*****
The heavy oak doors of the King’s private study did not merely open; they were violently breached.
Eleanor did not wait for an invitation, nor did she heed the startled glance of the royal guard stationed at the end of the hall. She pushed through the threshold, her wool day dress rustling with a sharp, heavy cadence before she slammed the heavy door shut behind her. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet, mahogany-panelled room.
King Constantine sat behind his sprawling desk, a gold-nibbed pen suspended mid-air over a stack of state papers. He blinked, a flash of genuine surprise breaking through his formidable, carefully cultivated mask.
It had been months since she had spoken to him with anything resembling warmth. Ever since their return from Applewood—and the brutal banishment of the Walker boy—a freezing, impenetrable wall had risen between them. Eleanor had retreated entirely to her own private wing, refusing to share their marital suite, and had spoken to him only when the strict demands of public protocol required it. She had made herself a ghost in his bed, but a silent, mocking jury in his court.
But now, she was entirely, terrifyingly alive. Her chest heaved, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of a leather visitor's chair, her eyes burning with a white-hot fury that made him instinctively straighten his spine.
"Eleanor?" Constantine asked, his voice tight but attempting to maintain a calm, kingly authority. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
"Our daughter," Eleanor said, her voice vibrating with a low, dangerous tremor that made the crystal decanters on the sideboard hum, "has just informed me that certain members of your court have tried to force themselves on her."
Constantine’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from surprise to a dismissive, defensive annoyance. He set his pen down with a quiet tap. "Excuse me?"
"Lord Tariq attacked her at Applewood," Eleanor spat, the words cutting through the quiet room like broken glass. "He forced himself on her in the hallway. He pinned her against her own suite door and kissed her, and when she told him no, when she actively struggled against him, he completely ignored her. She had to physically push him off and slap him across the face to make him stop. And then, at the Homecoming Ball, he tried again. With Neville Vancouer in tow that time around."
Constantine stared at her for a silent, agonizing heartbeat. His jaw worked, but his expression did not soften into horror. Instead, he leaned back in his leather chair, letting out a heavy, tired sigh.
"Oh," he murmured, waving a dismissive hand. "Right."
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, her vision temporarily blurring with a wave of sheer, unadulterated disgust. "Right? Right? Is that all you have to say to me, Constantine? Right?!"
"Eleanor, be reasonable," Constantine said, his tone flat and clinical, as if he were discussing a minor trade dispute rather than the assault of his daughter. "I am sure Emilia was mistaken. I am sure it was simply Tariq’s way of trying to court her. She is a beautiful girl, and she is the heir to the throne. Suitors will be aggressive. She must have given him some indication, however subtle, that his advances would be welcomed."
"Are you serious right now?!" Eleanor’s voice cracked, a raw, maternal scream ripping through her regal throat. She slammed her hand down on the edge of his desk, scattering several diplomatic briefs. "Constantine, if Emilia had not found the physical strength to push him off at Applewood, if Liam Rhys had not been there to physically fight them off at the Homecoming Ball, they could have raped her! Do you understand that?! They cornered her against a freezing stone balustrade and trapped her!"
"I am sure it would not have come to that," Constantine muttered, his eyes darting toward the closed door, clearly concerned that the guards outside would hear his wife's shouts.
"She is your daughter!" Eleanor cried, tears of pure rage finally spilling over her lashes. "She is the future Queen of this country, and those animals have no right touching her like that! They have no right touching any woman like that! What is wrong with you?!"
Constantine stood up abruptly, his broad chest rising as his own anger began to flare, matching her heat. He slammed his palms onto the mahogany desk, leaning forward. "They are men, Eleanor! They are noblemen of the court, and they have needs. They are young, they are wealthy, and they are navigating the traditional games of the social season."
Eleanor stepped back, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. The disgust in her stomach turned into a physical sickness, cold and oily.
"How dare you," she whispered, her voice dropping to a deadly, shaking hiss. "How dare you turn this around to make it sound as if they did nothing wrong. You sit there and pardon their predatory, disgusting behaviour because... why? Because Tariq is a Lord and Neville is the son of the Prime Minister? Because punishing them would damage your precious, fragile alliances with their families? What about the damage to our daughter?!"
