A/N: Hi all. I have read so many amazing fanfics over the years and have been inspired to give it a go myself. I'm fairly new to it, and it's not perfect, but I'm enjoying myself. I hope you enjoy it too.
✅️ - Complete
🅾️ - Ongoing
🆔️ - In Development
🔜 - Coming Soon
The below are all based on characters from The Royal Romance by Pixelberry.
Queen of Hearts Title Page ✅️
This is my first fanfic. Some chapters are NSFW. More details in fic title page and chapter list. Based loosely on The Royal Romance by Pixelberry, although most is canon divergent.
Queen of Hearts Deleted Scenes ✅️
Plus One Title Page ✅️
Some chapters will be NSFW. More details in fic title page and chapter list. An idea that came to me after watching The Wedding Date.
Echoes of Yesterday Title Page 🆔️
Some chapters will be NSFW. More details in fic title page and chapter list.
Man of Honour Title Page ✅️
Some chapters will be NSFW. More details in fic title page and chapter list. An idea that came to me after watching Made of Honour.
In Another Life Title Page 🅾️
Some chapters will be NSFW. More details in fic title page and chapter list.
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.
I’m amazed by the excitement of everyone for wanting to reboot the royal romance. So here’s some ideas 💡 but please feel free to list anything you’d like to see and/ or do.
I was thinking we could all blow up TRR on a certain day on Tumblr by everyone writing a story/ character art/ or just Reblogging to get the flow going again.
one of my favorite things was having to wait for the next chapter because the excitement that came with the curiosity. So… Do we want as a group to reread the Royal Romance book 1 and work our way up, kind of like a book club and write stories, create art, or if you only read that’s perfect because reblogging helps and gives fuel for the fun to continue.
we need to all be in this together for it to work. I’d love to see Pixelberry create a new story for TRR although it probably wouldn’t happen but should.
Its 1958, and Princess Emilia Dawson’s life is a gilded cage, bound by duty and destined for a political marriage. But when she finds herself escaping the court's rigid scrutiny at the family's sprawling country estate, she finds a sanctuary—and an unexpected confidant—in the stables.
Drake Walker, the estate’s stable hand, is everything her royal world rejects: working class, a commoner, and utterly off-limits. Their stolen moments are a defiant fairy tale, a love that burns hotter than any royal decree.
Their idyll is shattered when King Constantine, Emilia’s father, issues a cold, non-negotiable command: Drake is not good enough for a future queen. Driven by duty and heartbreak, Emilia watches the only man she has ever loved disappear, leaving a void the throne can never fill.
Disclaimer: Some chapters are NSFW. All characters except my OC are owned by Pixleberry. Lots of fluff. Lots of angst. 18+. Feedback is always welcome.
Main Pairings: Drake Walker x F!OC (Emilia Dawson), Liam Rhys x Emilia Dawson
Face Claims - Emilia Dawson - Blake Lively, Drake Walker - Daniel Di Tomasso, Liam Rhys - Trevor Donovan
Rating - Explicit (18+). Sexually explicit chapters marked as (E), Violent chapters marked as (V), Mature chapters marked as (M).
A/N: The 1950s is a decade that has always interested me. I love the fashion, the music and the rebellion that sparked in the youth of the decade. Unfortunately, I wasn't around to experience it, I wasn't born until the late 1980s. But I have done some research to try and keep this as true as possible to youth culture and the words that would have been spoken at the time. I imagine Cordonia to have a blend of both American and British influences. If anything isn't quite right I apologise, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.
Prologue - A Doorway in Time
Chapter 1 – A Summer Sanctuary
Chapter 2 – Under a Canopy of Stars
Chapter 3 - A Runaway Sunbeam
Chapter 4 – The Depths of Desire (M)
Chapter 5 - More than a Season
Chapter 6 – Every Wonderful Part of You
Chapter 7 – The World Will Move Slower Without You There
For The Royal Romance Thursday, I'm re blogging this incredible story by @whiskeyinlythikos .. If you're a Drake Walker fan, or a fan of Choices The Royal Romance you must check it out. 💞 All the characters are here, but this time the story is a little different. Romance, Drama, intrigue, this story has all of it.
