The clock struck two in the morning with its silent tick-tock, as an amber glow danced on the polished floor of the meeting room.

Oliver's pen moved over the mahogany, the only witness to his restlessness. Frustration simmered within him as he faced the challenging blankness of that sheet, a mirror of his creative block.

Hours dragged on in this mental paralysis, his brow furrowed in fruitless concentration. He sought the perfect words for the speech he would deliver in the halls of Buckingham Palace on the occasion of launching his first literary work.

He intended to weave the threads of his existence, from the improbable moment he found himself thrust onto the throne as a child. He would share, in an intimate tone, the struggles, joys, duties, and limitations inherent to the millennia-old tradition of the Fitzwilliam-Somerset family.

Reluctantly, he had given in to Ian's persuasive pleas to make this event happen. Ian had taken the reins of organization, inviting illustrious figures, world leaders, and inevitably, the voracious press.

Anxiety gnawed at him, as he was about to reveal a fragment of his life that would reflect not only resilience and tenacity but also, and above all, the hope that propelled him. Yet the words eluded him, refusing to entwine in a way that captured his essence.

So he remained, bathed in the warm light of the ancient chandelier casting flickering shadows over the blank paper, as he delved into his inner self in search of the inspiration capable of giving life to the elusive words.

The absolute silence was broken by soft footsteps on the waxed floor. He looked up from the untouched page to find Ian standing before him.

Ian's strong arms were casually crossed, a peculiar smile playing on his lips — a smile that said "I love you madly," but also "I don't know what to do with you anymore."

His bare feet rested on the Persian rug, contrasting with the loose plaid pants hanging low on his sculpted hips. A tight, improvised T-shirt highlighted the defined muscles of his torso.

Oliver's heart raced, and the air left his lungs for a moment.

"Hi?" he managed to whisper, trembling.

But Ian didn't stay still. He moved slowly around the table, walking toward Oliver. His tousled curls swayed with each step, his sleepy gaze fixed on Oliver's with magnetic precision.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?" His voice was a rough murmur of sleep and concern as he stopped beside Oliver, examining the empty page.

"I can't sleep," Oliver admitted, turning his chair to face him. Ian leaned on the table, attentive. "I need to write the speech for tomorrow's launch."

"Ollie," Ian began, a compassionate smile spreading on his lips as he gently massaged Oliver's shoulders. The instant touch brought a wave of relaxation, encouraging Oliver to close his eyes and savor the simplicity of the contact. "It's your book, you wrote it, you know it inside and out. Presenting it shouldn't be torturous for you."

"I know," Oliver sighed, reopening his eyes as Ian stepped back, still watching him with sweet affection. "But I don't want it to seem like I'm using my own platform for self-promotion. I want people to genuinely care."

"Oliver, there's nothing wrong with using your influence to leave your mark where you want to be seen," Ian countered, wisdom emanating from his words. Oliver's hands found Ian's thighs, covered by soft flannel, appreciating the texture under his fingers. "You're talented, your book is amazing, and you can present it to the world with confidence. You might be the king or whatever, but you're much more than that too."

Ian's words brought a warm, genuine smile to Oliver's face. It was always refreshing to hear him mock his 'title' with such affectionate detachment. "You think so?"

"I do," Ian affirmed, succinct and firm, covering Oliver's hands with his before standing up and pulling him close. He brought Oliver's hands to his shoulders and enveloped him in a cozy embrace, resting his warm palms on Oliver's waist. "I can make some tea and help you with the speech if you want," he suggested, gently swaying their bodies as his hands traced comforting caresses along Oliver's back, "or you can come to bed with me, and I'll give you a head rub until you fall asleep."

"Hmmmm," the sound that escaped Oliver was not exactly a word, but it was enough. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against Ian's and surrendering to the sense of relaxation that Ian's presence provided.

Ian also had begun the process of his divorce.

Ian chuckled softly, his breath a whisper against Oliver's ear as he concluded, "The second option, then."

Once in their bed in the royal suite at Windsor, Oliver drifted into unconsciousness as Ian's fingers gently stroked his hair. Ian's nose barely brushed against Oliver's due to their closeness.

It had been a month since Ian had accepted Oliver's proposal to work as his personal assistant.

His new duties involved managing Oliver's busy schedule, handling his official correspondence, planning trips and events, and serving as the main point of contact for internal and external matters. However, one of his most important tasks, which he performed masterfully, was ensuring that Oliver could completely disconnect from royalty every night, as Ian pressed him into the mattress and assumed the role of authority.

