The first gray rays of sunlight penetrated through the velvet curtains, reluctantly announcing the dawn.

Oliver woke up before Sofia, watching his wife still immersed in deep sleep. His eyes traced the delicate contours of her sleeping face, drawing a tender line with his thumb over her temple. A trembling sigh escaped his lips as he rose, leaving behind the comforting warmth of the sheets.

The castle was already bustling with activity when Oliver emerged from the bedroom. Hurrying servants crossed the majestic corridors, guards changed shifts with resounding steps. He was supposed to prepare for another monotonous day of royal duties, but his heart longed for something more.

His feet guided him of their own accord to Lily's room. The little princess slept serenely, wrapped in old rose silk sheets. Oliver knelt beside the bed, brushing a golden lock from her angelic face.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, placing a tender kiss on her soft forehead.

As he entered the royal wing, Oliver felt anxiety consume him like a slow fire, corroding his insides even before breakfast. The monarchical responsibilities, once an oppressive burden, now seemed like distant trivialities.

His spirit was seized by a feverish urgency, a boldness that defied conventions and protocols.

The power in his hands was a dangerous temptation, and that morning, Oliver yielded to his deepest impulses. With a simple command, he altered the course of events, summoning Ian to Windsor under the pretext of an emergency.

The following hour was torturous — fingernails bitten to the quick, pacing in circles wearing down the throne room floor. When Ian burst into the room, it was as if the very air became electrified.

Ian was a striking sight, even in casual attire. His presence filled the space with an irresistible intensity, challenging the ancestral solemnity of the environment. The contrast between his fiery indignation and Oliver's enigmatic smile created an almost unbearable tension.

"Mr. Harrison-Jones, thank you for your prompt response," Oliver pronounced, his voice a mix of formality and veiled provocation.

Ian advanced, his steps echoing through the room. "Oliver, you dragged me off a damn plane without explanation," he retorted, his voice laden with frustration and a hint of reluctant curiosity. "Funny how it never occurred to me that I had a choice."

"You always have a choice," Oliver replied softly, though a part of him secretly delighted in the power to draw Ian into his orbit.

"Oh, sure. Refusing a royal summons would have been a brilliant option," Ian countered, his sarcasm hitting Oliver like a velvet arrow. "I'm sure your guards would have been very understanding."

Oliver hesitated, momentarily disarmed by the intensity of Ian's gaze. "I called you here for a reason," he finally declared, his voice betraying a rarely displayed vulnerability. "I have a professional proposal for you."

Ian's eyebrow arched in question, and an ironic smile appeared on his lips. With an impatient gesture, he brushed aside a rebellious lock of hair falling over his eyes. It was then that he noticed the embroidered pillow casually thrown over his shoulder, hastily discarding it with poorly disguised embarrassment.

Ian arched an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "Unless you're planning to abdicate the throne and already selecting suitors for your daughter, I don't see how I can be of use."

Oliver sighed, allowing his mask of composure to slip. "You know I'm kind of lost in all this, Ian," he admitted. "Most of the time, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing."

His gaze wandered around the hall, the ancient walls seeming to witness his confession.

"You have much more experienced advisors to guide you in matters of state," Ian pondered, though his tone softened slightly.

"I feel like a puppet," Oliver murmured. "Sometimes it seems like I'm just here to sign papers whose purpose I don't know and to represent the 'perfect family' at social events." When his eyes met Ian's again, there was an unspoken plea in them. "You're the only one I really trust, Ian. The only one who sees me beyond the crown."

"Oliver..." Ian began, his voice a heavy sigh of reluctance. The pillow on the table was a distracted pretext to occupy his hands as he stared at Oliver. His gaze carried a wavering firmness, his mind visibly traversed by justifications he resisted fully formulating. "I have unfinished commitments in Singapore; I can't just abandon them and return to take on a role that transcends my expertise. This," he gestured vaguely, "is the real world, and you have a country to govern."

Oliver nodded, averting his eyes, allowing them to slip from the intense currents of Ian's gaze. The awareness of the whim running in his veins weighed like a yoke, but a spark of hope still burned, a stubborn flame that refused to be extinguished. When he looked up again, he found Ian's frown, his lips twisted in a rare glimpse of dismay — not at Oliver, but at the trap of his own sincerity.