My Best Friends Girl summary: Follows Book One of The Royal Romance, from Drake’s point of view. A little canon divergent but mostly follows the timeline and events as presented in the book. The major difference is that Drake has an important function at the palace, he is not just a free loading professional best friend. Some things take place “off page” (were not in the original story) but do not change the things that are “on page” (aka canon).
Three Weeks in Ramsford follows this series chronologically and is based on the time period between book 1 and book 2 that Riley spent at the Beaumont estate. It explores what could have happened if Drake had found a way to reach out to her during that time.
For my other stuff: click here.
Chapter One: New York
Chapter Two: Transatlantic
Chapter Three: Security Matters
Chapter Four: Three Weeks at the Palace
Chapter Five: Lythikos
Chapter Six: Cruel and Capricious
Chapter Seven: Birthday Wishes
Chapter Eight: Applewood
Chapter Nine: Storm Rolling In
Chapter Ten: Ramsford
Chapter Eleven: Beaumont Bash
Chapter Twelve: Coronation Ball
Chapter Thirteen A: Rain Down (original ending, ties into TWiR/Complicated)
For Alternate ending/continuation of story go here. This ending makes it a Drake x Riley story.
Reblogging for #trrsday #theroyalromancethursday #TRR @spicyroyals event idea
If someone asked me to pick one story that inspired me to write, this would be it 🥰 its one of my favourites that I have read over and over and over again. @angelasscribbles thanks for all the amazing writing you have shared over the years and continue to share ❤️
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.
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.
Raida Pearce was getting ready for her date with Adrian and Jax, Though her relationship with both of the men being a beautiful thing. Adrian and Jax own relationship was still developing. As she is putting on makeup Adrian was in the living room adjusting his tie and Jax cross his arms leaning against the wall. "Trying to look pretty?" Jax asks Adrian. Adrian turns to Jax and scoffs "I don't need to try. Raida knows which of us gets her nice and-" Jax stands up towering over Adrian on tip toes "Watch what you say". Raida Pearce hears her two boyfriends bicker and began to think of a idea. How can she bring them both closer together. She smiles coming out the room grabbing her car keys walking outside of her room. "Alright loves let's go on our date" Both men smiling holding her hand either side of her, they both head into the car with Raida and the car drives off.
***
After a few minutes driving Raida, Jax and Adrian enter inside the Resteraunt. Adrian pays for the meal. Raida orders lamb and a bloody Mary. Jax orders steak and sex on the beach and Adrian orders burgers and fries. Both Adrian and Jax sat from either side of Raida and smiles "You look beautiful Raida" Jax says massaging her shoulders causing the woman to moan "Thanks Hun" And Adrian cups Raidas chin kissing her softly. Jax watches and soon Adrian breaks the kiss Jax kisses Raida gently. The kiss was passionate, Tongue and after the kiss breaks. Jax feeds her his food as Adrian follows suit. The date is going great Raida being pampered, but the whole point is to bring these two together. It is a poly relationship after all. "So Adrian I wanna see you and Jax kiss" Adrian blushes a shade of pink and the whole resteraunt began to cheer. Jax nods and kisses Adrian softly. Both men kissing softly. The kiss makes Raida feel Abit of heatness in her core, her cheeks a shade of pink. The way Adrian moves his tongue inside Jax mouth turns her on Abit. Maybe too much. The kiss lasted a good 3 minutes before breaking. She feels like she's bringing them both together.
After eating at the restaurant They began driving to the Arcade, Jax was playing a samurai game and Adrian was watching His boyfriend play while holding his girlfriend Raida in his arms. Jax was focused and he turns to his boyfriend and girlfriend. "I got a idea" He stands up straight and smiles pointing at the ping pong table. "Winner gets to lead the threesome tonight" Adrian smirks "You are on" Raida watches as her two boyfriends play ping pong. Adrian hits the ball and Jax hits the ball in vampire like speed. The ball not hitting at the goal. She buys a smoothie and smiles " Winner gets a kiss from me!". That motivated the two men and Jax distracts Adrian by saying "Your lips is delicious" This caused Adrian to blush and Jax scores. He smiles holding Both of his boyfriend and girlfriend close kissing them both. The poly couple continued playing throughout the night. Having a fantastic time.
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.
Series Premise: As Riley Brooks journeys through life as a single parent in New York City, an epiphany strikes as she contemplates the future for herself and her two-year-old son.
