Oliver left the meeting room with firm steps, but the halls of Windsor Castle felt distorted, as if he were navigating foreign terrain. He knew these stones as well as the back of his hand, but something had shifted — perhaps it was him.

The echo of his footsteps sounded lonely, reverberating through the walls that once embraced him. Now, the space that should have been his refuge had transformed into a cruel caricature of his uncertainties, mocking the disconnect he felt. He had always been the reluctant heir, a prince by obligation, not by choice. And the deeper he sank into the role assigned to him, the more he felt like a stranger in his own story.

He quickened his pace, almost as if fleeing from a place he had never truly called home. His destination was his old bedroom, the only space where, in those moments of solitude, he could at least pretend to have some control. Crossing the threshold, time seemed to stand still. Nothing had changed: the bed canopy remained untouched, the pristine sheets still carried the scent of old wood and spices, and his books lined the shelves like silent witnesses to a dormant past. He sank into the bed, hoping the exhaustion would numb him completely.

But his rest was abruptly interrupted by firm knocks echoing against the noble wood of the door. Ian Harrison-Jones, ever punctual and rigid, barely masked his impatience.

"Prince Oliver, such tardiness is unacceptable!" His deep voice cut through the silence with an urgency that, to Oliver, felt unnecessary. He groaned, reluctant to abandon the comfort of the sheets.

Ian, of course, was not one to be easily deterred. With a dry yank, Oliver opened the door, facing Ian's impassive stare. His hair disheveled, his chest barely covered by a loosely tied robe, Oliver regarded him with what could only be described as controlled disdain.

"What the hell do you want?" Oliver asked, each word dripping with exhaustion.

He was still groggy when he noticed Ian's eyes briefly linger on his half-naked body, quickly averting with a look of embarrassment. A faint blush colored Ian's cheeks before he summoned the courage to meet Oliver's gaze again. It was then that the prince realized he hadn't even bothered to dress properly after his bath the night before.

A crooked smile crept onto Oliver's lips, as if he'd just told himself a subtle joke.

"It seems, Your Royal Highness has forgotten today's council meeting," Ian said, with a calm that only thinly veiled his irritation. "I've come to escort you."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unhurried. He glanced at his exposed body and deliberately turned his back to walk back into the room, leaving the door wide open.

"A meeting? And what exactly is there for me to discuss with the Council?"

Ian hesitated at the doorway, frozen. Oliver, noticing his inaction, turned just enough to face him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Harrison-Jones?"

Ian cleared his throat, once again averting his gaze to avoid the sight of the prince's half-naked form. "You should be... properly dressed for the meeting."

"Oh, bad luck, catching me so unprepared," Oliver said with a sarcasm that came naturally. He approached the mirror, attempting, unsuccessfully, to tame his unruly hair. "I usually take a few dates to reach this level of intimacy. But since we're here... isn't there a rule that says if you've seen mine, I have the right to see yours?"

Ian stiffened, eyes widening in disbelief. Oliver, seemingly unaware of the impact of his joke, continued fussing with his hair in the mirror.

"No? Only I thought of that?"

"This is completely inappropriate," Ian responded, his tone firm, though clearly flustered.

Oliver laughed, walking to the wardrobe, distracted by the choice of a suit. "Relax, Harrison-Jones. It's just a robe. You won't faint from seeing so little, will you?" He pulled a navy-blue suit off the hanger, turning to face Ian with a mocking smile, gesturing vaguely to his exposed legs. "Unless you're impressed. In which case, I must say, I've seen it all. Nothing new under the robe, you know?"

"I'm sure we're not so similar," Ian retorted, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver's eyes swept over Ian's figure, and he couldn't help but notice a faint, disguised interest. "Oh, really?" he teased, while inspecting the advisor from his broad shoulders to his lean, elegant legs. As irritating as he was, Ian Harrison-Jones was, indeed, a handsome man.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Oliver asked, with genuine curiosity, tying his robe belt theatrically.

"You should get dressed, Your Highness," Ian cut in, his eyes once again avoiding Oliver.

Oliver frowned, intrigued by that brief glimpse of vulnerability. There was something behind Ian's formal facade, a hidden depth that tempted Oliver to explore further.

"Unless you want to see even more of me, I suggest you turn around, sir."

