Oliver watched Sofia glide silently around his room, her eyes analyzing every detail with evident curiosity. She skimmed the shelves lined with books as if she could extract more about him through the titles. Her presence there was laden with tension — he knew she wasn't just admiring his literary collection.

Oliver's heart raced frenetically, both anxious and terrified, in response to Sofia's rather dramatic announcement. With a formal goodbye, Ian had reluctantly disappeared down the long corridor, and now Sofia was in his room for a private conversation.

Oliver remained motionless, his fingers intertwined nervously.

"Sofia?" His words trembled more than the legs of a novice on skates.

She turned to him, and there was a storm brewing in those blue eyes, a tempest that threatened to engulf him at any moment. She stepped back, stopping just a breath away from him. She sighed deeply, once, twice, three times, opening her mouth to speak but changing her mind. Oliver's impatience boiled inside his chest.

"Well, Oliver," Sofia began, and he was about to shake her back to reason when she finally seemed to carefully choose her words, preparing to drop the bomb:

"This morning, I was presented with a video that left me quite confused until I realized it had been recorded on the security cameras of the terrace at the Grand Hotel Stockholm."

She extended her arm, handing Oliver a smartphone with the screen illuminated. His heart sank upon seeing the images of that encounter on the hotel terrace. His face in ecstasy, as he surrendered to the arms of a man in a black overcoat — their bodies intertwining intimately in the pool — left little to the imagination.

There was no denying what was there, captured in pixels.

For a moment, the world around Oliver seemed to collapse. That video was irrefutable proof of his secret, a window into the true nature of Oliver Montague Fitzwilliam-Somerset. And now, Sofia held in her hands the power to destroy in seconds an image of decorum and nobility he had upheld for 26 years.

Oliver swallowed hard, preparing for the worst. But to his surprise, Sofia's voice was soft and understanding.

"I managed to persuade my father to suppress the dissemination of the video," she revealed, "and fortunately, it hasn't reached the press yet." It wasn't the most pleasant news, but it offered some relief. "I suspect that this person sent it to me expecting payment or some form of compensation," Sofia continued, "though we can't be sure how many eyes have already seen this video."

"Hum..." Oliver hesitated, handing back the device. Irritation tickled his naivety, but laughing was the only option when life slipped into the ridiculous. "I guess I wasn't very smart."

"I assume this gentleman is your Royal Advisor," she gently probed, emphasizing: "the person you were just talking to."

"Sofia," he interjected, speechless. Denying would be useless; confirming under these circumstances would be embarrassing, so Oliver remained silent, holding her piercing gaze.

"Well, it seems that Mr. Harrison-Jones remains unidentified in the video, so he probably doesn't face any risk, but Oliver," she paused dramatically, "what impact could this video have if it reached the press?"

Oliver pondered the question, and a sense of panic began to overtake him. Thinking about his relationship with Ian being revealed this way, without their control, made Oliver nauseous.

He collapsed onto the bed, his world spinning out of control, while Sofia knelt gently in front of him. He buried his face in his trembling hands, exhaling agonizingly.

His heart raced, anticipating sensational headlines, malicious comments, speculations about his sexuality. And worse than all, the possibility of Ian being dragged into this scandal terrified him.

If Oliver were brutally honest, a dark part of him even appreciated the idea of finally revealing the truth and ending the charade of his engagement to Sofia. But he would never put Ian in the line of fire that way.

Any speculation about Ian in that video would irreparably ruin his career, and Oliver loved him too much to let that happen.

"I have no idea, Sofia..." his voice was hoarse, desolate. A bitter laugh escaped when he met those sky-blue eyes full of empathy. "But I know it would be the fiasco of the century. A biblical disaster."

Sofia moved closer to Oliver, her gaze laden with concern. Holding his hands between hers, she suggested:

"Oliver, maybe I can help you with this." Her eyes sought his as she continued: "What if we made a public announcement of our engagement?" His heart raced with the unexpected proposal. She explained: "I know our families already have everything arranged, and you need to act soon. If we commit, it will be easier to say that the video isn't real or just a fleeting affair. This way, you'll show that you're fulfilling your royal duties, as expected. And we'll still protect Ian Harrison-Jones from any speculation."

Contemplation overtook Oliver. Sofia's proposal was calculated and had the potential to divert attention from the gossip, but it was steeped in deception and sacrificed his truth on the altar of royal convenience. Her hand on his shoulder was a firm support, though her words enveloped him in webs of responsibility and falsehood.