Rating: M🔞Warnings – crude language, not Beta’d - please excuse all errors.
Words: 1951
Turning the Page
Memories - Chapter 1
Chapter Summary: While remembering bittersweet memories of her time in Cordonia, Riley comes to the realization that there are still unanswered questions to pursue from the night of the Coronation Ball.
Music Inspiration: Far Side of the World, Holden Miller, The Way We Were, Lucy Thomas
A/N: My submission for @choicesflashfics, Week #41, Prompt #1, “You make me feel like I’m worth it.”
A/N2: In this alternate universe, after King Constantine orchestrates two individual scandals to humiliate and entrap Riley Brooks and Olivia Nevrakis in shame, Madeleine Amaranth secures her position as the Queen of Cordonia. Riley, as the King’s mistress and Olivia, in self-imposed exile. Tariq is never found.
“...I can’t do this anymore.” Riley answered softly.
Daniel’s heart broke in two as he looked at his dear friend. Her tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes told him everything that he needed to know.
“It’s okay, Riley,” Daniel said. “It’s not your fault. You were put in a difficult position.”
Her bottom lip trembling; those words spoken, was all it took for her to break down.
…. Remembering the day she danced with her prince at the Coronation Ball, and he said,
‘I hope you never have cause to regret coming here.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Well, so much has happened, and...’
As the song winds down, Prince Liam’s hands linger on her waist, his eyes searching hers.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Is something wrong?’
***
Wrapping his arm around her shoulders Daniel pulled her close to his chest, breaking the memory.
“I should have known that I was in way over my head. The signs were all there.” Riley spoke between sobs.
“This situation is so fucked up. Falling in love with a man from across the ocean, whose duty to his country dictates his future. Whose life is not his own. His world is so foreign to you. A world unavailable to....”
Riley took a deep breath and met his gaze.
“Stop. Just stop. ...Please.”
“Mommy?” “Dan Dan?” A little voice called out.
Daniel looked over at Riley’s son, walking with his pail towards the sandcastle that they had all made together.
“Hey, buddy, what do you have in your pail?”
“Fo howse,” he pointed to the sandcastle.
“One sec, Ri. I will be right back.” Daniel kissed Riley’s forehead quickly and walked towards the little boy.
Riley closed her eyes, continuing to remember the words Liam spoke to her the night they visited the Statue of Liberty.
‘...but I’ve always known that my role would require me to give up much of what I desire.’
‘You’re the prince. Can't you do what you want, at least some of the time?’
‘If only. My whole life I’ve prepared myself to do what’s best for Cordonia.’
Looking at her son. Looking at Liam’s son.
Riley had an epiphany.
***
The royal council meeting lasted well into the evening. It was almost 9:30 pm when the last council member left the boardroom at the palace. Liam stood up from his chair and started to walk down the long hallway to his study. His plans for the rest of the evening included shooting hoops with Drake and a stop at the beer garden later to wind down. Pouring himself a finger of Scotch he sat down at his desk and reclined his chair. Pulling out his phone, he checked for any missed messages or calls, but nothing of interest was received. The one and only person he wanted to desperately hear from still eluded him.
Three years ago.
The love of his life.
Walked away from him.
Three years of being alone.
Even though he constantly had people around him; Regina, Leo, his guards, nobles, his friends. But never her.
He would never blame her for walking away. The situation was. Is. So very unfair to her. So undeserved.
And if he was being honest with himself. Very unfair to him. His entire life, he was groomed to serve the Cordonian people and the monarchy. To fulfill ‘his duty’ to Cordonia, without question.
When Riley captured his heart that fateful night in New York, he felt the walls of duty surrounding him start to crumble.
When Riley followed him to the masquerade ball to join the social season, his world shifted in its axis. Thinking that he would never see Riley again, he was given the best surprise. Just to think that she travelled all the way from New York City to be with him.
‘I know we have something special. I want to see what it can be.’
And now, after all the years, his guilt still consumed him.
How he wished he could find out how she was. To make sure she's OK. Hopefully. She moved on with her life. Tears welled in his eyes. He missed Riley. Every day he thought about her and wondered where she was. He missed her voice. He missed her smile.
He remembered everything, and could forget, nothing.