Oliver's words escaped like a resigned sigh, laden with a melancholy that seemed to permeate the air around them. "You're right. I'm sorry," he murmured, his smile a faint shadow of what it once was. "It's selfish of me to expect you to abandon everything you've built for my sake."

Ian responded with a softness that contrasted with the firmness of his words.

"Oliver," he pronounced the name as if it were a prayer, his eyes revealing a fragile resistance. "There was a time when I would have dropped everything for you without hesitation," he admitted, his voice trembling, betraying the internal struggle. "But now... I have responsibilities, people who depend on me. And you... you have a family." The last word came out almost as a lament. "We can no longer afford the intimacy we once shared."

The space between them imperceptibly shrank, as if an invisible force were drawing them together. Their eyes met, like two distant stars gravitating around each other, destined never to touch.

Driven by a courage born of desperation, Oliver asked, "Is that all? Isn't there anything else that prevents you from staying?"

Ian hesitated, a sad smile playing on his lips. Their story was an open book, each page soaked in love and pain.

"I couldn't bear having you so close and yet unreachable," he confessed, his voice faltering. "Especially after yesterday. Seeing you with your daughter... I realized it's no longer a facade. There's authenticity in your role as a father, and that..." He swallowed hard, the words seeming to burn his throat. "That hurts more than any distance."

With that step, Ian crossed an invisible boundary, breaking the barriers of decorum and tradition. The proximity brought to the surface all the past that united and separated them. Oliver felt drawn by an irresistible force, struggling against the impulse to close the distance between them with a familiar, now seemingly forbidden gesture.

A bittersweet smile curved Oliver's lips as he found himself trapped in a painful déjà vu. Before he could restrain himself, he shared a secret kept only for Lily.

"Lily's birth rekindled in me a dormant passion for storytelling," he revealed, his face lit by tender nostalgia. "I spent countless nights by the crib, narrating tales of bravery and magic." His eyes sparkled with the memory. "Her favorite, the one she still begs to hear, is the legend of the brave knight from distant lands."

Their eyes met again, and Ian watched him with an intensity that seemed to penetrate his soul. Oliver felt an almost tangible connection between them, transcending the physical.

"The hero is a brave and kind man, with dark hair and deep eyes," Oliver described, his voice low and intimate, casting a meaningful look at Ian. "He and his true love were separated by a cruel spell. But, moved by an unwavering love, the princess learned to summon her knight in dreams, defying the forces that kept them apart."

Oliver felt a wave of courage course through his veins, as if he were drinking from the very essence of the narrative he had created. His eyes met Ian's, filled with a determination that seemed to defy fate itself.

"Last night, Lily asked me if you were the lost knight she's heard so much about," Oliver confessed softly, his voice carrying paternal affection and something deeper. "She thinks you look a lot like him."

Ian leaned closer to Oliver, resting his hand on the table, his voice almost a whisper. "And what did you tell her?"

Ian was letting Oliver in through the cracks of his armor, which he had done so well more than once. And Oliver, well, he was determined to reclaim what had never ceased to belong to him, not for a second.

"I told her that maybe it's time for the princess to discover that her knight is closer than she thinks," Oliver whispered back, his heart racing.

Their eyes met and locked.

Ian took a deep breath, a subtle and electrifying tension filling the small space between them. Oliver could feel the heat radiating from Ian's body, as if an invisible force were drawing them inexorably together.

"But what if..." Ian began, his eyes exploring every detail of Oliver's face as if seeing him for the first time. He licked his lips, and Oliver felt a shiver of anticipation course through his body. "What if the knight doesn't want to belong to any princess? He can make his own choices, can't he?"

An enigmatic smile curved Oliver's lips. "Well, supposedly. But she would be devastated," he replied softly, diving into the imaginary narrative as a shield against the intensity of the moment. His eyes remained fixed on Ian's, despite the tempting closeness of his face. "Lily suggested imprisoning the knight in the castle, away from the clutches of the evil queen, until the princess comes to rescue him. She said we can't let them be lost again."

