The soft hum of the private jet lulled Oliver as he flew above the clouds. It wasn't a flight he had chosen but an obligation — yet another of the many that dragged him to a predetermined destination. The sterile cabin, all gray plastic and metal, enclosed him like a barrier, cold and distant, as impersonal as the real life he longed for beyond those confines. Outside, the sun cast a golden light on the world, but through the filtered glass, its intensity was muted, leaving only shadows.

"Prince Oliver?" The flight attendant's voice broke the silence, formal and polite, but without the warmth of a genuine greeting. Oliver didn't bother to look up. The mention of his title sounded increasingly foreign, a reminder of the life he was supposed to assume but never truly wanted. "Oliver" felt more genuine to him, closer to the man he longed to be — a simple name, beginning and ending in a single breath.

Still, he found himself at the crossroads of eras, where his name was nothing more than a coded inheritance, a shackle inscribed with the authority of a symbol that he now bore on his chest. He sighed, watching the clouds. Freedom seemed so tempting and, at the same time, so unattainable.

The flight attendant, a model of professionalism in her pristine uniform, watched him with the serenity of someone who had seen it all. Oliver inhaled deeply, accepting the inevitable, and with a gentle gesture, surrendered.

"Where exactly are we?"

She gave him a kind nod before announcing pompously, "We'll be on the ground shortly, Your Royal Highness. Five minutes to landing."

As the attendant walked away, he allowed himself to close his eyes. He felt suspended between two worlds: the sky, where he could be anyone, and the earth, where the weight of the crown and royal duty awaited him like invisible chains. As the jet sliced through the air, Oliver felt terribly isolated. Being seen as an untouchable artifact of royalty was exhausting. Yet there he was, alone on this flight over the Atlantic, heading for a country where responsibilities firmly anchored him.

Shortly after, the jet touched down. The familiarity of Heathrow brought no comfort. Every face in the airport seemed to know him, judge him, observe him. When Robert, his head of security, approached with a discreet nod, Oliver knew what was coming.

"The Queen is waiting, sir."

Oliver nodded solemnly; there was no time to waste. His journey had brought him back to the heart of his homeland, and the matriarch of his family, Queen Charlotte, awaited him to discuss the next chapters of his legacy.

As they drove through the rural roads under a gray sky, Oliver distracted himself by contemplating the quintessentially British landscapes unfolding before him. Softly colored villages, stone houses, and immaculate gardens, all bathed in a melancholy light so characteristic of the country. Windsor Castle loomed on the horizon, its sharp towers reaching upward like the hands of a clock marking the passage of time relentlessly. The ancient windows, the sturdy walls — everything there exuded tradition and history. A history that he now had to bear, an inheritance that always felt more like a prison than a privilege.

As they crossed the wrought iron gates, Oliver felt the pressure mount. Here, every stone told the story of ancestors who had bowed under the weight of the crown. With each step, his heart raced. He wasn't just entering the castle; he was approaching a crossroads.

The path to the Queen's chamber felt like a walk toward the slaughterhouse — each irregular heartbeat counting down to confront his own destiny. Upon entering the hall, his eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing presence of his grandmother, Queen Charlotte. Standing like a statue of authority, she held the stern expression Oliver knew so well, but her emerald eyes gleamed with an almost imperceptible affection at seeing him.

"Your Majesty," Oliver bowed respectfully, years of regimented training flowing through his veins.

"My dear Oliver," the Queen said, her firm voice echoing through the hall. "It's a relief to have you with us once again. I presume you understand the gravity of the situation we face."

"Colin's abdication," Oliver nodded grimly. His brother's impulsive act that had catapulted him into the direct line of succession.

"Precisely." The Queen clasped her hands, leaning lightly on the arm of her chair. "Your brother's resignation has left a dangerous vacuum in the Crown. We must ensure stability. And that, my dear, begins with you."

Oliver felt a pang of apprehension grow in his chest.

"And how does the Crown intend to proceed, Your Majesty?"

"As my presumptive heir, you now find yourself under the relentless scrutiny of the nation," she said, her eyes piercing into his. "It is crucial that we project an image of unity and determination. Your public conduct will be dissected down to the smallest detail during this turbulent transition."