Wanting to relax he stretched his legs and reclined his chair more. His eyes drifted shut and he was almost asleep when he heard a knock on the door.
“Come.” Liam called out in response.
Opening his eyes, he saw Madeleine scowling down at him.
Liam grinned at the thought. It had to be her. No one else would have been able to make such an impression on his guards, to let her in without his permission.
“You know, Madeleine, I think I have seen enough of you for this evening. Please go away and do whatever you do in the evening.”
Liam was well aware that Madeleine kept her own Cordonian arrangement with a dignitary from Morocco. He was in the capital this evening on business, planning to rendezvous with her tonight.
“You know Liam, I am not a child. I understand that you are in a position of authority, and I know that you cannot spend all your time with me.”
“I do need you to come to my chambers and spend the evening with me.” She stood waiting for his answer as Liam felt her gaze burning through him.
At least once a month, Madeleine tried to persuade Liam to sleep with her, but to no avail.
Tonight, was no exception.
“You have not answered my question. Are you coming to my chambers or not?”
“Madeleine, it is a generous offer, but there is no way in hell I want to spend my evening with you. I have plans. Not that it is any of your business. I am spending time with friends tonight.”
“Do you realize, Liam, we have been married for almost four years now and yet no heir. How long will this last? Our people are waiting for news!”
“Isn’t Eduardo waiting for you, Madeleine?” Liam scoffed.
“You will not even touch me. For as long as I see fit, at the very least he pays attention to me. How long will you wait for Riley to magically reappear? She left you Liam. She left you high and dry. She could not handle it. Stop embarrassing yourself, Liam. This country wants an heir. It is our duty to supply one.”
There was a short knock on the door and Drake popped his head through the doorway.
“Li, my apologies for interrupting.” Drake gave Liam a ‘knowing look’.
“Queen Madeleine.”
Liam stood up from his desk, glowering at Madeleine and turned towards his bar cart. Picking up a bottle of Macallen, “Drake, my man, come have a drink with me. This one is leaving.”
Madeleine ‘glared daggers’ at Liam as she watched him pour whiskey into two lowball glasses, Huffing, she turned around and walked out of his study, not acknowledging Drake. Drake raised an eyebrow, “was I interrupting something important?”
“Hell, no.” Liam shot back his drink and slammed the glass onto his desk.
“Let's play some ball.”
***
“I need to ask a favor of you, Daniel.” Riley called out.
“Anything, Ri, of course,” Daniel replied.
Standing up from the sand he reached down and scooped up Riley's son into his arms. Walking towards her, Riley smiled as she held out her arms.
“Li Li, come to mommy, sweetheart.”
That is all it took for the giggles to start. William squealed and successfully wrangled out of Daniel’s grasp to get to his mom.
Shaking his head, “this kid will kick my butt one day!”
“What's up, Riley?”
Taking a deep breath, “well, remember that certain table that you asked me to serve the night before I left for Cordonia?” Riley sheepishly looked at her friend.
“How could I forget?” Daniel raised his eyebrow in question.
“Yes, well....”
Riley looked down, not able to meet his eyes.
“Remember, there were four men. Liam, of course, was one. Tariq, as well, was there.”
“Oh yes and I remember there were two others with them.”
“Yes, that’s right, Drake and Maxwell. I need you to contact Maxwell.”
“OK, Riley. Sure, that sounds easy enough. I remember that I still owe you a favor for looking after that table that night for me.”
Riley smirked at the look of horror that suddenly fell on his face for saying that aloud.
“Anything Riley.... What is his address?”
“Actually, I need you to call him.”
“OK, call him. ...and what do you want me to say?”
“I need you to ask him to come here. to New York City.”
“Riley. Are you sure that's a good idea? Won't he tell Liam your whereabouts? Aren't you concerned?”
“Daniel, I am going to ask Maxwell, as my friend. To help me get some answers. But first I need to talk to Maxwell and explain everything to him in person. He needs to come here alone. And I need you to sell that reason to him to come alone, and not to bring anyone with him. Could you do that for me?"
Daniel paused. Looking at his dear friend. “Yes,” he said begrudgingly.
“I sure hope you know what you're doing.”
“So do I, Daniel. So, do I.”
“For you and this little one, I want nothing but happiness from now on. You deserve the world.”
“Thank you, Daniel...for everything.