When Ian's warm breath touched his lips, Oliver felt his entire body vibrate with the anticipation of that touch. His eyes closed involuntarily, surrendering to the intoxicating proximity.

However, Ian posed a question as a subtle provocation: "Didn't you tell her that imprisoning someone is an outdated tradition in your kingdom?"

"No," Oliver murmured, lost in the sensation of having Ian so close, his entire body on alert. "I told her that when you find the love of your life, you don't let them go for anything in this world." His eyes slowly opened, and looking into Ian's eyes was like being swallowed by a black hole, sweeping away all his defenses and compelling him to raw, lacerating honesty. "God is witness that I've made that mistake more times than I can count."

Ian's breath caught as Oliver's words hit him squarely.

For an endless moment, they simply watched each other, the air between them heavy with the accumulation of everything left unsaid for so long. Then, in a sudden move, Ian raised his hand and traced the line of Oliver's jaw with his thumb, his eyes darkened with desire.

"You didn't have a choice," he justified with a restrained voice.

There was no more room for metaphors or disguises. It was just them, two men stripped of any fear, exposed in their rawest vulnerability. The urgency to eliminate the distance between them was irresistible, challenging that thin, yet so difficult to cross, line.

"I have now," Oliver stated with firm and resolute voice, full of hope to convince him that things would be different this time. After all, as he himself had said, Oliver was the boss. "It's up to you," he pointed out, his eyes fixed on Ian's with a burning intensity. It wasn't an ultimatum, but a possibility unfolding before them: "You can kiss me right now and say yes, or step back. I will understand. But you know we would both be condemned to live the rest of our lives with this gaping void in our chests, day after day, wondering what if we had been braver."

"Like the princess who tirelessly searches for her cowboy," Ian smiled, a smile that lit up his face like the sunrise after a moonless night.

His hand slowly rose to Oliver's face, and out of the corner of his eye, Oliver saw him trace a lock of hair that now fell near his shoulder. It was as if Ian were registering this change in Oliver's appearance for the first time, his eyes shining with a mix of surprise and admiration.

"It's knight," Oliver corrected him, his own smile reflecting Ian's. Ian rolled his eyes at the technical correction, but Oliver insisted: "But yes, like them."

"We are not fictional characters, Oliver," he countered, bringing the lock of hair behind Oliver's ear with a tenderness that made his heart skip a beat. Oliver's eyelids grew heavy, surrendering to the warmth emanating from Ian's palm, so close that he could feel every inch of that skin against his. "Besides, you could have been more realistic. We're far from the cliché of princess and commoner."

"She's four years old, Ian. She doesn't need to learn yet how life can be particularly bitter for princes who fall in love with royal advisors," Oliver joked, but a note of melancholy permeated his words, revealing the frustration he struggled to contain.

Ian's soft laughter caressed Oliver's face as delicately as a warm breeze, sending shivers down his spine. It was a sound Oliver could listen to for the rest of his life and never tire of.

"If I were to accept your proposal," Ian began after a brief silence, his deep voice sounding like a timid murmur, "how would we make it work?"

"I have no idea," with a trembling sigh, Oliver leaned slightly forward, rubbing his face against Ian's welcoming palm like a cat seeking affection. "All I know is that right now, I'm willing to do anything to make you stay."

"Anything?" Ian whispered, his thumb tracing the line of Oliver's lower lip with torturous slowness.

"Anything in the world," Oliver replied in the same tone.

Their lips were still mere inches apart, and the air between them seemed to have solidified. The moment seemed suspended in time, on the verge of unfolding into a kiss that promised to change everything.

But before they could give in to this uncontrollable desire, a sequence of firm knocks echoed through the room, breaking that trance.

When Sofia entered, her presence filled the room with an uncomfortable sense of reality. Oliver's hair stood on end.

What the hell was he about to do?

"Dear, we need to..." Sofia began, but her words died when her gaze met Ian. He had moved away from Oliver in an instant, planted on the other side of the room—a disconcerting sight of ragged breaths and tense posture. "Oh. Hello, Mr. Harrison-Jones."