She took a step closer, her eyes locked onto his, refusing to let him look away.
"Are you seriously going to allow these beasts to remain at court, where she has to see them day in and day out, whilst you thought absolutely nothing of brutally beating and banishing the one man in this world who she actually loves? The one man who made her happy, and who would have protected her with his very life, simply because he lacked a noble title?!"
Constantine’s face went purple, a vein throbbing violently at his temple. "Drake Walker had no right touching her!" he roared, pointing a trembling finger at his wife. "Do not speak of that peasant in this room! He had no right being anywhere near the future Queen! He was a servant who dared to think he was our equal!"
"That man was the love of Emilia's life!" Eleanor shouted back, her voice ringing with a fierce, absolute truth. "And he has more right to a title of honour than any of the predatory cowards you choose to protect in your court! The men you insist on shielding because of your pathetic alliances! I want him gone, Constantine. Lord Tariq. I want him stripped of his title, and I want out of this palace."
Constantine let out a harsh, bitter laugh, straightening up and smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. "Eleanor, do not be hysterical. The man is a layabout, yes, and perhaps his manners are... lacking. But his family, his house, are incredibly important to the Crown."
"More important than your daughter?!" Eleanor spat, her eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying clarity. "She is the Crown, Constantine! And you have spent her entire life forcing her into the role of a monarch, never letting her forget her duty. If you insist on treating her like a chess piece, you should at least have the decency to protect her above all else! And you can start with that animal. I want Tariq gone. If you refuse, Constantine, I swear to you..."
She stepped back toward the door, her hand resting on the brass handle. Her posture was incredibly straight, her expression a mask of pure, unyielding iron.
"...I will make sure everyone in this court—every duke, every count, and every foreign diplomat—knows exactly what kind of criminals and rapists you are willing to protect to keep your crown. I will burn this court to the ground myself."
Before Constantine could speak, Eleanor turned on her heel and slipped out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her with a thunderous crack that rattled the paintings on the walls.
Constantine stood frozen behind his desk, his face red, his breathing shallow and laboured. His hands trembled slightly as he slowly sank back into his leather chair. He was furious at his wife's unprecedented outburst—outraged that she would dare threaten him, the King, with such public ruin.
But as the silence of the study slowly settled around him, and his erratic breathing began to steady, a cold, calculating pragmatism began to take hold.
He hated being dictated to, but he was a statesman first. He knew Eleanor’s threat was not empty; she was the Queen, immensely respected by the nobility and adored by the public. If she chose to expose Tariq's behaviour, the scandal would not just destroy Tariq—it would destabilize the entire monarchy, framing the King as a protector of predators.
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he thought of Emilia.
He had noticed a distinct change in his daughter over the last two months. When he had first banished Drake Walker, she had been hysterical, unreasonable, and entirely difficult. She still hadn't forgiven him—she likely never would—but since the start of the social season, she had finally begun to carry herself like a princess again. She was smiling, she was attending events, and she was no longer dragging her feet.
And Constantine knew exactly why. Liam Rhys.
The young Lord of House Rhys had been a constant, steady presence by her side. Liam was a spectacular match—influential, wealthy, and brilliant. Constantine was highly pleased by the connection. But if Tariq and Neville continued to crowd Emilia, if they tried to corner her again, the resulting chaos could ruin the match entirely. It could send Emilia spiralling back into the destructive grief he had worked so hard to crush.
Perhaps this newfound, fragile peace she had found was something he needed to protect. Not out of fatherly love, but out of absolute, calculated survival for the Crown's future. Tariq was a liability.
Constantine reached out, his hand steady as he picked up the receiver of his desk phone. He dialled the downstairs office.
"Yes," the King said, his voice cold, flat, and carrying a quiet, lethal authority. "Please inform Lord Tariq Ahmad that I wish to speak with him in my study. Urgently."
He replaced the receiver with a quiet click, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he waited.
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."
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.
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.
Pairings: Riley x Max, Riley x Liam, Riley x Rashad
Word Count: 513
Rating: MA
Warnings for this chapter: none
My other stuff: Master List.
Max watched gleefully from the back of the ballroom as his wife flirted with another man. He felt like dancing for joy. Not because his wife was flirting with another man, but because the other man wasn’t Liam.