Ian turned immediately, his face burning red. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

Oliver dressed slowly, deliberately, watching Ian's stiff posture through the reflection in the mirror. There was something deeply amusing about Ian's seriousness. As much as it annoyed him, Oliver's curiosity only grew.

"I'm presentable now," Oliver said, adjusting his jacket. "Want to tell me why the Council is so eager to see me?"

Ian turned, still holding a trace of discomfort. "Today, Your Highness will be introduced to a group of potential brides," he began, his voice firm but with a slight note of hesitation. "The Council wishes to guide you on diplomatic agreements that can be secured through marriage."

Oliver's amused expression vanished instantly. He blinked, his frustration rising fast.

"What?" He laughed, but without any humor. "Are you telling me the Queen has curated a selection of princesses for me?"

Ian remained calm, but his still-pink cheeks betrayed him. "Her Majesty believes that a marriage with a princess of royal lineage will have a greater impact than the scandal of an abdication."

Oliver's jaw tightened in a display of deep disgust. "Oh, of course, because nothing says 'modernity' like an 18th-century marriage arrangement."

"I understand your discomfort, Your Highness," Ian said, with the patience of someone used to futile debates. "But these are common practices among royal families. However, we should be preparing for our trip to Scotland, as we would have after the meeting."

"Scotland?" Oliver frowned. "And what exactly are we doing there?"

"The Montford royal family wishes to strengthen ties through a matrimonial alliance," Ian explained, adjusting his watch. "It will be a long journey, so I suggest you hurry."

Oliver felt like a piece in a monumental game of chess, moved with precision by invisible hands. He wasn't the protagonist, just a mere spectator of his own life.

"Why don't we simplify things and just order a princess directly from the Queen's catalog?" he shot back with sarcasm. "There might even be a royal dating app by now. Swipe right for a peace treaty, left, for a scandal."

The absurdity of it all almost made him believe such an app wasn't impossible.

Ian maintained his composure, his voice cool, matching the weight of the words he was about to deliver. "Regardless of the method, Your Highness, the Queen is resolute in finding an appropriate match." He spoke with the precision of someone who always believes they have the correct answer. "The future of the country is the top priority."

Those words cut deeper than any critique. It was as though Oliver's life had been reduced to an equation where he was the insignificant denominator.

"Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" He couldn't hold back the venom in his voice. "This is ridiculous. How about I just abdicate and spare everyone this farce?"

Ian, with his infuriating calm, seemed unfazed. "Abdication, Your Highness, is a more complex issue than it seems. As the last heir of the lineage, your decisions impact more than just your life. There's the stability of the monarchy and—"

"The stability of the monarchy," Oliver interrupted, practically spitting the words. "Always stability, always the kingdom. What about me? My future? Shouldn't I have some say in that?"

Ian didn't flinch, his posture rigid, eyes focused straight ahead. "Your opinion will be taken into account," he replied, so professional he sounded like a robot programmed to repeat the same phrases. "But the kingdom and the Crown have priorities that, unfortunately, take precedence."

"The kingdom, of course," Oliver hissed, sarcasm dripping from every word. "It seems my happiness is just a minor detail in the grand equation of 'stability.'"

Ian audibly sighed this time, letting out a rare sign of frustration. Without another word, he turned sharply and left the room, the hem of his royal uniform brushing against the marble floor, with Oliver following close behind.

"Ian, you can't just walk away like that," Oliver exclaimed, quickening his pace to catch up with him through the castle's endless corridors. "Don't pretend you understand what it's like to be in my position. Everyone wants to control me, to mold me into a puppet. And you — you're the ringmaster of this farce!"

"I'm just following orders, Your Highness. Trying to, at least." Ian, with his steady steps, kept his gaze fixed ahead, ignoring Oliver's emotional outburst. "As I said, your demands will be duly considered," he repeated, colder now. "But remember, as crown prince, your choices affect more than just yourself. There are larger implications."

"So I was right. I'm just a puppet." Oliver quickened his pace to keep up, his voice heavy with growing bitterness. "Just a marionette to be manipulated according to the whims of the Crown."

"Your role is crucial for the continuation of the lineage," Ian replied, unperturbed. "Your obligations as heir must outweigh personal interests."