"But what I have with Ian is not just an affair, Sofia," Oliver tried to explain.

She interrupted him, finishing his sentence gently:

"I realized that when you told me about him that day at the café. I know there was a small miscommunication, but it's clear that you love him," she forced a sad smile, which Oliver returned with resignation. "I imagine this situation is torturing you," Sofia observed, looking into the distance as if she could see the significance of his secret before her. "My suggestion isn't to bind you to me or belittle what you and Ian have, Oliver, but to avoid scandals that could harm all of us."

Oliver took a deep breath, aware of the enormous consequences any choice would bring — political implications, diplomatic maneuvers, all weighing on him.

"We could make an announcement along with the unveiling of some important charity event," she continued, as if anticipating obstacles and already having answers prepared. "That would divert attention to the event and our engagement, something many already expect and support."

Oliver's mind whirled with possibilities.

It was true that their union would be applauded and seen as a symbol of continuity and stability. But wasn't there something dishonest about letting the world witness a projected happiness, a fabricated reality, while his heart belonged to another?

Still, Oliver couldn't deny the wisdom in Sofia's proposal.

She was offering him a way out, a curtain to hide the truth and perhaps, in the process, protect Ian and everything he had worked for.

"If we're going to do this," Oliver said carefully, "it will have to be our way. No blatant lies, just... letting the world see what it wants to see."

Sofia nodded.

"No blatant lies, but with silent hopes and expectations. We can continue being ourselves in private and fulfill our duties publicly."

It was a thin line Oliver had to walk — between his duty and his deepest desires. He had never longed so much for the simplicity and courage to live a life truly his own.

But as he observed Sofia, Oliver could see her strength and vulnerability intertwined, and he knew she also carried her own burden for this crown, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

He thought for a moment, knowing that walking that tightrope would require much skill. But for her, for Ian, and for himself, he was willing to risk it.

"Let's do this," Oliver agreed, aware that secrets have their own price, and that each of them would pay in their own way.

◃───────────▹

Oliver's fingers gripped the cold doorknob, its chilly texture a harbinger of what was to come.

He hesitated for a moment, knowing that on the other side awaited the stage already set for the inevitable confrontation between his royalty and his heart. The air seemed to vibrate with an electric tension, charged with all the gravity of the choice he had to make.

Accepting Sofia's request to formalize their relationship would be like chaining himself to an identity that wasn't truly his. It would split his world in two—one before, where Ian and he could still be themselves, even if in secret, and one after, where they would be forced to bury their connection in the shadowy corridors of royalty.

Oliver closed his eyes, and the vision came, vivid in his mind: Ian, his amber and honey gaze dissolving into silent anguish as the hungry cameras captured the revelation of his secret. Condemned to live like ghosts, feeding only on the stolen crumbs of furtive moments.

He felt a revolt growing in his chest. Desperately, his mind sought a loophole, a way out that would preserve the flame of their love without surrendering it to the merciless yoke of royal demands and protocols.

He knew that any path forward would be irreversible and inevitably laden with regrets. Still, with one last hesitation, like someone diving into deep waters, Oliver opened the door.

He needed to find Ian, tell him about the conversation with Sofia, discuss together and plan a way to keep their love alive despite all the adversities.

His steps echoed through the terrace, which had once been his refuge but now felt like a golden prison. Oliver looked down, seeing the gardens restricted to their geometric designs. There, everything flourished under the vigilant gaze of the court.

A sensation of cold coursed through his body as he felt the truth closing in—the video, the duty, the trap tightening its noose.

In Sofia's words, there was a disturbing beauty and a profound pain. Her proposal sounded like a siren's song, a poison disguised in sweetness. Oliver despised with every fiber that macabre theater erected before them, but rejecting it would bring bitter consequences.

In Sofia's words, there was a disturbing beauty and deep pain. Her proposal sounded like a siren's song, a poison disguised in sweetness. Oliver despised that macabre theater erected before them with every fiber of his being, but rejecting it would bring bitter consequences.

Surrounded by shadows and brief flashes of hope, Oliver walked to Ian, preparing his arguments for the imminent battle. But deep down, he knew the true fight would be against the farewell that was already looming over them.

