Leaving Ian at the runway was one of the most painful moments of Oliver's life.

Maintaining a dignified posture while every fiber of his being desperately begged Ian to stay required superhuman strength. Oliver survived that torturous day with only a fake smile plastered on his face, hiding his true suffering behind a mask of forged gratitude and pride as he watched the plane carrying the love of his life lift into the air and depart.

Returning to the castle, the stifling atmosphere of judgment and reproach fell upon Oliver like a poisonous cloud. The Queen awaited him with an aura of icy disdain, as if he had committed the gravest offense. Oliver could feel his grandmother's sharp displeasure as a palpable force swallowing him. The air was thick with oppressive tension, and he felt his heart sink under the crushing weight of her disdain.

Alice stood beside the Queen, waiting in tense silence, but the expression of apprehension and pure panic on her face screamed that she had been summoned by the Queen out of mere obligation. Yet, Oliver knew his sister's eyes, and in them was a glimmer of solidarity, saying that even without being able to verbalize it, she was there to offer some kind of moral support in that dark moment.

"Hello?" Oliver's hesitant greeting echoed as he entered the imposing and oppressive meeting room.

"Sit down, Oliver," the Queen ordered with her steel voice, direct as a blade. Oliver took his place before the Queen's majestic table, beside Alice, like a prisoner before the executioner.

"What happened?" Oliver asked, coloring his voice with forged innocence, while Alice cast him a glance loaded with veiled understanding, and the Queen adjusted in her imposing chair with a posture of intimidating authority.

"With the core of the problem temporarily removed, we must discuss the recent incident," she began, her voice cold and calculating like a snake ready to strike. Oliver's genuine confusion was evident, but she quickly clarified with venom: "Your negligence has put the Crown's reputation at risk."

"Grandma, what are you—"

"It's about the video, Oliver," Alice interrupted, her sweet voice contrasting with the tension of the conversation.

"And your... affair with Mr. Harrison-Jones," the Queen added, with evident irritation.

Hearing Ian's name, Oliver felt his blood boil. "It wasn't an affair. I love him, Your Majesty."

She studied him with disdain. "Don't try to deceive me with these childish fantasies. It's mere youthful rebellion, a vile challenge to the secular responsibilities entrusted to you. Centuries of royal tradition are being desecrated by your selfish whim!"

"Selfish?" Oliver's hands trembled with rage. "So Ian was unfairly dismissed because of me? All to preserve this façade of perfection for the Fitzwilliam-Somerset name?"

"My decisions are not up for discussion," her voice was as icy as a blizzard. "The real issue is your scandalous and irresponsible behavior. Have you considered the catastrophic consequences if that repugnant video were to become public?"

Oliver shot her a defiant look. "Apparently, it already has, otherwise, we wouldn't be having this embarrassing conversation."

Her expression remained unshaken, a stern mask. "Precisely. And although we can still contain the damage, drastic measures and your complete obedience will be required. I will tolerate no more insubordination from you."

Alice cast Oliver a distressed look, aware of the explosive gravity of the situation. The tension was almost unbearable.

"Obedience?" Oliver retorted with scorn. "You're treating me like a disposable soldier, not your grandson! Where is the love and understanding you so preach to the people?"

"Do not dare to question my methods, Oliver," the Queen raised a hand in warning. "I have been very tolerant of your transgressions so far, but this scandal is unacceptable. It is time for you to truly assume your royal duties."

Oliver felt a wave of resentment. "In other words, become a puppet without a will of my own? Sacrifice my happiness in the name of outdated protocols?"

"Enough!" She glared at him. "The first thing you must do is dispel any suspicion about your relationship with Mr. Harrison-Jones. This includes avoiding any contact, public or private, with him."

A tense silence hung in the air, electrifying with tension. The standoff was evident. Alice seemed to want to intervene, but restrained herself. Oliver felt suffocated, cornered.

"And has Ian agreed to this?" Sadness vibrated in Oliver's voice.

"His agreement is irrelevant," she declared incisively. "If you truly care about the consequences of your reckless actions for this family and the country, you will do what must be done."

Oliver detected the veiled threat in her words, but above all, a harsh reality. His love for Ian would now be used as a weakness that the Crown would exploit without hesitation.

"It would be hypocritical to say I agree," Oliver's words sprang forth with a boldness bordering on insolence. Faced with diverging glances—one burning with irritation, the other apprehensive—his indignation boiled. "What more do you want to take from me? I'm here, as you demanded, but still, I seem insufficient!"

"Oliver, you are now a married man," the Queen emphasized, leaning forward with defiant eyes. "It is your sacred duty to honor your wife and not embarrass her. The times of acting irresponsibly are over."