Oliver clenched his fists, fighting the urge to shout and make him listen. "That's why Colin abdicated, isn't it? He refused to be manipulated the way I am now."

This time, Ian glanced over his shoulder, casting a brief but sharp look. "I am not privy to the details that led to Prince Colin's abdication," he replied, his voice more rigid than before. "What I do know is that the Queen is determined to resolve this matter swiftly."

"A princess delivered in time for Christmas dinner. Perfect." Oliver shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. "And I'm the grand prize, am I not?"

Ian stopped in front of a door and turned to him, finally meeting his gaze. "You are the future of the monarchy, Your Royal Highness. That comes with responsibilities you may not fully understand yet."

"I understand perfectly well," Oliver retorted, sarcasm replaced by a darker tone. "I understand that my life stopped being mine a long time ago."

"Your reluctance is understandable, Your Highness," Ian conceded, his tone reflecting the weariness of a circular argument. "Now, it's imperative that you listen closely to the advisors. Don't ask inappropriate questions, and for heaven's sake, refrain from insolent comments. We're running out of time."

Without another word, Ian pushed open the door to the meeting room, revealing the stern, unyielding faces of the royal advisors, who awaited like judges in a courtroom of already sealed fate. Oliver took a deep breath, feeling the pressure mounting. The royal advisors, elders with austere expressions, looked at him with a mixture of expectation and thinly veiled judgment.

Oliver could feel their gazes weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"Well," began one of the advisors, adjusting her glasses as she flipped through papers. "Let's get to the point. We need a bride for Your Highness. And fast." She pushed a stack of photos toward him. "These are the candidates. All of noble lineage, ready to take on the role of future queen."

Oliver stared at the photos as if they were a catalog of goods, each face a stark reminder of how little his opinion mattered.

"We have tight deadlines to meet," another advisor noted, his narrowed eyes fixating on Oliver with severity. "The Queen expects to present a new princess to the kingdom in less than six months."

Six months?

Oliver blinked, feeling a wave of claustrophobia.

"And if I don't choose any of them?"

Ian cleared his throat discreetly, a clear signal for him to stay calm. But Oliver couldn't hold back, his voice rising, challenging the suffocating pressure of the room.

"So, history will remember me as the prince who didn't follow the script?"

A third advisor, a man with severe features and eyes as hard as steel, leaned forward slightly, as if about to confide something terrible, yet, inescapable.

"Your Royal Highness," his voice was low, firm, almost glacial, "that is not an option."

Oliver felt a chill run down his spine. "What do you mean, that's not an option?" The question escaped his lips with acidic disbelief.

The advisor did not blink. His tone remained calm, threatening.

"Six months is the established deadline. If there is no choice made, the Queen will make one for you. This isn't about your desires but about ensuring the continuity of something that transcends the individual. Your personal preferences, in the end, are irrelevant."

Oliver felt his stomach twist, as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart.

"And if I refuse?" The question slipped out, almost defiant, but there was hesitation in his voice, a hint of fear of what he already knew was coming.

The advisor gave a slight cold smile, a gesture that felt more like a warning than comfort.

"A refusal would be interpreted as an act of betrayal to your lineage, Your Highness. Such a decision would have consequences that neither you nor I would wish to explore."

The sense that something insidious was closing in consumed Oliver. There was no explicit threat, but the promise of reprisals coursed through his veins like an invisible poison. His stomach churned. The options before him, which had once seemed at least theoretical, evaporated one by one, revealing the immutable truth: he was not in control of anything.

Without breaking eye contact, the advisor continued, each syllable meticulously calculated.

"The kingdom cannot afford hesitation or indecision. This is not a game where one abandons the board when the pieces aren't pleasing. The Crown does not tolerate disobedience, and time... that favors those who know how to use it."

Oliver looked around. The photos scattered on the table, each one a face that seemed more like a lifeless portrait than a real person. The eyes of the advisors, impassive, the embodiment of judgment.

And Ian, standing still at a distance, part of the machine that held him captive.

The advisor's voice echoed one last time, low and cruel:

"The only choice you truly have, Prince Oliver, is how you will conduct yourself until the inevitable end."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Oliver knew that, despite standing at the center of the stage, he had no idea about the script. And the curtain would only fall when the Crown deemed it so.