"Your Majesty." Ian gave a brief bow, his voice laden with forced formality.

Sofia and Oliver rolled their eyes at the unnecessary display of protocol.

With a subtle gesture, Sofia invited him to stand, correcting in a tone that admitted no discussion: "Call me Sofia, please." Her smile was cordial, but there was a cold calculation behind it, as if she were evaluating the situation with keen eyes. With the grace of a sovereign queen, she walked to the center of the room, each step imbued with unshakable confidence. "Did Oliver invite you for lunch?"

Ian hesitated, casting a furtive glance at Oliver, seeking guidance. Oliver could see the indecision in his eyes, the conflict between the desire to stay and the need to leave.

"No, I was just leaving," he finally replied, the uncertainty evident in his voice.

"Oh, nonsense," Sofia insisted, approaching Ian with deliberately slow steps. Her eyes never left his, a silent battle of wills unfolding. "I insist."

Oliver shrugged, offering Ian an apologetic look.

"Laura would certainly be happy to see you," he justified, trying to keep him a bit longer, though something deep down betrayed the selfishness behind it.

◃───────────▹

With a resigned sigh, Ian sank into a chair, his rigid posture and tense shoulders revealing his discomfort. The atmosphere was suffocating, charged with a restless energy on the verge of exploding. While Sofia and Oliver struggled for a superficial conversation, an oppressive silence infiltrated the pauses, amplifying every noise and making each gesture seem staged.

It was as if everyone was on the edge of a precipice, precariously balancing on the brink of disaster.

"So, Ian," Sofia called, capturing Ian's divided attention, "how is Singapore?"

"Hot, as always," he replied with a diplomatic smile, but the brevity carried a nearly tangible resistance.

"Oliver spoke wonders about the city," she commented, her gaze meeting Oliver's with a warmth that contrasted with the slight chill creeping into the conversation. "He went there once with his parents for a conference," she clarified, and Ian nodded. "There's an incredible and very popular city nearby. What's the name, Hen?" She turned to Oliver but soon seemed to remember: "Kuala Lumpur. Have you been there?"

Oliver was immersed in the eye of the storm, the tension between Sofia and Ian creating turbulent currents around him. He agreed with Sofia, his mask of politeness barely disguising the rigidity that shaped him into the cautious and determined posture Ian had known years ago. An uncomfortable heat burned his cheeks, and the stifling conversation seemed to suck the air out of the room with each endless moment.

"Yes, the cities have deep political and economic ties," Ian admitted, an enigmatic smile curving his lips but failing to reach his distant eyes. "Frequent trips to Kuala Lumpur are inevitable."

"I've always wanted to visit," Sofia said enthusiastically, her words hanging in the tense air as Ian nodded, taking a sip of water. "Is it as stunning as they say?"

"A metropolis of impeccable architecture. If you appreciate modernity, you'll love it," Ian advised, his voice sounding slightly detached while Oliver desperately sought some relief in the conversation.

Feeling their gazes on him, Oliver's shy smile was an attempt to alleviate the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them.

Sofia nodded with genuine interest. "We definitely need to consider a trip soon, don't we, dear? Maybe a second honeymoon?"

Ian's surprised look captured Oliver for a moment, his eyes indecipherable.

While Sofia smiled, satisfied with the suggestion, a knot formed in Oliver's throat. He tried to ignore the affectionate nickname, but Sofia turned to him, waiting for a response.

"Well, who knows," he forced himself to respond, maintaining composure under Ian's inquisitive gaze. "We have a lot of work to do here first."

"Perhaps Ian could guide us on a tour since he knows the region so well," Sofia suggested, and Oliver saw Ian's jaw tighten as his lips curved into a polite but visibly forced smile.

Oliver could see in Ian's eyes that Sofia was about to cross a line.

When Laura appeared to announce that the dishes would be served, it was like a lifeboat in the middle of a shipwreck. Oliver ignored her surprised expression upon seeing Ian there—worse, sharing the table with Sofia—and jumped up, calling her:

"Laura!" She looked at him, confused, and he hurried on: "Why don't you join us?"