◃───────────▹

Oliver stormed into Ian's room like a hurricane, the door creaking and slamming against the wall with a bang.

But the chaotic scene he expected was replaced by a strange spectacle: meticulously folded clothes scattered on the bed, instead of the usual symmetrical piles. Ian was bent over a suitcase, stuffing it with shirts, pants, and ties with an air of urgency.

He looked up, surprised by Oliver's abrupt entrance.

And in that instant, Oliver's impulse to reveal what he and Sofia had discussed cooled and died, suffocated in his chest—the confession turned to ashes in his throat.

"What are you doing?" Oliver asked, his voice sounding distant, like that of a stranger.

"I'm preparing for a trip," Ian murmured, a defeated sorrow impregnating each syllable.

His hands continued to work automatically, folding shirts with military precision into the suitcase.

"I believe that's the purpose of a suitcase," Oliver replied, the irony barely disguising the growing apprehension inside him. Ian let out an exhausted sigh, like a prisoner who had exhausted all pleas for clemency. "Where are you going?" Oliver insisted, infusing the question with a touch of sarcasm to conceal his rising apprehension.

With a defeated gesture, Ian sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His face carried an expression of fatigue and frustration, as if he had faced many battles throughout the day.

"I have a job interview, Oliver," he said simply, the voice contained in a phrase that barely required breath. His answer seemed to condense a series of worries and difficult decisions.

Oliver's brow furrowed in a tangle of lines, confusion and disbelief dancing in his eyes.

"But... you already have a job, Ian," he protested, his voice sounding insecure and almost childish.

Ian's next sigh carried palpable defeat, sweeping away any remnants of peace that still existed between them.

"After you and Sofia left, the Queen called me back to the office and rescinded my contract," he revealed bluntly, each word as sharp as a blade. "As soon as your marriage is official, I'll be sent to Spain."

"Spain?" Oliver stammered. "What are you going to do there?"

He plunged into the melancholic amber of Ian's eyes, searching for answers.

"It may be easy to hide things from the press, but you can't hide anything from someone as powerful as the Queen. She knows about the video, and she knows who's with you in it," Ian explained, and Oliver felt his heart shatter. "She wants to avoid any risk of scandal, so she wrote a letter of recommendation to the Spanish king. I'm traveling to discuss the terms of the position."

Oliver felt completely powerless, panic freezing his blood.

"But... you don't speak Spanish," he contradicted desperately, his voice choked by the tears already streaming down his face. "How are you going to perform your duties without being able to communicate? We need to convince her to give you your job back here."

His entire body trembled uncontrollably, and his breathing accelerated as his mind frantically sought a solution.

"Ollie—"

"You don't have to work with me," Oliver pleaded, kneeling between Ian's knees and grasping his hands. "You can... buy a house in the South, raise dogs, and I'll see you every day." His heart raced, adrenaline burning in his veins as he searched for the right words to convince him to stay. "I don't know, Ian," his voice trembled, a fragile thread of hope fraying. "You can choose to do whatever you want, but please, stay here with me."

Ian looked at him, his eyes filled with a sadness so deep it seemed to pierce Oliver's chest. Then, his lips curved into a broken smile.

"Baby," Ian whispered, the endearment sounding like a lament, "we've reached the end of the line." Oliver wanted to beg him not to call him that when he was leaving, but he swallowed the lament. Ian slid off the mattress and knelt before him, cupping his face in his hands, while he continued softly. "We've ignored the imminence of this moment for too long."

Oliver swallowed hard, shaking his head furiously. "No, we can't just give up. We had plans, Ian."

"You know we don't have a choice," Ian pulled him into his chest while stroking his hair. "We are so small in the middle of all this. We wouldn't stand a chance."

The truth in Ian's words only intensified Oliver's seemingly endless pain. He buried his face in Ian's shoulder as he cradled him gently, his hands sliding down his back with an almost adoring delicacy, trying to comfort his broken heart.

For a brief moment, Oliver allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if they could be together without worrying about security cameras, curious eyes, or stifling traditions. This thought made him pull away from the comfort of Ian's neck, noticing the wet stain his tears had left on his shirt.

He looked up to meet Ian's brown eyes, which seemed like two windows to his soul filled with affliction.

"I want to show you something. Come with me?" Oliver suggested, his voice still choked with sobs, but a fragile thread of hope encouraged him.

Without questioning, Ian nodded, his movements slow and careful, as if fearing a sudden gesture could break Oliver even more.