Ian also had begun the process of his divorce.

The dissolution of Oliver's marriage had proved particularly taxing. After all, any separation within royalty requires not only legal considerations but also significant social and political implications — Oliver found himself having to consult Parliament and the religious leader of England to proceed with a decision that should have involved no one but Sofia and himself.

So far, everything had transpired in absolute secrecy, away from the prying eyes of the press. However, Oliver found it to be a much more tortuous path than he had anticipated.

In a moment of lucidity, he sleepily asked, "Did Sofia agree to the terms of the deal?"

"Oliver, you need to sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow," Ian reprimanded softly, his fingers tracing soothing caresses on Oliver's nape.

"Just tell me: did she accept our proposal?" Oliver insisted stubbornly.

Ian sighed, giving in to his obstinacy.

"Yes, sweetheart. She agreed," he responded briefly, omitting details. But Oliver was not satisfied. Sensing his restlessness, Ian huffed before adding, "She opted for a private residence, Oliver. But she allowed Lily to remain at the Castle, as long as she can visit her whenever she wants."

"Of course, she can always come. But I don't understand why she wouldn't prefer an apartment here," Oliver replied, confused.

"I think you know why," Ian suggested, a penetrating look meeting his when he opened his eyes.

"I hate this part," Oliver confessed. Ian nodded, pulling him closer in a tight embrace as if to shield him. "Why can't things be simpler?"

"It's life, I suppose," Ian spoke without conviction. "But the deal is generous. She'll never have to worry about anything again. As for her feelings toward you... well, time will heal."

"I know," Oliver agreed, nestling against Ian's warm chest. "Still, I feel like a heartless monster."

"You're far from heartless," Ian assured him, his fingers sliding along Oliver's nape. "You're the most honest and sweet person I know. Even though you're a powerful figure, some things are beyond your control."

"I'm not a powerful figure," he protested sleepily. "I'm Oliver. Just Oliver."

"That sounds like a Harry Potter line," Ian teased with a light smile.

Oliver smiled, half-asleep, before everything became abstract as he sank into unconsciousness.

◃───────────▹

"Deep breaths, remember?" Ian reiterated, firmly gripping Oliver's shoulders as he looked into his eyes.

In Ian's eyes, Oliver saw pride and confidence; in his own, Ian probably saw pure fear.

"What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to this?" Oliver retorted with evident bad temper, his voice hoarse with hesitation.

But Ian smiled in response, his white teeth gleaming like sunlight on a mirror.

"Break a leg, or something like that," Ian joked, winking one of his caramel eyes with a mischievous expression.

Oliver nodded nervously, his heart pounding as he cast one last apprehensive glance before the heavy doors of the hall opened with a reluctant groan. He forced a tense smile as he walked to the center, where unnecessary applause echoed, creating an oppressive atmosphere.

It was the first time Oliver was participating in a non-diplomatic event or a royal ceremony.

That night, he was there, in the sumptuous Buckingham Palace, about to present his long-worked narrative — without anyone, except him, knowing the true reasons behind it.

His narrative told the story of a little prince who had no interest in the monarchy but was pushed to the throne prematurely and undesirably. Throughout his life, he spoke of royal traditions, limitations, and the senseless protocols to which he had been bound his entire life, as if trapped in a golden cage.

Any resemblance to his own reality was not mere coincidence.

Oliver was nervous, apprehensive for having revealed too much, for being negligent with the molds and customs that still governed him — and, ironically, he was the figure who corroborated them. But something within him had an uncontestable urgency, an almost desperate need to strip off the royal mantle and crown, revealing parts of himself that no one knew, as if he were about to remove a mask he had worn his entire life.

He conversed politely with a series of people who came to greet and congratulate him on the initiative, but his mind was elsewhere.

Champagne glasses always in hand, protocol smiles, and endless thanks, and Oliver walked through the night, being the exemplary host, but inside, he felt like a complete stranger in his own kingdom.

Until the moment arrived. The moment when he would finally speak and present his work, as well as his reasons for writing it.

Ian was there, under the guise of a personal assistant, anchored at the side door like an imposing statue. Even from a distance, Oliver could see Ian's brown eyes radiating a proud glow, which poured over him like pure honey, making him feel genuinely comfortable for the first time in his life.

"Oh, hello, sweetie!" Oliver heard Ian's cheerful voice exclaim, receiving a small figure with blonde hair wearing a vibrant red dress.

