Prince Oliver leaned back in the hard chair of the meeting room, observing the solemnity of the setting with vacant eyes.

The scene around him — heavy damask curtains, meticulously arranged porcelain, gleaming crystal chandeliers — was a perfect representation of power and tradition. This was what was expected of such a place, right? And yet, as he tried to absorb the grandeur surrounding him, all he felt was a growing discomfort, an unbearable suffocation. 

Ian, on the other hand, remained focused on his iPad, every movement precise, almost robotic. He swiped through profiles with professional coldness, as if deciding on stock purchases, not choosing a future Queen Consort. His eyes scanned through nationality, titles, lineage, even hobbies — as if human affinity could be calculated in a perfect equation.

"She seems interesting," Ian said, turning the device toward Oliver. The photo showed a blonde woman, her smile seemingly trained to never falter under the weight of a royal title. A perfectly crafted doll, with no room for error. Oliver felt a wave of discomfort starting at the base of his spine, rising to press against his throat.

"This is absurd." His voice came out muffled, caught between exhaustion and frustration. "Who put together this information, anyway?"

Ian sighed, the gesture filled with a silent exasperation that had become habitual. His expression didn't change. He was used to Oliver's objections. Perhaps he even expected them, like one awaits an inevitable storm.

Oliver felt the knot of his tie tighten around his neck, and the memory of Paris drifted into his thoughts, soft as a breeze. A year ago, the bohemian streets of the city had freed him from royal chains, allowed him to breathe with his own lungs, without the invisible strings now pulling him back to this damned upholstered chair.

Unfazed, Ian leaned forward slightly, reinforcing his point with the same gravity he used when closing legal deals. "These, Your Highness, are the women most suited for the role of your future wife."

Oliver frowned, feeling his irritation grow. "Suited by whose standards? You're treating me like a breeding bull, selecting a female to mate with me."

Ian remained unperturbed, drumming his fingers on the table, his gaze hardening. "Your Highness, we've discussed this. It's not about you or me. It's about continuity. A royal marriage is more than a personal union; it's an alliance that keeps the Crown firm in the public's imagination."

The irony was suffocating. Oliver extended his hands, trying to hold back a response that wouldn't explode instantly, but failed. "This is a farce, not a debate." He laughed, a hollow sound echoing off the walls. "How are we still discussing whether I should marry someone just because she... fits the mold you've created?"

Ian closed his eyes for a second — a microcosm of carefully suppressed irritation — and massaged his temple as though handling a complex mathematical dilemma, not another person's life. "Your Highness, this isn't about want. It's about necessity."

"Necessity? For whom?" Oliver leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the words slipping out as if they no longer belonged to him. "For you? For the country? For the damned tradition?" He turned his face toward the advisor, eyes gleaming with restrained anger. "And what about me? Am I a disposable piece in this immutable game?"

Ian straightened, his body as rigid as marble. "I'm not here to discuss the value of your personal happiness, Your Highness. I'm here to ensure your lineage fulfills its role, which goes beyond any individual desire."

Taking a deep breath, Oliver summoned his courage and tried once more: "Mr. Harrison-Jones, please, listen to me—"

The door creaked before Oliver could continue. Queen Charlotte entered, her presence immediately snuffing out any remaining warmth in the room. She raised her hand with a minuscule gesture, and Oliver knew he had lost — not just the argument, but something deeper, more vital.

"That's enough for today," she said, her tone infused with the controlled coldness that came from decades of being a monarch. "We'll try again tomorrow, Oliver. I expect you to be... more aligned."

Without waiting for a reply, she left the room, the sound of her heels echoing in the tense silence that followed.

Once the door closed, the atmosphere in the meeting room shifted.

Ian, as still as a forcefully sculpted statue, struggled to contain the irritation now flickering in his eyes. They were sharp, almost predatory, as they fixed on Oliver, who returned the stare with a smile so artificial it might have been forged in royal protocol itself.

"Apologies if my... objections are hindering your efficiency." The false cordiality was a poisoned arrow.

Ian leaned forward, his presence invading the space. "Don't delude yourself, Your Highness. You're not the first heir to try to bend me. And you certainly won't be the last to fail."

Ian's words were cold, precise, each syllable snapping like the crack of a whip. Oliver straightened, holding his chin up in a silent signal of resistance.

"And you? How do you sleep knowing you spend your days destroying lives, reducing futures to numbers on a spreadsheet?"

Ian let out a dry laugh, as if speaking to a child who still didn't understand the rules of the world. "I'm not the executioner leading you to the gallows, Prince. If you think the prospect of having a wife to cater to your whims is a tragedy, maybe you need to reassess your priorities."