“You make me feel like I’m worth it.”
***
...if we had the chance to do it all again tell me, would we, could we?
Hey. My WIP series Across the Stars for Endless Summer (Choices visual novel) is mainly posted on Ao3 (With sporadic update posts over here when I upload a chapter)
As part of the 'Choices Fandom Reblog Event' I am currently trialing posting my prologue chapter and chapter one over here. Please be gentle 🤣
This is Chapter One of Memories
Relationship: Jake McKenzie/f! Main Character (Endless Summer)
(Spoilers for Endless Summer canon under readmore.)
Memories
It's been almost five years since Jake lost his wife to the crazy crap that went down on La Huerta. He's finally starting to pick up the pieces of his shattered life when he stumbles across an all too familiar face, homeless, and with no memories..
There's no way it's her... Right?
*
How about from the other side.
How would it feel to wake up one day and not know where you were, or even your full name? What if there was no one you could call because you had no phone and well… there was no-one?
This is a typical day for Jayden. Except maybe its not so typical afterall. After struggling to survive on the streets she's about ready to give up hope, until a stranger who feels more familiar than he should offers the helping hand she so desperately needs
Chapter 1: Jayden
"Can you spare any change?"
She might as well not have spoken. Dwindling crowds continued to hurry past, in a rush to get home before the snow started falling. So many different types of footwear passing in front of her face, so many different walks of life.
Lifting her face to the skies, she gave a frown at the heavy grey clouds that blanketed the world, tiny flakes beginning to flutter softly down around her. Flakes that could have been pretty under any other circumstance, but not as the cold wetness began to seep through her clothes.
Clutching the thin jacket tighter she huddled against the pavement, arms wrapping tight around bent legs in a futile attempt to keep warm. A despondent weariness settled deep into her skin, her bones, working its way through her until it felt like it was all she'd ever known, but it couldn't be. Even though she had no memories before arriving in town she knew things had been different before. Knew it like she knew her name, like she knew there was someone she was supposed to find, and time was running out.
Not for the first time she wondered if there was anyone looking for her? She had glimpses sometimes, people whose faces she could never make out, laughter, fear, friendship, a sense of belonging. Other times she felt strong arms wrap around her, folding her in their warmth, where she felt safe and protected. Cradling her as though they were the only two people in the world.
She tugged anxiously at wool threads escaping from fingerless gloves. Maybe it was nothing but a wishful dream and there had never been anyone. Even if she was supposed to, she had no idea where to start looking.
Days blurred into weeks until she no longer counted them and she stopped questioning things she couldn't remember. All that existed was today. All that would ever exist was one single day repeating the same questions. Would anyone stop? Would there be anything to eat?
She came to dread the flickering images, they made her long for something she couldn't have and she was tired of always being alone when they ended. Closing her eyes she felt a familiar sense of longing and loss swept through her, wanting desperately to be able to lean back into the embrace, for it to be real. She forced her eyes open with a small bitter laugh. It always faded, no one was ever there no matter how hard she tried to hold on to the feeling.
The crowds were sparse now, most of the workers already headed home for the day. It was almost too much effort to try asking again, knowing how rarely anyone seemed to hear, but she felt an increasing urgency to try one last time.
"Can anyone spare any change?"
A pair of combat boots passed, continuing their way along the street and Jay dropped her head back to press against her knees, wondering not for the first time, if she had any chance of surviving this weather.
"Jay…?"
Startled from her thoughts she peered up through strands of unwashed blond hair that escaped her baseball cap. Strange. It almost sounded like someone said her name.
The boots had stopped just at the edge of her vision, facing back towards her. She lifted her eyes tracing a path up from the boots, past worn black jeans, a dark plain looking hoodie topped with an unfastened green jacket. Wide cerulean eyes stared back at her from a pale face framed with long brown strands that whipped about in the wind. What could have been an intentional beard or a couple of days of unshaved stubble scattered across his jawline.
Those unreadable eyes fixed onto hers, leaving her unable to look away, as though for a brief moment in time they were the only people in the world. He stared long enough that she began to feel uncomfortable, only releasing her when he finally spoke.
"It's cold.. D'ya… want some coffee?"
Jay gave a silent nod, frowning as she tried to shake the feeling of deja vu that washed over her as she made a weak attempt to stand. Stumbling on muscles seized from inactivity she threw an arm out wildly towards the wall for support.