Her words hit Oliver like lead, each syllable a blow echoing painfully in his heart. The mention of his arranged, loveless marriage cruelly highlighted the chasm between what was expected of him and what he truly yearned for.

"But how can I honor a marriage based only on conventions?" Oliver retorted with a voice trembling with revolt and despair, yet resolute.

"Do you dare challenge the secular traditions that are the foundation of this Crown?" The Queen's voice rose in austere, authoritative tone, a reprimand to his rebellion. "You made a solemn oath to your country, before the world! Never has it been so crucial for your actions to reflect the dignity and stability of the monarchy."

Despite feeling the magnitude of her words, Oliver maintained his position. Seeking a final surrender, his voice barely passed as a tense whisper. "And what about love, Grandma? Does it simply become dispensable for us?"

"Love, Oliver, is an unattainable luxury for those born destined for the throne. Our personal desires will always be subjugated to the sacred obligations to the Crown and this nation." She leaned forward, her harsh gaze suffocating him. "It is a bitter lesson you need to swallow at once, before you are consumed by it."

Alice cast a pleading look at Oliver, begging him to back down, but he could not contain himself.

"Fine," Oliver sighed, the anger and frustration fiercely clashing within him like two wild beasts trapped in a deadly battle. "You can imprison me in this marriage, drag me through these duties that mean nothing to me, even lock me up in this castle. You can banish Ian, force him to hide like a pariah in the most remote and forgotten places in the world, but hear this well: neither you, with all your authority, nor this Crown will ever weaken what we feel for each other."

"Your feelings are none of my concern, Oliver." The coldness in the Queen's voice was like an ice dagger driven into his chest. "Love whoever you want, as long as you never again let yourself be seduced by the call of dishonor and scandal. Our lineage—so ancient and noble—will not tolerate another single disgrace. It will not survive another public shame."

"You know, Your Majesty," Oliver's words came out tinged with a venom of contempt so bitter it could corrode iron, "a part of me wanted that video to go viral. So the whole world could see who I really am."

"A reckless brat? Or an exhibitionist?" Her words struck Oliver like a brutally delivered punch, a low blow meant to hurt. "You may not see a problem in being caught in intimate acts with another man in your distorted vision. But coming from a crown prince, it is simply..."

Oliver's irritation sparked into a full blaze. "Simply?"

"Unacceptable," she drove the word home like a knife, merciless.

"I never said it was right to expose myself that way, Grandma," Oliver countered with raw determination. "But what is unacceptable is the way your closed mind interprets love. I am aware that you do not care who I really am, and frankly, I no longer seek your approval. Acceptance? Understanding? Unconditional love? Empty words, foreign concepts in this family." Oliver faced her firmly. "I will not be the one to bring dishonor to the Crown or blemish Sofia's name. But what exists between Ian and me... It's far from over."

The final words fell like a verdict, and a storm of conflicting emotions roared within Oliver. With heavy steps, he turned his back and left that suffocating room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the crash reverberated through the corridors.

◃───────────▹

Dragging his feet, Oliver arrived at the room designated for him and Sofia. She was there, engrossed in a book, and his abrupt entrance startled her, pulling her out of her reading.

"Hey, what happened?" She frowned, concerned, as he collapsed into an armchair.

"The Queen just reprimanded me about Ian," Oliver revealed, his voice thundering with contained rage. He saw her expression turn to compassion as he continued, "She dismissed him, labeling him as the center of the problem. Can you believe that?"

Oliver stood up, pacing in circles. His voice broke when the tears came. "She wants to see me ruined, Sofia. There's no other explanation!" Exhausted, he let himself fall back into the armchair, burying his face in his hands as sobs shook his body. The pain of having Ian torn away from him was excruciating.

"Oliver..." Sofia knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. "When I was younger, I also faced moments of rage against these restrictions, this life filled with outdated rules and customs," she shared, emanating wisdom and serenity far beyond her years. "I know my family isn't as severe as yours, and I recognize my privilege in that, but my mother used to say that our ancestors perpetuate these rules because they don't know any other way to act. Your grandmother believes she's doing the best for you and the crown, even if it means ignoring feelings and personal choices."

Oliver looked at her, finding in her eyes a depth he rarely allowed himself to see in moments of crisis. It was true, Sofia had witnessed more of palace life than many could imagine, and her way of dealing with the burden of royalty was truly admirable.

"But that doesn't mean you have to accept everything in silence, Oliver," she continued, a burning determination shining through her voice. "There are ways to fight and make yourself heard, even within these walls that seem to want to suffocate us with their traditions."

The intensity in Sofia's eyes ignited a spark of hope in Oliver, a feeling he thought he had forgotten.