Oliver nodded silently, remembering his past desires to escape, how he had wished to abdicate years ago, shortly after his father's untimely death. However, Colin had always been the devoted son, clinging to tradition with every fiber of his being. No one could have predicted that he would one day renounce his royal destiny.

"That is why we need to take some strategic measures," the Queen continued, energetic and straightforward. "Measures that will solidify your position and bring reliability to the Crown." With a graceful gesture, she indicated a tall, formal man in an impeccable suit waiting by the entrance.

"This is Mr. Harrison-Jones," she announced. "He will be your personal advisor over the coming months."

Oliver barely had time to digest this information when the next bomb dropped: "He will help you choose an appropriate wife."

Oliver's stomach flipped as he met the assessing gaze of Mr. Harrison-Jones, whose brown eyes examined him up and down with a slight arch of the eyebrow, as if already judging him and finding... well, he had no idea what.

"A wife?" The echo of the word felt absurd. He wasn't ready for that kind of commitment, much less for one made out of convenience.

Harrison-Jones, in a controlled tone and with an impassive look, clarified, "If I may, Your Royal Highness, after extensive deliberations, the Council has determined that this will be the first step in preparing you to assume the throne."

As he expounded on the ridiculous legal stipulations about lineage and royal duty in choosing a spouse, all Oliver could focus on was how immensely arrogant and pretentious the man seemed.

"The laws regarding royal marriage are governed by specific protocols designed to ensure the stability of the Crown and, consequently, the nation," Harrison-Jones explained. "In the case of the future monarch, there are legal guidelines that dictate the choice of a suitable companion, taking into account lineage, royal duties, and responsibility to the nation."

Those words sounded like a foreign language to Oliver. With each sentence, he felt more confused and cornered. Royal obligations had always been present, of course, but having his personal life completely dictated by them was a new level of absurdity he hadn't expected to deal with so soon.

Moreover, who did this guy think he was to lay down the rules like that? Resentment simmered inside him.

"Well," Queen Charlotte's voice pulled him from his self-destructive thoughts, saying she would leave them alone for a meeting. "I trust you two will find a way forward. I'll be awaiting your decision, Oliver. Don't take too long."

And with the same grace she always displayed, she exited the room.

Now, alone with Harrison-Jones, Oliver felt the oppressive silence spread throughout the room. He stared at him, mouth open, but unable to form coherent words.

Harrison-Jones raised those condescending eyebrows once more, and his expression seemed to scream: "Well, Your Highness? Any smart remarks?"

"Shit!" was all Oliver could muster.

Oliver could already foresee the beginning of a tempestuous relationship — he, the rebellious prince determined to live by his own rules, and Harrison-Jones, the royal advisor convinced he could mold him to the archaic traditions of the monarchy. It was as if opposing forces were about to collide.

◃───────────▹

The silence in the room wasn't just an absence of sound, but something denser, almost palpable, like an invisible curtain falling between Oliver and Harrison-Jones.

Oliver, slouched in the leather armchair, studied the lawyer before him. Harrison-Jones maintained the same impeccable posture, his hands firmly clasped, an almost spectral presence of authority.

Deep down, Oliver knew this wasn't an ordinary conversation; it was a game of power and duty, where each word carried centuries of expectation.

"What the hell is going on here?" Oliver broke the tension, his voice vibrating between anger and exhaustion. "Marriage? Now?"

Harrison-Jones, always in control, tilted his head slightly, as if he'd anticipated this line. "According to the succession guidelines, it is imperative for the heir to be married before ascending the throne. It's an old clause, but an essential one."

Oliver frowned. He'd heard this speech before — empty words, disguised as tradition.

"You've said that already," he muttered, crossing his arms in defiance. "It still makes no sense to me."

Frustrated, Oliver ran a hand through his hair. The pressure increased with each passing moment under that roof, watched by portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to carry as much judgment as resignation. He wondered if they had felt the same, crushed by those circumstances.

"I understand your frustration, Your Royal Highness," the lawyer said with studied patience. "A marriage, aside from the legal aspect, symbolizes the monarch's commitment to the people and guarantees a stable future for the kingdom. It's not just about your leadership abilities but also about the public's trust in the royal lineage and the intrinsic connection between the Crown and the nation."

Those careful words revealed a perspective Oliver hadn't considered. This wasn't merely a matter of outdated legal requirements but a web of obligations and responsibilities that would suffocate his freedom and personal desires.