Oliver's indignation simmered beneath his skin. "Is that what marriage means to you? Someone I can order around, destined to serve me like a luxury maid?"

His voice wavered with the heat of revolt.

The advisor remained impassive, crossing his arms as though the emotional storm before him was nothing more than a light breeze. "In the real world, Your Highness, things are rarely that clear-cut. Alliances, duties, commitments... do you really believe all of this is as simplistic as your feelings?"

Ian's biting coldness made Oliver shudder. It was as if he were standing before an unmovable wall, each word hitting and bouncing back, unable to even leave a crack. Oliver took a deep breath, trying to regain control.

"Simplistic? I'm talking about treating someone like an object. No matter how political this may be, it's inhumane."

Ian laughed again, this time a darker sound, an echo of contempt reverberating off the walls of the room. "Your naivety is charming, Your Highness. You've been detached from your royal duties for so long, you've forgotten what's at stake. But don't worry, reality will swallow you soon enough."

Oliver's blood boiled, but he refused to give in. "Or maybe I'm the first to try to challenge these realities."

His words came out with unexpected force, a fire he hadn't realized he still carried. For a moment, Ian seemed to consider them. His eyes darkened, not in anger, but in something more dangerous — a kind of calculated disdain.

"Good luck with that," he muttered, his words laced with sarcasm.

Oliver laughed, a humorless chuckle. "Sorry, Counselor, but I don't speak the language of cowards." 

Ian froze, his lips tightening and his jaw clenching as if the provocation had finally hit a raw nerve. His eyes, now two gleaming blades, sparkled with restrained menace. Oliver realized, belatedly, that he had crossed a line. The tension was palpable, heavy. But instead of exploding, Ian stepped forward, invading Oliver's space with a calculated intimidation that was almost... sensual. 

The prince didn't back down, but his body betrayed a slight tremor. Ian's woody scent was suffocating up close, the heat of his presence nearly physical, and Oliver felt something strange crawl up his spine. Ian was too close, his voice too deep, each word a sharp whisper.

"Are you done, Prince? Or have you still not realized how pathetic your attempts are?" 

Oliver's hand instinctively gripped the armrest of the chair as his eyes traced Ian's features: the tense jaw, the eyes glowing with a dark intensity. Ian smiled, a smile that had nothing kind about it. He leaned in, close enough for Oliver to feel the warm breath on his skin, and murmured,

"I used to be as idealistic as you. But I've been in this job long enough to know that even Your Royal Highness, with your irrelevant title, doesn't have half the power you think you do." Ian's tone was low and threatening, every word a calculated provocation. "So, yes, good luck trying to change centuries-old policy with your... childish outbursts."

Oliver remained still, his heart racing, his mind clouded with thoughts he shouldn't be having. Ian's lips were dangerously close, and Oliver hated — hated how that attitude made him feel vulnerable. He hated how Ian's piercing gaze, full of cold arrogance, made his body react in ways he couldn't control.

Unable to look away, his eyes betrayed his thoughts, slowly drifting down to Ian's lips. Lips that seemed sculpted with cruel precision, full and perfectly shaped. He imagined, for a brief second that stole his breath, what it would be like to taste them. The idea hit him like a shock, and no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it continued to spread through his mind, occupying every free space. 

Desperate to break the spell, his eyes dragged down to the smooth line of Ian's collarbone, a line disappearing beneath his shirt, one that seemed made to be explored. He imagined the touch of skin there, a slow caress, the shiver it might cause. And Ian's shirt, so tight against his broad shoulders, made it all worse. The muscles beneath the fabric stretched with the slightest movement, as if Ian's body were always poised for a reaction Oliver didn't want to admit he desired too.

He felt the heat rise in his face, burning his cheeks with shame and something more intense, more primal. His body was betraying everything his mind fought to control. He shouldn't be looking, not like this, but his eyes seemed hypnotized. What bothered him most was the difference between them. Ian was larger, stronger, more imposing. And that athletic frame, combined with the calculated disdain, made Oliver feel small, harmless — as if this was a game Ian had already won before it even began.

When he finally managed to lift his gaze again, the shaky smile he forced on his lips was almost pathetic. He met Ian's eyes, and it was like being swallowed by a sea of liquid amber, warm and deep, a look that promised so much and yet kept everything out of reach.

The sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows of the room, casting a silky glow on Ian's hair, seemed to conspire against him, illuminating him like a living temptation. Oliver tried to speak, but his voice, like his body, no longer entirely belonged to him.