◃───────────▹

The stars twinkled shyly over Windsor Castle, the imposing fortress wrapped in the velvety cloak of winter. The leaves of the park's centuries-old trees, embroidered with crystalline dewdrops, seemed like collections of small diamonds illuminated by the modern lamps dotting the path. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, creating a cozy refuge from the frenetic pace of the outside world. Beside Oliver, Ian exhaled warm clouds of breath into the cold air.

The atmosphere of the night wrapped around their shoulders like the fabric of the wool coats they wore, a shield against the biting cold. Oliver's fingers lightly brushed the back of Ian's hand, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. When he finally gathered the courage to intertwine their fingers, Ian did not pull back. He accepted Oliver's hand, a discreet smile lighting up his face for a brief moment before looking ahead again, a dark lock of hair dancing before his eyes.

The Royal Garden unfolded before them in a spectacle. Some resilient flowers still bloomed despite the cold, and the marble fountain at the center of the garden emitted a serene sound, like a lullaby.

"This place..." Oliver said, his voice slightly trembling, "reminds me of Sunday mornings when we were very young. My parents used to bring us, me and my siblings, to a hidden spot deep within the castle, away from the world's eyes, where we could just be kids. Not princes, not future public figures, but... just us."

Sometimes, Ian would squeeze Oliver's hand in response, his brown eyes meeting his with an expression of affection and something else that Oliver couldn't define. Other times, he would simply nod, absorbing Oliver's words like someone who listens attentively to a story.

"My mother used to say this was our hideout," Oliver continued. His chest warmed at the memory of sunny afternoons among the trees, makeshift wooden sword battles, snowball wars. "My father taught us fencing here. I remember perfectly the sound of his laughter when we managed to disarm him."

Oliver stopped walking and looked around, absorbing every detail of that familiar place. Then, he turned his gaze to Ian, who watched him with the same attentiveness. He stood in front of Ian, closing the space between them until the mist of their breath hit his face like a cloud of comfort amidst the chaos.

Fragments of childhood memories organized in his mind, and Oliver felt Ian's hands gently slide down his arms, as if seeking to envelop him in a comforting embrace, a promise of warmth on that cold night. And for a brief moment, the feeling of familiarity and security calmed him. He knew it would be impossible to regain the simplicity and joy of that time, when he didn't have to sacrifice an entire life for the sake of an image, but that night they were building a memory just for themselves, even if it was the last time they could just be them, even if only for an instant.

"And then... there was that particular summer. We were playing hide and seek and..." Oliver hesitated, a soft laugh escaping involuntarily as he relived that memory. "I hid so well that no one found me. I fell asleep behind a curtain. The search for me lasted hours. When they finally found me, curled up and sleeping peacefully, they didn't know whether to laugh or scold me. The entire royalty, all state matters stopped... for me, a simple boy asleep after a game."

Ian's hands continued to rub Oliver's shoulders gently, and when he wrapped his arms around him, Ian transferred the caress to Oliver's back, tracing slow circles that sent waves of comfort. Oliver nestled his face into Ian's neck and allowed himself to close his eyes, inhaling deeply the characteristic scent of his skin, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of his pulse close to his ear.

"I still come here to think," Oliver resumed, sighing deeply before concluding: "Since you arrived, perhaps less, but... this place reminds me of who I really am."

The cold night air threatened to invade the folds of their coats, but Ian's warm embrace enveloped Oliver like a cozy blanket, warding off any trace of chill.

"You're not like the rest, are you?" Ian finally spoke. "I've met other nobles, Oliver, and none of them seem to oppose the pomp of royalty."

Oliver lifted his face, their gazes meeting, and it was as if the world around them disappeared. Seeing the almost peaceful glow in Ian's eyes gave Oliver the certainty of what he needed to do. But for that, he needed context.

"Once, my father brought me here. Just him, without my mother, Colin, or Alice," his voice floated, bringing to life the ghost of a sunny day in the past, the smell of damp earth and old book permeating the air. "He read me a passage from Love in the Time of Cholera, his favorite. It was a line that said the weak do not enter the realm of love, or something like that," he rummaged through his memory to continue the tale, lost in that vivid recollection. "Back then, I just felt that the words resonated with me, like a call to love with the same intensity and courage as the characters," he explained, his gaze fixed on Ian's face. "But now, looking at you, I understand that that story gave me hope of finding such a love, one that defies time and obstacles."