"How?" The word escaped his lips almost without him realizing it.

"By finding small loopholes, using your position to implement subtle but significant changes. You have a voice, Oliver, and a platform. We can start slowly, promoting changes in internal policies, in the way we treat the servants and the people under our care. Raising issues of equality and social justice in council meetings," she proposed, surprising Oliver with her logic and passion.

"Do you think that's possible?" he asked, the idea beginning to take shape in his mind.

"Absolutely," she smiled, a smile that seemed to light up the room with possibilities. "It will be a long and probably difficult path. But if we can open at least a few minds, it will already be a start."

Sofia wasn't just talking about politics or social changes; she was opening a window to a future where maybe Oliver could be more than just a pawn in a royal chess game. It was a future where he could finally be himself, and Ian... Well, it was a future he desperately wanted to believe in.

◃───────────▹

After marrying Sofia, Oliver's days became a constant challenge.

It was as if he had entered a minefield, where each step was a potential trap. The new routine demanded constant adaptation, while he tried to balance the demands of marriage with the growing responsibilities related to his future ascension to the British throne.

As he tried to adjust to this new phase of his life, Oliver felt an increasingly intense emptiness, an absence that could only be filled by Ian's presence. He occupied Oliver's thoughts every moment, his absence leaving a void that nothing seemed able to fill.

Although Sofia was by his side, her presence couldn't dissipate the loneliness he felt. Despite her efforts to support him, Oliver longed for a true connection, for someone who truly understood what he was going through. While he tried to find his place in this new and unknown world, he desperately yearned for the familiarity and comfort of Ian's arms.

As Oliver became involved in state affairs and royal commitments, his longing for Ian only grew. Every free moment was filled with memories of their times together, fueling the burning desire to have him by his side again. Even with the weight of royal responsibilities on his shoulders, his heart belonged to Ian, and he couldn't imagine a future without him by his side.

After a particularly exhausting day, discussing political obligations, royal protocols, and legal guidelines, Oliver was getting ready for bed when his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. His heart raced as he saw Ian's name flashing on the screen, and he didn't hesitate to answer.

"Finally, your voice," Oliver's greeting came out more like a sigh of relief, though his blurred vision could only capture a blur of movement before Ian finally occupied the screen.

Ian's face, captured under the bluish, ghostly light of the television in a partially lit room, gave him the aura of a rock star in an intimate, personal music video. The damp curls stuck to his forehead, perhaps remnants of a recent shower, and that nonchalant smile, sketched in the dim light, transformed the moment into one of those palpable instants that Oliver wished he could freeze and keep.

"Hey, you," said Ian, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed capable of traversing any distance, sending a shiver down Oliver's spine. "Sorry for calling so late, but I needed to see you."

Oliver's heart warmed at his words.

"Don't worry, I always have time for you," he said with more firmness than he expected, relieved to have this connection, this glimpse of Ian, even if only through a device.

Ian smiled, that smile that seemed to dissolve any worry, his eyes dancing on the screen in a visual connection that dissolved kilometers.

"So, tell me, how was playing the diligent noble today? I'm curious to hear all about the royal affairs you had to pretend to care about."

Oliver laughed, the tension of the day beginning to melt away like sugar in hot water.

"Oh, you have no idea. Absurd protocols and meetings that seemed endless. Can you believe there's a manual, a detailed script on how to be king?"

"Yeah, they need to keep you in the game," retorted Ian, a slight theatrical yawn tracing his lips, but his concern was genuine, palpable through the screen. "But how are you, really?"

This care made Oliver's heart warm even more. "I'm surviving. And you... How was your day?"

Ian let out an exaggerated sigh, but his eyes shone with an indomitable energy.

"Well, let's say I had to survive some boring meetings, give a few speeches that made my stomach turn, and still find time to get lost in the maze of palace corridors. Nothing I can't handle, but definitely a challenge."

They shared a light laugh, and for a brief moment, it was as if he was there beside him, like before, listening attentively.

"I miss you almost unbearably," Oliver confessed, watching Ian's smile widen. "It's surreal how you're there, so far away, and I'm powerless to change that."

"The feeling is mutual," Ian replied, adjusting his grip on the phone and meeting Oliver's eyes through the camera. "I would do anything to have you here with me."

"When will it be possible for me to visit you?" Oliver asked, almost in anguish, his skin warming at the sight of Ian's partially uncovered torso.

"Whenever you want," yawned Ian, blinking slowly, already overcome by fatigue. "I'll guide you through the city. The architecture and cuisine are fascinating. I'm sure you'll love it."

"I don't give a damn about tourism, Ian," Oliver retorted impatiently. "What I really want is to isolate myself from the world with you for hours on end."