"I got ya" firm hands gripped her arms in a surprisingly gentle grasp as he held her upright, patiently waiting for her to steady herself. Heat flushed across her cheeks, as she ordered her legs to behave and actually do their job and support her.
"Thanks" The words felt strange. "I'm good now."
He took a step back, eyes flicking over her almost critically. Clearly he didn't think she was good, though he chose to keep that opinion unspoken. A flash of irritation surged through her, then she remembered this stranger was offering her the only warm thing she'd had all day, and the irritation faded in place of something more akin to shame.
Tugging uselessly at the threadbare jacket, she stiffened as a shiver tore through her, the cold biting deeper with the absence of his hands and their unexpected warmth. The stranger let out an exasperated sigh, stepping close again and she felt something settle round her shoulders, warming and creating a barrier between her now damp clothing and the wind. Too thankful to be more than momentarily puzzled, she peered at him from under the peak of her hat, frowning when she saw he was no longer wearing his jacket.
"Why ..?"
"You really gonna ask that? Princ…" He broke off, mouth twisting in a pained grimace. "Let's just say you look like ya need it more'n me right now." He half reached forwards as though he wanted to take her arm again but instead jammed his hands deep into his pockets, taking a hesitant step back, far enough to give her space, but close enough to be able to grab her if she fell. "C'mon. let's get that coffee."
He led her past a couple of brightly lit storefronts until they reached a coffee shop that opened late. Stepping through the door they were enfolded in a cheery warmth, condensation blanketing the windows, the distinct aroma of ground coffee filling them as they inhaled deep breaths.
At the counter he flashed her a questioning look and she shrugged her response, an awkward unease filling her. How often did he think she ordered from places like this? Unperturbed he gave a wry smile ordering for both of them and pointing out a couple of pasties seemingly at random. Once they had their order they settled into a window booth.
*
Jake was having a major crisis. One he was desperately trying to keep hidden. Every fibre of his being cried out to throw his arms round the half starved girl sat across from him. However... and it was a pretty damn big however… She didn't seem to have a clue who he was. With a harsh twist of his mouth he forced himself to admit there was no way she could actually be who he hoped.
He didn't take his eyes from the girl that couldn't be Jay as she devoured a cheap pasty, eating as though it was the best meal she'd had. It hurt to see how thin she looked. How frail, how beaten. Hardly anything like the daring girl he'd fallen in love with on a summer island. With hands clenched under the table, he fought back the almost unbearable urge to reach out and brush the strands of hair back from her face.
"D'ya want anything else?"
He watched the need to question vie with hunger across her face. Hunger obviously won, though she dropped her gaze to the table, unable to meet his eyes. Jake unfolded a note from his wallet, trying not to sigh as he pushed it across the table at her.
"Go get whatever ya want"
The note was gone almost before he blinked, crumpled up in threadbare wool covered fingers. There was no mistaking the suspicion in her pale eyes now.
"What if I run?" She almost looked like she might run. She definitely looked as though she'd considered it.
"Then what have I lost?" He smirked, a faint imitation of an expression that had once been almost a trademark look.
A frown crossed her face as she focused on the note in her hand. "Um…. your jacket?" The side of her mouth edged up in what could have been an attempt at a smile and his heart wrenched, trying not to imagine her back out on the streets if she did run.
"I think I'll risk it."
He couldn't take his eyes from her as she queued and came back with a couple more pasties, jacket pockets visibly bulging with other things she could eat later. She paused at the edge of the table, weight shifting from one foot to the other as she reached a decision, shoving her hand out before she could change her mind.
"Your change"
Unclenching his fingers he reached his hand above the table and closed it easily around hers. He'd almost forgotten how small her hands had always felt in his.
"Keep it" He muttered. His eyes not quite meeting hers as he wondered what other things he might have forgotten. The thought that he could forget anything about her sending a sharp stab through his heart.
She observed him a little more critically as she slid back into the booth opposite him, more confident now hunger no longer gnawed at her. "You're strange"
Jake almost spat out the mouthful of coffee he'd just taken, managing an awkward half cough as she turned a familiar expression on him, "You have no idea…"
"You realise that's just proving my point?" her mouth twitched again, unable to hide her amusement at the response.