"Hmm," she pondered. "It wouldn't be very appropriate, Your Majesty."

"Oh, please, we are all family here," Oliver insisted nervously, and she seemed to catch the desperation in his eyes, for she didn't resist. "And don't call me that. I'm still just Oliver to you."

With a slight nod, she agreed, a shy smile blossoming.

The lunch proceeded, each bite and casual conversation seeming to intensify Ian's discomfort. It was as evident as the sun, extending through the delicate engravings on the porcelain and the clinking of crystal glasses. Sofia, oblivious or simply determined to play the perfect hostess beside Oliver, shared stories of trips and future projects.

Sensing the growing tension, Laura tried to steer the conversation to lighter topics, asking Ian about his recent accomplishments in Singapore politics. But with each display of intimacy between Sofia and Oliver, Ian seemed to shrink even more, as if each gesture were a bitter reminder of what he had lost.

The discomfort in the atmosphere seemed to bend Ian's shoulders, folding him under the notion of his self-imposed invisibility. And then, in a moment that seemed both inevitable and terrible, his glass, held with almost imperceptible tension until then, made a loud crack as he set it back on the table—a dissonant sound that cut through the dialogue, drawing all eyes to him.

"I... need to go. Work awaits me," Ian finally said, his voice firmer than his posture suggested. "Thank you for the meal."

He stood with abrupt dignity, but the exchanged looks, especially from Laura, revealed a concern that transcended the indigestion of that lunch.

"Excuse me," Oliver announced, leaving the napkin on the table to follow Ian through the dining room to the gardens he knew so well.

◃───────────▹

"Ian!" The shout escaped Oliver's lips with urgency, dissipating in the cold wind of that gray afternoon.

Ian froze, his rigid silhouette defying the implied command. Then, he turned all at once, his amber eyes glowing like embers, sparking with a fury that made Oliver's heart falter.

"Was it really necessary to drag me here, Oliver?" Ian's voice was pure venom, each word dripping with distilled anger and disappointment from his clenched lips. "To bring me back to this macabre circus, just to rub your perfect life in my face? Your plans and dreams that I'm no longer a part of?"

"No, Ian, for God's sake!" Oliver practically begged, frustration strangling his words into a tight knot. "I... I called you because I can't bear the thought of seeing you leave again."

A bitter laugh erupted from Ian's lips, a laugh as sharp as ice blades stabbing into Oliver's chest.

"So, I should settle for the crumbs of your attention while watching, from the sidelines, the intimacy you've built with someone else?" His eyes sparked with a raw, cutting threat. "Just watch from afar? Do you think that's fair?"

Ian's words carved deep scars into Oliver's soul, reopening barely healed wounds.

"I never wanted this, Ian, I swear." Oliver's voice was no more than a desperate murmur, a plea for understanding against the howling wind. "Please, don't think I'd be capable of anything to hurt you."

"We can't say the same about your wife." Ian averted his gaze with disdain, a gesture that made Oliver turn on his heels.

Sofia, accompanied by a trembling Laura, had a gaze as dense and impenetrable as granite.

"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, Mr. Harrison-Jones," Sofia spoke with a politeness that seemed to cut the air with its calculated coldness, maintaining an impeccably lofty posture. But Oliver could see—behind the mask of authority, there was a game she was playing.

A sarcastic laugh escaped Ian, the sound laden with disdain cutting deeper than intended.

"Sofia, please," Oliver's voice emerged firmer than he intended, a reprimand he had never dared utter before.

And that, he realized, ignited a hidden fury in her.

"Oliver, are you so blind that you can't see how your actions are tearing our family apart?" Sofia's words were sharp claws, desperately seeking Oliver's conscience. "You brought him back here, after all this time, just to destroy what we've spent years building?"

The weight of those stares converged on Oliver, causing anxiety to bubble in his chest. He had started this, yes, but he never imagined that his quest for reconciliation would ignite a war.

"You know very well that he occupies a space that was never filled by anyone else," Oliver confessed, each word slipping out with a somber honesty. "And that place, that role... are distinct from what you and Lily have."