"If you think, Counselor," he said, the words coming out fragmented, as if they tripped over his tongue before finding their way out. Ian noticed. Of course, he did. He cut him off before the situation could become even more embarrassing, his tone unchanged, but his eyes gleaming with something different, slightly unsettled, almost human.

"I believe we're done here, Your Highness," Ian said, turning on his heel and leaving the room without ceremony.

Oliver watched him leave, his body still tense, his heart thundering in his ears. But what troubled him the most, what really disturbed him, was the emptiness Ian's absence left — and how much he secretly already wanted to feel that closeness again.

◃───────────▹

Oliver had lost count of the twists and turns they had taken, each more imposing than the last, but nothing in that ancient castle could distract his attention from the man walking ahead of him. 

The silence was broken only by the dissonant echo of their shoes, as if the castle mocked his hesitation. Ian walked with firm, regular steps, as if the very air of the castle propelled him forward. His straight back, always impeccable posture, the confidence radiating from every movement... It was a constant reminder of who was really in control here.

"A shortcut would be helpful." The attempt at humor came out forced, and Oliver knew the moment the words left his mouth that Ian wouldn't respond. The glance he received was all he got — cold, assessed in a second, and dismissed. Apparently, a joke, especially from him, deserved no more than that.

Oliver took a deep breath, trying to ignore the growing tightness in his chest. It wasn't just the castle with its ancient tapestries and Gothic arches that suffocated him. It was the way Ian seemed to belong there in a way Oliver never could. Every step made him feel more out of place, trapped by expectations closing around his neck, while Ian moved effortlessly through the same traps. 

Finally, they passed through the massive carved wooden doors, and the grand Dining Hall opened before them. It wasn't just the size that intimidated; it was the details that seemed to be carved forcibly into his mind. The warm glow of the candles, the reflection in the crystal... everything suggested he was there to be molded by those walls, like so many before him.

Oliver let his eyes drift to the imposing fireplace, where a portrait of a young Queen Charlotte seemed to assess him in silence. But it was Claire, with her gray hair pinned in an impeccable bun and her pristine apron, who truly captured his attention. She wasn't just a veteran cook; she was his accomplice in so many nocturnal adventures, a constant presence who understood Oliver in ways few others did.

"Oliver!" Claire's voice rang out like a welcoming bell, carrying that unique mix of affection and wit that always made him smile. He barely had time to respond before being enveloped in her warm embrace. The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla immediately brought back memories of nights when, as a child, Claire would comfort him after a particularly hard day — when the weight of being who he was became too much for a boy to bear.

"Too long, my dear," Claire whispered, pulling back to examine him. "Far too long," Oliver replied, smiling, feeling for a moment freed from the tension that had dominated him since his return. But soon the relief gave way to curiosity. "And Ivy? I haven't seen her around."

Claire explained that Ivy, the talented Executive Chef, had been summoned by the Queen earlier and had not yet returned. "But you can always ask her brother," Claire added, gesturing discreetly to Ian.

Oliver turned slowly, Ian's impassive gaze already fixed on him. "You can't be serious." The words slipped out before he could control his surprise. How had he not noticed? The two were so different, it would be impossible to imagine they shared the same blood.

Ian let out a slow, almost theatrical sigh. "Frankly, Your Highness, the resemblance isn't obvious to you? Or does the surname mean nothing?" His tone was slightly condescending, as if pointing out a limitation in Oliver's perception, and he felt foolish for not having made the connection before, but he wouldn't let Ian see that.

"Well, we're friends, so we call each other by our first names." Oliver shot him a deliberately challenging look, with a half-smile. "And honestly, we're not that old for all this formality."

The smile that crept onto Ian's lips was subtle, almost invisible, but it had a surprising effect on Oliver. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes, but left in the air the sensation of something unsaid, a slight provocation, like a string pulled to its limit.

"Your attempt at provoking me was... moderately effective, I would say, Oliver."

The moment Ian said his name, "Oliver," it was as if a soft, carefully tuned note reverberated in his chest. The name, always so familiar, now sounded different in Ian's voice. It wasn't just the simple fact of hearing him called that — it was the way Ian said it, with an unexpected intimacy, a soft touch on the consonants, something that made Oliver feel the sound run down his spine, leaving a trail of unease.

"Wait, you called me Oliver?"

Ian raised an eyebrow, nonchalant. "It is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, but you've never called me that before." Oliver almost laughed at his own response, as if he were complaining about something he hadn't even known he wanted.

"Well, I just did. Any problem?"

Ian held his gaze, impassive, his posture toeing the line between authority and nonchalance, a paradox Oliver still couldn't decipher. How did he do that? With a simple exchange of words, it seemed Ian could disarm Oliver, weaken him with a disturbing ease.