Instead of replying he took a sip of his coffee, raising an eyebrow at her as he drank, the smirk threatening to reappear. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes as she devoured the second pasty.
"So…. what do you want?"
"Hmmm?"
"Don't just Hmmm. You could have thrown that note at me in the street and walked past, gone about the rest of your day, but you didn't…" she frowned, less sure of herself as her words trailed off.
"If I had? Would you have eaten inside where it's warm? Or would you have stayed out there til everythin' was closed and you froze?"
She had to admit he had a point.
"Look. I've been there alright?" He wasn't sure he'd ever made that clear to Jay in so many words. She knew he'd been on the run for three years, but not the amount of times he'd gone hungry or had to beg for a meal. Those were usually the sort of details he glossed over.
He went to take another mouthful of coffee realising as the cup reached his mouth that it was empty. Unwilling to leave her but not sure what else to do, he stood and gestured towards the counter.
"I'm gonna get another coffee. You want one? You gonna be here when I get back?"
"Please, yeah" There was less hesitation in her voice this time and she settled back into the cushioning to wait as he queued. It was certainly a lot more comfortable here than the pavement. Snuggling back into Jakes jacket she tried and failed to remember the last time she'd felt warm and full like this at the same time. Leaning her forehead forwards to rest against the window, she allowed herself to watch the snowfall and last minute shoppers hurrying by, able to appreciate the scene now she was seeing it from behind glass. She was asleep when he got back to the table.
He put the cups down as quietly as possible and sat frowning at her "Can it really be you Princess?" He mused. The longer he sat with her the more he was convinced, though he kept telling himself it was impossible. There was no way this girl could be his wife… his Princess, but the tiniest possibility kept him sitting there making sure no one disturbed her while she slept. If there was any chance, any at all, there was no way he could abandon her, especially not as she seemed to be on the streets.
He leaned back, coffee in hand, watching as she slept. For the first time in over four years he felt truly content, happy even. Jeez... When was the last time he'd actually felt happy. Was it really the day after their wedding? That first morning when he woke in the arms of his wife and knew he could survive anything as long as she was beside his side. The day he'd thought things were finally turning out right, but that ended worse than any of his nightmares.
It grew late and still he watched her sleep. He drank two more coffees. The staff started to close the shop around them, the cashier apologetic when she came over to the table.
"Sorry sir, we're closing now." She smiled at him sadly, her glance taking in both of them.
"It's okay. Thanks for letting us stay, for letting her sleep" He nodded towards Jay and handed the woman a tip "I appreciate it"
"It's no problem love" she looked between the pair of them and gave another smile. "You can have a few more minutes, but I really have to lock up soon."
He thanked her again and looked back at the sleeping girl across from him, really not wanting to wake her. Was this it? Was this where the magic faded and he went back home to his empty life? The thought left him fighting back tears, and he gritted his teeth, swallowing against the unwanted emotion. He was really sick of crying.
When he was sure he had himself under control he reluctantly climbed from his side of the booth and moved to hers, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. The third time he'd touched her since he saw her. Not that he was counting. Not that he still ached to hold her and run fingers through her hair. To stroke his thumb across her cheek and watch her lean into him as she always had.
"Hey sleepy. We gotta leave, they're closin'."
When she didn't respond he shook her shoulder gently, stepping back as her eyes flew open. The immediate alertness of someone who'd been sleeping rough for a while. He raised his hands, palms open, while her eyes darted from side to side, assessing the room, before coming back to settle on his face.
"You."
He shrugged, a wry smile appearing. "Just me, but we gotta make a move. This place is closin'."
"I was asleep?" She blinked a couple of times, trying to focus now the adrenaline of being woken was fading "You waited?"
"You looked like ya needed it" He could make excuses that they wouldn't have let her sleep if she was alone, but he knew there was no way he could have left her today. Not when his first response to that question was, I'll always wait for you.
He held a hand out "C'mon."
She gave his outstretched hand a wary look, before slipping hers into it and allowing him to help her to her feet.
"Thanks again" he called towards the back of the shop as they made their way towards the door.