She ran to him with an illuminated smile, being lovingly lifted into his protective arms. Lily snuggled against Ian, as if it were the safest place in the world. He then pointed in Oliver's direction, and his heart warmed at seeing them wave excitedly.

Ian murmured something in the girl's ear, inaudible words that made her laugh and smile even more.

Oliver was charmed by the genuine connection between them. However, his gaze was drawn to the other side of the hall, where Sofia greeted him with a timid smile and a silent wave.

A profound silence hung, like a dense fog muffling even breaths. In that unsettling calm, Oliver caught Ian's significant look, his eyes shining with encouragement and expectation.

It was his moment to begin, the one for which he had inadequately prepared.

Oliver's hands trembled slightly as he held the crystal glass fogged by warmth. Anxious, he cleared his throat, trying to untie the knot in his throat. With determined posture, he advanced to the center, each step reverberating like a drum, belying the false confidence he tried to convey.

"First of all, thank you for coming," he began with a firmer voice than expected. He swept his eyes across the room, smiling at unfamiliar faces. Nervousness churned his stomach, preventing him from fixing his gaze on anyone for long. "As you know, this is an unusual day for me. I will finally present my first book."

He pointed to the poster with the subtle cover art, the bold title: Golden Cage, by Oliver James Montague Fitzwilliam-Somerset.

His fingers felt the rough paper where he had scribbled some phrases. However, when he tried to recall them, nothing seemed appropriate.

Then his gaze met Ian's and Lily snuggled in his lap.

Ian's tender smile was a beacon in the storm consuming him. Inspiration flowed, uncontrollable.

"When my daughter was born, I began to think incessantly about how I could create a world where she could grow up healthy, creative, honest, and free," the words flowed effortlessly. "I prepared to teach her to value life, to respect people and choices. But for that, I needed to revisit my own history." With each sentence, Oliver felt his confidence grow, the fixed gazes losing importance in the face of the truth to share. "When I met Lily's mother, I was already in love with someone else," he paused, eyes connecting with Ian's. Surprised, Ian looked at him with apprehension and curiosity about what he would reveal. "Someone who was not royalty, not an authority, not even a woman."

A shocked murmur spread, like waves against rocks.

Oliver felt the weight of the gazes, some incredulous, others judgmental. However, he was not shaken. He continued, the truth burning on his tongue, eager for freedom.

"I was surrounded by an outdated tradition that would never allow me to live this relationship with someone so far from the standards imposed by royalty, especially when I would inevitably be crowned king," Oliver rolled his eyes, feeling a wave of confidence run through his body, prompting him to move through the center of the hall. "Once I wore the Crown, I am fully convinced to say that most of the customs we follow make no practical sense. I am the same Oliver I was before revealing this information about myself, and I am not saying that you should accept it, but, just as I taught my four-year-old daughter, you should respect the characteristics of a human being and never measure them with your own moral ruler, or any parameter you use to judge someone."

His words echoed through the walls, laden with deep conviction.

"I followed the protocols to the letter: I married an admirable woman, took on commitments for which I was trained, disseminating doctrines I did not agree with, for a supposed 'greater good'. But what sense does that make?" His tone rose as he placed the empty glass on a nearby table, the crystal clinking against the wood. "The government still imposes exorbitant taxes to fund spectacles at 'beneficent' dinners, hinders access to education for the less fortunate, but spares no luxuries in the palaces I inhabit. It is incoherent to prioritize an image of stability and obsolete traditions without really stepping out of the diplomatic bubble and seeing real people."

Oliver's heart beat irregularly, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"After Lily arrived, I felt like an impostor. Someone who follows orders when he should proclaim them, someone extremely passive behind a facade of decorum that benefits no one but a tiny fraction of the English population, specifically the nobles," he restrained himself from openly criticizing, after all, that was not his purpose there. "What I mean is that I know happiness is subjective, changeable. However, it is not wrong to seek one's own personal fulfillment, whatever it may be. That is what I want to teach Lily."

His eyes scanned the hall, connecting with the attentive faces watching him.

"This book is a message for those trapped by invisible bonds imposed by an archaic society that does not value people for who they are, but for titles." He pointed, his gaze returning to Ian. He smiled, half-shy, half-encouraging, his silent support giving Oliver the strength to continue. "I am still your king, and no personal detail changes the fact that I care about the country, but I do not need to deny my own well-being for an image. In these pages, I expose my soul, narrating the fictitious journey of a prince that echoes my own. If my words touch someone here in the same way they touched me while writing them, consider them advice from someone who took too long to understand an essential truth: a public figure is not an inanimate being, a puppet to be manipulated, serving as an example to be blindly followed. Above all, we are human, with our own desires, fears, and dreams. And I, my friends, am immensely grateful to have reached this understanding before it was too late, before finding myself on my deathbed, lamenting a past not fully lived for empty and meaningless reasons."