"No, no problem. It just caught me off guard, that's all," Oliver replied, averting his eyes, feeling exposed. There was something about the way Ian looked at him—a gaze that wasn't overtly provocative but invited confrontation, a challenge that was terribly enticing. For the first time, Oliver wondered if Ian also sensed it. Did he know the effect his words, his subtle expressions, had on the prince?

"So... you and Ivy are siblings," he stated clumsily, trying to fill the silence that only seemed to highlight the growing tension between them.

"Twins, actually."

Oliver let out a short laugh, genuinely surprised. "I would've never guessed. You're so different." He was trying to find some common trait between them, something that revealed the truth of that bond, but it was like looking for similarities between fire and water.

Ian shrugged again. "There's a lot about me you still don't know. In fact, most of it."

Oliver felt a warmth creep up his neck, a reflex to the curiosity now running free.

Still?

That provocatively simple statement unsettled Oliver, making him question what other secrets and facets of Ian he had yet to discover. It was as though the man before him was made of layers, slowly revealing himself, but in a calculated way, as if each piece he showed was carefully chosen. The implied challenge in his words left Oliver in a state of discomfort — he wanted to know more, but the idea of uncovering all of Ian's secrets terrified him almost as much as it intrigued him.

"Anyway," Oliver decided to change the subject, fearing where his thoughts might lead him. "Claire, I'm looking forward to that divine blueberry pavlova you make so well."

Claire hesitated, her eyes shooting a brief, cautious glance at Ian before replying in a tone that already anticipated disappointment. "I'd love to fulfill your request, dear, but I'm restricted to the official menu unless there's special permission."

Oliver barely had time to process this when Ian, with his usual cutting coolness, intervened.

"Besides," he said, with the firmness of someone who knew his words wouldn't be well received, "now that you're back, Your Highness will need to follow a strict diet to maintain the proper appearance. No sugar for now."

It was like an electric shock coursing through Oliver's body. The anger started slow, a heat rising from within until it exploded in a rush that ran through his nerves, making his fists clench instinctively. Ian's face, always immaculate and composed, seemed designed to inflame him further. He was the perfect example of arrogance, hidden behind a veneer of politeness. 

That man... that irritatingly insufferable, beautiful bastard, with his unshakable confidence, dared to dictate his choices?

"So, that's it?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, laced with venom. "It's not enough that I'm being pushed into a marriage of convenience; now I have to conform to some aesthetic standard? My body is public concern too?"

He was on the verge of losing control, his jaw clenched as he forced himself to keep his fists at his sides. "Who the hell do you think you are to dictate how I live my life?"

Ian rolled his eyes like someone who had gone through this scene far too many times, annoyingly unbothered.

"Your Highness..." he began, as if talking to a child who didn't know when to stop.

Oliver crossed his arms, the movement abrupt and sharp, his shoulders tense like a bowstring about to release an arrow. "My public image is one thing, Ian," he spat the name with a ferocity he barely recognized in himself, "but my autonomy is another. Since when do you, of all people, have the authority to impose any restrictions on me?"

Ian simply looked at him, one eyebrow subtly raised, as if bored, as if he'd surpassed this line of argument countless times. "I'm the advisor appointed by the Palace, responsible for every detail of your well-being and protocol. So yes, Your Highness, it is up to me to ensure you meet the proper standards. What you call restriction, I call duty."

That was the breaking point. Oliver's blood boiled so much he could feel his skin tingle, as though he were about to explode.

"Screw your duty!" he spat, his voice so low and cutting it could've shattered glass. "You may be my advisor, or whatever, but don't overstep by trying to control me. You're an employee, and you take my orders, not the other way around."

Ian watched him for a long second, his eyes flashing with something indecipherable, but his mouth remained shut. He then turned, leaving with the same contained perfection with which he had entered, without a single glance back.

Oliver felt the heat dissipate, but the remnants of anger throbbed in his temples. When he turned, he found Claire watching him with an affectionate and wise gaze, not at all surprised by the scene she had just witnessed.

"He drives me insane," Oliver muttered, still feeling the tension in his jaw. "Who does he think he is, dictating what I should do, eat... or be?"

Claire shrugged, a gentle smile lighting up her face. "You haven't changed one bit. Still the boy who questions every order."

A reluctant smile broke through Oliver's stern expression. After all, Claire clearly knew him well. She had worked at the castle since his childhood, and he had grown up under her maternal care. How many times had she seen him defy the rules, question the established order?

"Well, you know me."

Claire nodded with understanding. "And that's exactly why I know you won't let yourself be subdued so easily, my dear."

She was right.

At least, that's what Oliver believed.