For a while there, he had been worried that he was losing her to Liam, but Riley seemed to have lost interest in the king.
Max wasn’t the only one who had noticed Riley’s flirtation with the crown’s top lawyer. Liam’s eyes fell on the object of his affection standing a little too close to his friend and solicitor, the future duke of Domvallier. He made a beeline for the couple, sidestepping his wife as he went.
“Liam, we really should—”
“Not now!”
Madeleine’s eyes narrowed as she watched him swoop in on Lady Beaumont. She could, and would, make Riley’s life a living hell. It was bad enough that she tolerated Penelope under her roof.
Liam had certainly made the most of his social season, wooing and bedding most of the suitors. Penelope had been the only one dumb enough, or smart enough if you asked the queen, to get herself pregnant. Not a week after the engagement announcement, Penelope had announced her pregnancy. Being neither able, nor particularly willing to break a council approved and legally contracted marriage agreement, he had done the only sensible thing and made her the official royal mistress.
Penelope was one thing. But damned if she was going to tolerate a second mistress. She turned with a huff and made her way through the crowd. She needed a plan.
Liam was oblivious to his wife’s machinations as he swooped in to stake his claim. His hand landed on her shoulder then slid down her back possessively. “Riley, what are you doing, love?”
Riley stiffened in annoyance and frustration. She liked Liam, and they had a lot of fun together. Parties, dinners, dances, trips to Paris. He was funny, smart and amazing in bed. But he was a little too intense, a little too possessive. She and Max had opened their marriage to experience new things and different people. Not to immediately hop into a second committed relationship, which is what her situationship with the king was starting to feel like.
She had already experienced Liam. Now she wanted to experience the adorably shy adonis standing in front of her, but Liam was making that difficult. He had both a wife and mistress, so she had not anticipated his jealousy.
She forced a smile to her lips and replied, “I was just making a new friend.”
“Hm.” Liam’s eyes flicked over to Rashad and back again. “Well, if you’re done with that, I was hoping that we could—”
“Sorry,” she demurred as she pretended to read a message on her phone, “My husband just texted me that it’s time to go. We have a family thing that we need to attend to. But you can text me later.”
“Oh, well, I…”
She gave Rashad a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she hurried away, “Call me, okay?”
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!”
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.
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.
Characters: Drake Walker, Liam Rys, Riley Brooks, and the rest of the gang
Rating: Fun
Warnings: Depicts drunkenness generally
Word Count: 250
A/N: @nestledonthaveone gets most of the credit. She picked the song, came up with the idea, and wrote it. All I did was tweak it a little and add a couple of lines.
Everything else: Master list.
It’s karaoke night in Cordonia. Everyone is drunk. Especially Kiara.
Some random patron has just finished singing another heartbreaking love song. She subtly glances at Drake but quickly returns her gaze to her drink before anyone notices.
She finishes her 12th Cosmo and resolutely stands up, surprisingly steady on her feet.
Penelope: “Should we be worried about alcohol poisoning?”
Madeleine, trying to stop her: “No, Kiara! Not after last time! Do you want to be banned?!”
Kiara: “Retire ta main de moi, espèce de salope qui court après la couronne! J'ai besoin qu'il sache à quel point je l'aime!”
Liam: “Oh, no…”
Drake: with a long suffering sigh, “For fuck's sake…”
Riley, under her breath: “I wish i had one of Olivia's daggers.”
Kiara quietly walks to the stage and whispers to the DJ. His eyes widen as he shakes his head ‘no’. She shoves him out of the way and plays #1 Crush by Garbage, her eyes never leaving Drake, except when she points to Riley and sings the line, “I would kill for you.”
Everyone: 😳😳😳
Drake: 😵💫😵💫
Riley, surging out of her chair: “Bitch, you could try!”
Kiara, leaping off the stage: “Bitch, I will!”
Liam, Drake and Max hold Riley back while Madeleine, Penelope and Olivia hold Kiara back.
Liam: “That's it, she's lost her mind. Bas, get her out of here.”
Hana returns from the ladies room as Kiara is being pulled from the venue by three of Liam’s King’s Guards. “What did I miss?”
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!