"Hours, huh?" Ian laughed, his laugh echoing through the phone line like a gentle breeze. "You're overestimating me."

"I know you can handle it," Oliver affirmed suggestively, keeping the playful tone, to which Ian smiled affectionately. "Besides, it's been a while. I'm counting the seconds to see you in person."

"Me too, my love," said Ian, and it felt like it was the first time he called Oliver that. A delightful sensation coursed through Oliver's body, and for a moment he closed his eyes, surrendering to the sweetness of his voice. After a pause, his cheerful laugh echoed. "Want to see my room?"

"Of course," Oliver replied, seeing another flicker on the screen as Ian got up.

Soon, the light emanating from the palace room filled Oliver's phone screen as Ian turned on the lamps. It was a sumptuous environment, filled with exquisite furniture and a decor that exuded luxury and good taste. As Ian navigated the space with the camera, Oliver followed, as if for a moment he were there, with him in that opulent room.

"Here we have the bed," Ian pointed to an imposing canopy bed, adorned with silky fabrics and richly embroidered pillows. "And it's as comfortable as it looks."

Oliver smiled, finding it adorable how Ian presented things so obviously. "Is it?"

As Ian continued, he gestured toward more features of the room.

"Here we have a fireplace," he said, pointing to an elegant marble structure. Nearby, a luxurious reading chair caught the eye. "And this is my favorite armchair. I started reading the book you gave me last month, 'Middlemarch.' It's... complex."

Oliver laughed, remembering how George Eliot's masterpiece had always been one of his favorites. When Ian expressed interest in exploring English classics, Oliver thought it would be the perfect challenge to start his literary immersion.

"Looks like they're treating you better over there," Oliver joked, masking a hint of jealousy with a smile.

On the other side of the connection, Ian's warm and gentle laughter filled the air, momentarily bridging the distance between them.

"Ah, but they've forgotten something essential," Ian said, feigning seriousness.

Raising an eyebrow in question, Oliver prompted, "What's that?"

A mischievous smile curled Ian's lips as he replied, "A charming prince to brighten my lonely days."

Deciding to join the playful banter, Oliver retorted with a laugh, "And a charming princess?" Deep down, a subtle insecurity wove through his words.

"Oh, Oliver, just because you fell for my charms doesn't mean everyone will," Ian replied with spontaneous charm, his laughter filling the room with lightness.

His knack for always having a quick response made Oliver laugh along, a tacit acknowledgment of his sharp wit.

"I suppose they at least gave you a mirror?" Oliver continued the teasing, the lightheartedness between them making the time and distance seem less severe.

As Ian moved, glimpses of the sober decor were visible until suddenly, Oliver's breath caught. There, reflected in a majestic full-length mirror that captured every detail, was Ian wearing only a piece of intimate clothing.

"This is..." the words came out broken, Oliver's heart racing with a mix of desire and longing, "a low blow."

Ian feigned innocence in response to the deliberate provocation.

"What? Don't they have mirrors like this in Windsor?" The mischief danced behind his bright eyes.

Swallowing hard, the urge to counter rose within Oliver, prompting him to say, "When I become king," he paused deliberately, aiming to infuse confidence in his words despite the palpable vulnerability, "I'll have an identical mirror made. With today's vision eternally engraved on it."

Ian's genuine and warm laughter crossed the distance between them, filling the silence with an intimacy that made the space between their voices seem insignificant.

"That invention already exists and it's called a painting," Ian teased, and Oliver laughed, rolling his eyes in response. "But I don't think it's a very appropriate portrait for the royal quarters."

"I'll decide what's appropriate," Oliver lifted his chin in feigned authority, and Ian's eyes softened, his affection evident in every line of his face. "I'll be the king, I'll be able to do whatever I want."

Their smiles lingered through the brief silence that followed, and unexpectedly, Ian suggested:

"Come visit me. My weekends are free. Take a commercial flight, come see me. I can pick you up at the airport in a rented car, book a discreet hotel... like two runaway lovers. What do you say?"

The idea of a clandestine meeting with Ian was more tempting than any other offer reality could present.

"I'd love to," Oliver replied, anxiety and excitement bubbling inside him. "Every second away from you now feels like an eternity."

"I understand perfectly," Ian said, his voice tinged with the same melancholy Oliver felt. "Every minute here feels like living a lifetime. But when we're together, nothing else will matter."

"I know," Oliver agreed, his resolve strengthening with the promise. "I'll make it happen, Ian. I'll be there soon."

It was decided. It was an impulsive plan, perhaps reckless, but charged with such deep emotion that any hesitation seemed trivial compared to the burning desire to be together again.