She wished she hadn't slept. She wished he hadn't let her. It had been the most normal she'd felt in as long as she could remember, and she'd wasted most of it sleeping. She huddled deeper into his jacket knowing she should offer it back, but reluctant to let go of her only layer of protection, and because it's his, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. A voice she told to be quiet. Being warm was the priority. Survival. Not being sentimental for someone she'd never see again. Really she should run before he had a chance to ask for it back.
When they stepped outside it was dark and the snow had turned into a driving rain. They were soaked by the time they'd taken more than two steps away from the door, warmth quickly fading.
"Over there" Jake spotted a covered alcove and set off, pulling her along with him, their hands still linked as they ran.
He was laughing as they ducked inside, and when he reached to tuck a strand of hair out of her face she was almost sure he was going to kiss her. What surprised her most was the swirl of disappointment as he leaned away from her and rested back against the other wall.
"Well, that wasn't what I expected to walk out into..."
He was still smiling, laughter written across his face, along with something raw, wild and untamed. Something that pulled at her in ways she couldn't have imagined and couldn't explain.
"Somethin' tells me we ain't gonna be able to wait this one out."
Her face fell as unwelcome reality slammed back. He might be able to wait this out, she had to find somewhere safe to sleep. The doorway they were in might do as a temporary shelter. She'd slept a little, so she could probably stay awake and not be easy pickings in the early hours.
She'd been silent too long and he looked back at her, all trace of laughter vanishing as he took in her expression and the defeated set of her shoulders.
"Ah… yeah… right.." He took a deep breath "Where you stayin' tonight?"
The feeling of shame was back. She should leave, walk purposefully down the street, pretend she had some place to go… but she knew he'd know. Knew he'd see it for the lie of bravado it would be. Instead she stayed silent and focused on the floor. Feeling gentle fingers under her chin she turned her face back towards his, uncertain as he made eye contact.
"Not exactly a night for sleepin' under the stars Princess"
"Not exactly like I have much of a choice…" There was something on the tip of her tongue to call him, but her mind refused to provide the words.
"You… could always stay at mine"
Something like anger flashed across her eyes "I don't… I won't… I'm not…"
He'd known the moment the words were out of his mouth how they sounded. How they'd probably be taken - but he couldn't not offer. The thought of her spending the night out here in this was unbearable. So was thinking of her anywhere he wasn't if he was completely honest with himself.
"Easy... I'm not askin' anythin' of you. It's just somewhere you could be outta the way of this for a while" He gestured at what was quickly becoming a storm outside their doorway, his southern drawl becoming more pronounced as he floundered for words. "If ya want… No pressure .. no expectations, no nothin'."
When he looked back at her face there was a sceptical, guarded expression there.
"I know. I know how it sounds Princess. but I ain't ever gonna do anythin' ya not okay with."
"Princess…" She rolled her eyes before looking herself up and down. Battered holed trainers, threadbare soaked jeans, that stupid useless shirt, topped off with his jacket "Some freaking princess." She muttered…
That infuriating smirk was back on his face, tugging at her in ways it had no business doing. He reached his hand out to her again.
"D'ya trust me?"
She worried at her bottom lip. Do I trust him? I only just met him. There's no way I can trust him. She couldn't deny that she had felt safe around him though. Safe enough to actually sleep. Which was more telling than she'd like it to be.
"...A little."
She hadn't thought it possible for the smirk to get bigger, but apparently she'd been wrong. He gave her hand a light squeeze as she placed hers in his.
"Good enough" Casting his eyes up to the skies he grinned back at her again, "Ready to make a run fer it?"
She had little chance to do more than glance up too before he stepped back out, pulling her with him as they ran shrieking into the storm. Laughter bubbling up as he tugged her along behind him, his fingers soft as they wrapped round hers.
His car was parked a couple of streets away and they were both beyond soaked by the time they reached it, throwing the doors open and diving inside. The rain bouncing on his roof and down the windshield as they slammed the doors closed behind them.
"I'm not sure your upholstery is going to forgive us for this"
He had that smile on his face again as he fumbled with the controls for the blower.
"Screw it"
A sharp bark of laughter escaped her. Survival had been her only priority for so long that it felt strange to be so blasé. Strange but somehow so natural as they sheltered together from the rain, the smile softening the lines of his face as he watched her with those hauntingly beautiful eyes.
"Yeah. screw it." She agreed, feeling her own smile stretch to match his.
Chapter Two (Ao3)
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