"Your father seemed to be a wise man," Ian murmured, the usual dimple appearing in the center of his cheek with his shy smile.

His fingers gently stroked Oliver's hair, the soft touch comforting him like a warm breeze on that cold night.

Oliver returned the smile, his much more painful and wistful than the compassionate one Ian offered. And he was right; his father had always been the most intuitive and understanding among them.

"He was the only person who saw me for who I was, you know? I think he always knew I would be different. Different from my brother, once so committed to following the royal traditions. Different from what everyone expected of a prince." A rough laugh escaped Oliver's throat as he recalled the childish poem about clocks he wrote that day when his father took him to his personal library. "He encouraged me to write because he knew I would grow up to be stupidly sensitive and misunderstood."

Oliver felt Ian's body vibrate with a silent laugh, his eyes shining with affection and understanding. He lifted his face, seeking Ian's knowing gaze, and paused to admire the dewdrops on his eyelashes, like tiny diamonds sparkling under the dim light.

"It must have been lonely growing up like that, so different," Ian commented, a tinge of sadness softening his voice.

But when Oliver touched his face, the cold surface of his skin yearning for the warmth of his fingers, he knew it wasn't like that anymore.

"It's okay. I don't feel alone anymore," Oliver whispered, mesmerized by the amber depth of Ian's eyes. "But that's not the point. I want to give you something."

Oliver reached into his back pocket, feeling the familiar shape of his wallet. He took it out, and inside, the silver key gleamed like a hidden hope. Determined, he extended it to Ian, watching his expression close in confusion.

"What is that?" Ian questioned, receiving the silver object that Oliver gently placed in his palm.

"It's the key to my apartment in Paris," Oliver revealed, and Ian's gaze lifted to his as if he had said something absurd. The crease between his eyebrows softened as understanding crossed his mind, but surprise manifested within seconds when Oliver added, "I want you to draft a transfer of ownership contract and give it to me to sign. I want it to be yours." Anticipating Ian's refusal, Oliver added: "See it as a way to reciprocate your gift."

"People are right when they say royalty lives in their own world," Ian observed, humor and exasperation in his voice. "This is the complete opposite of a rock and a story, Oliver. You can't give me your apartment."

"Of course I can," Oliver retorted. "It's the only thing I truly own, Ian. The only thing that doesn't belong to my grandmother, or some kind of generational inheritance. I can do whatever I want with it."

"Ollie," Ian ventured, incredulity evident on his features. "This is—"

"No, Ian," Oliver interrupted, holding his free hand with his own. "Since my father's death, the brief period I lived in that apartment was the closest I felt to being human. Until I met you."

Ian tried to protest but rolled his eyes when Oliver stopped him from speaking.

"You're the only person who truly knows me," Oliver continued, squeezing Ian's hand firmly. "The only one who can see beyond my title and the pomp. I'm about to have to assume a third persona, Ian, and I want you to take care of the one that truly belongs to me — the one I don't want to share with anyone else."

"Oliver," Ian repeated his name, and Oliver would have interrupted him a third time if he hadn't been quicker and cupped his face, pressing their lips together in a way that would extinguish any impulse to argue. "I appreciate your gesture, baby, but I can't accept. You know how risky it is to register a property transfer document from a member of the royal family without it becoming public information?"

"I'm sure you know how to handle it without attracting attention," Oliver insisted, determined. Ian sighed, frustration evident in his features. "Please, do this for me," Oliver implored, covering his hands with his, his eyes pleading for understanding. "If it bothers you so much to accept it as a gift, accept it as a promise. A promise that you'll give it back to me one day."

That was the declaration Oliver needed to convince him.

Ian fixed his eyes on Oliver's with an intensity that made Oliver shudder. In that gaze, Ian conveyed all the feelings that overwhelmed him — fear, worry, the desire to protect Oliver, and above all, the deep love he had for him.

Ian hesitated, his mouth opening and closing several times, unable to find the right words to contest Oliver.

Oliver smiled, accepting Ian's silence as a surrender, and he seemed to give up trying to argue, for in a sudden movement, he covered Oliver's lips with his in a kiss that meant much more than mere acceptance. It was a kiss laden with affection, desperation, a contained passion that overflowed at the edges.

Ian didn't need to say anything more.