"This is insane. You're basically saying my future is already mapped out. And I have no choice."

For the first time, the lawyer's face showed a spark of something human — weariness, perhaps. "You do have choices, Your Highness, but all within the boundaries imposed by centuries of tradition. The Crown does not exist in a vacuum. It is a promise to the people." The lawyer spoke like a teacher explaining a basic concept to a stubborn student.

Oliver laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "A promise? It feels more like a sentence."

Harrison-Jones remained upright, unaffected by the comment. "With the Crown come responsibilities greater than any personal desire. Look on the bright side, Your Highness," his voice was calm, almost admonishing. "Thousands of people would kill to be in your position. And, with all due respect, this is the least of your challenges. Marriage is merely a formality compared to what lies ahead."

Oliver stared at him for a few seconds, feeling the futility of his protests. But he still had words. He always did.

"You talk as if this were a business."

Harrison-Jones nodded slightly. "Because it is."

Oliver's anger flared. "But I don't want this! Not like this."

For a moment, there was an almost unbearable silence. The lawyer, however, did not budge. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. But there is no other way to proceed."

Oliver let out an impatient sigh. He was already tired of the title that suffocated him. "Don't call me that. Oliver will do. Let's drop the formalities, shall we? I have enough of those every day."

Harrison-Jones maintained his unflinching gaze, which only made Oliver feel more trapped, more irreversibly isolated.

"What's your name, anyway?" Oliver asked suddenly, his tone more defiant than curious. "Or should I keep calling you Mr. Jones, Destroyer of Dreams?"

The lawyer's rigidity wavered, if only for a second, but it was enough for Oliver to notice. He hesitated before responding, as if weighing the consequences of his answer. "You already know, Your Highness."

"Oliver," he corrected, almost reflexively. "Well, since you're here to ruin my life, you could at least tell me your first name."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be appropriate, sir," Harrison-Jones replied carefully, his eyes focusing on a point above Oliver's shoulder, as if he were a petulant child to be ignored. "You are the future monarch. I don't believe we should address each other so informally."

Oliver crossed his arms, reclining in the chair, and eyed the man in front of him with narrowed eyes. "So you want me to keep referring to you by that long hyphenated name?" He raised an eyebrow, questioning casually. "Because, let's be honest, 'Harrison-Jones' sounds more like an accounting firm than a person. Why can't we make things easier?"

Harrison-Jones remained motionless, as if trained not to react to trivial provocations. His eyes, however, flickered briefly with something that could have been a mix of irritation and a reluctant acceptance of the burden of dealing with Oliver.

"Because I'm here to advise you, not to be your friend," Harrison-Jones replied, attempting to end the topic with dignity.

But the last word had yet to be spoken.

Oliver let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. "That was a bit harsh," he muttered, but gave up on the wordplay and shrugged. "Alright. As you wish, Mr. Jones."

"Harrison-Jones," he emphasized, with a seriousness that made Oliver roll his eyes.

"Whatever."

For a moment, the silence seemed to solidify between them, only broken by the soft crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of voices echoing through the castle corridors. Harrison-Jones took a deep breath, as if preparing for a strategic decision.

"Ian," he finally said, reluctantly, as if revealing a secret he preferred to keep locked away. "My name is Ian."

Oliver hadn't expected this concession — a surrender so simple and unassuming.

He blinked, surprised, before letting out a cynical smile. "Well, look at that. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Harrison-Jones — or rather, Ian — straightened his posture, trying to regain control of the situation. "It's in the records. You would have found out eventually."

"I would have," Oliver agreed, standing up from the chair. The warmth of the fireplace now heated his back, but the cold in the castle's corridors seemed to seep under the doors, reminding him of the cold reality awaiting him outside. "But now I know another way."

He paused at the door, the room's dim light casting his shadow against the polished floor. A tired, almost melancholic smile appeared on his lips as he looked at the lawyer.

"Well, Ian," he said with a soft bitterness. "Don't take it personally. But I'd have loved not to have met you."

Ian, keeping his composure, merely nodded slightly, as if this were the inevitable conclusion of every conversation he had in that role.

Oliver gave one last look at the room before disappearing down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the distance, while the lawyer remained where he was, watching the door close with a soft click.