"Does that mean we're disposable?" Sofia's accusation, filled with venom and vulnerability, was a silent battle cry. "I stood by you when he left, Oliver. I healed your wounds, embraced your scars, never shied away from your darkest feelings."

"Don't twist my words," Oliver replied, his voice hardening while Ian studied him with a complexity that twisted his features. "Lily is irreplaceable to me."

"But you wouldn't hesitate to replace me," she retorted, her eyes flooded with an ocean of pain and anger. "For someone who chose to leave you."

"He was forced to!" Oliver's voice grew louder, an echo of hopelessness.

Ian, until then a silent spectator, exchanged loaded glances with Sofia.

"The Queen didn't force him to do anything, Oliver," she revealed, and it was as if the ground opened beneath his feet.

"What?" Oliver's voice faltered as he risked the question, even without wanting the confirmation.

"It was his choice," Sofia assured, her statement full of certainty. "Your grandmother didn't threaten him or banish him from the castle. He himself suggested this solution."

Oliver slowly turned to Ian, his heart racing uncontrollably.

"That's... that's not true, is it?" He could barely speak, the betrayal shattering any firmness he had.

Oliver felt his heart freeze as Ian hesitated, aware of the devastating impact his next words would have. A tense silence hung in the air, like the calm before the storm. In a surge of bitter disappointment, Oliver turned to leave, determined to flee from that toxic conversation. However, Ian's voice stopped him, echoing like a lament.

"I didn't leave just for myself because I couldn't bear to see you fulfill our dreams with someone else." Oliver stopped, reluctant to face him, fearing what else would come. "Or do you really believe you could maintain your family obligations with me around?"

"That decision wasn't yours to make," Oliver shouted, his voice choked by the tears he fought to contain.

Ian's eyes bore into him, unyielding. "If I had stayed, would you have become this idolized leader? Would you have a daughter? Build a full life with your wife?" Each word was a sharp blade that tore into Oliver. "Admit it, wasn't it better that we kept our meetings secret until you fully embraced this new life? No resentment, no anger, just... following the natural flow of the destiny laid out for you."

The ensuing silence was deafening, suffocating. Oliver felt trapped in a maze of conflicting emotions, paralyzed by the guilt and regret he had fought so hard to bury.

"Look, Ian..." Oliver's voice was a rough murmur, choked by the tears climbing his cheeks. With a furrowed brow in desperation, he unleashed the inner beast. "I'm exhausted by all this, by everyone charting paths for me without considering my will. To hell with destiny! I... I just wanted you."

Ian's gaze oscillated between impatience and deep sadness.

"Oliver, we could never be together. You know that." He paused, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "Fighting against the current would be like begging for a truce with time itself — a futile effort." Gathering strength, he continued, his low voice laden with sorrow. "I loved you more than anything in this life, and leaving you was like tearing out my own heart. It was the hardest decision, haunting me all these years. But, Oliver, look at you," his eyes scanned Oliver, searching and finding precious pieces.

"Look at me? See what I've become." Oliver's bitterness was palpable in every syllable, expressing the pain that was tearing him apart. "An empty shell because of your absence."

"No, you're not that," Ian's voice softened. "Last night, I met an Oliver who never would have existed if I were around. A version of you who learned to dance with pain and extract life from it to create a whole new human being, with a kindness your family never showed you. That Oliver... is worth every second."

Their eyes met; two souls trapped in an unbridgeable abyss separating the past from what could have been. A feeling of painful yet liberating acceptance swept over Oliver. The raw reality, inevitable as death itself, struck him hard.

Ian's lips moved in a silent apology, two syllables that transcended words, filled with indescribable love and anguish. Turning away, he ignored Laura's distant call, crossing the gate with heavy steps. With each step that took him away, it was as if a fragment of Oliver followed him, desperately longing for a life that was never meant to be.

In that moment of raw agony, Oliver understood that some wounds would never fully heal. The love he felt for Ian was intertwined with his very soul, an intrinsic part of his being that could never be torn away.

And so, condemned to live with that devastating loss, he knew he would carry that scar forever.