Oliver had lost track of time since he began speaking, but when he looked at Ian, he saw his eyebrows raised in surprise at the courage demonstrated in exposing himself so raw and authentically.

"Oh, and before speculation begins, let me clarify: Sofia and I are no longer together," Oliver revealed, feeling a burning audacity coursing through his veins. "We are friends, we raise our daughter in mutual agreement and harmony, which I hope to continue. There was no infidelity, marital, familial, or political problems. The alliance with Sweden remains unshaken, everything is under control. There is no reason for concern." He concluded his speech with a deep exhalation, as if expelling all the air from his lungs, along with the weight he had carried for so long. "I will be available to meet with the press shortly, and you will have the opportunity to ask your questions. Once again, thank you for coming."

With determined steps, Oliver left the hall, the echo of his shoes on the noble marble dissipating as he crossed the door, moving away from the speculative gazes.

As expected, Ian did not take long to follow him.

Oliver knew he would try to control the damage, certainly reprimanding him for exposing details of such a secretive process. And Ian would be right to do so, but when he turned to face him, his expression was a blank canvas, indecipherable emotions mingling.

"Fuck," Ian murmured, his voice reverberating in the deserted antechamber.

In a fluid movement, his hands found Oliver's face and their lips met with an overwhelming urgency Oliver had never anticipated. His heart pounded against his ribs as he surrendered to that kiss, feeling the warmth of Ian's fingers tracing his skin, the taste of his mouth.

"I fucked everything up, didn't I?" The question came out in a trembling whisper when Ian broke the kiss, keeping his eyes closed, fearing what he would find in that piercing gaze.

"I wouldn't call it a fuckup," Ian enveloped Oliver's hesitation with a reassuring certainty, encouraging him to face his gaze. "But it was, without a doubt, madness."

"I don't see much difference," Oliver admitted as Ian pulled him into another kiss, as if his impulsiveness had ignited stars in his own sky.

Ian shot Oliver a fascinating crooked smile.

"Hey, at least you were creative in calling me poor in so many different ways," he joked, trying to ease the tension a bit. Then, his expression softened, and he placed his hands on Oliver's shoulders. "But seriously, you know you need to go back, right?" His warm brown eyes looked at Oliver with genuine concern. Despite the mischievous grin on his lips, there was a promise of future adventures in his gaze. "There's a crowd out there eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say."

Panic tried to take root in Oliver, accelerating his heart. "And what will I say to them?"

"Oh, baby," Ian's sweetness contrasted with his next words. "You summoned a storm over their heads." Compassion and admiration mingled in his expression as his hands descended to Oliver's tense shoulders. "Now you need to figure out a way to face them."

Oliver let out a heavy sigh, as if trying to expel all the accumulated frustration.

"Why did you let me speak?" He accused, trying to find someone to blame for his discomfort. "You are doing a terrible job of stopping me from ruining everything."

Ian just laughed, a soft sound that seemed to resonate in the depths of Oliver's soul, and held his hands firmly.

He pressed their foreheads together in an intimate, affectionate gesture.

"I am proud of you," he confessed, eliciting a nervous yet genuine smile from Oliver.

It was that smile that arises when one understands that carrying the weight of a mistake or an audacity is not so scary when you have someone by your side, ready to face the stormy and uncertain path ahead.

◃───────────▹

Stopping at the entrance to Lily's room, the soft yellow light created an almost magical aura.

Oliver leaned casually against the door frame, watching Ian adjust the pastel-colored fluffy blanket around her small body, leaving only her face and her inseparable stuffed bunny exposed.

As he watched, Oliver thought about making a witty comment about Ian overdoing it and suffocating the child. But any intention of joking dissipated when Ian's tender voice broke the silence.

"What do you want to dream about tonight?" he asked with a conspiratorial and sweet tone, as if about to reveal the greatest secret in the universe.

Lily, lost in thought, bit her lower lip, an expression of concentration dominating her face. Then, as if illuminated by a brilliant idea, she smiled broadly, showing her small teeth.

"Fairies!" she declared, her voice sounding like music to Oliver's ears.

Ian pretended to be surprised, but soon genuine fascination replaced his expression.

"Fairies? Let me tell you a secret about them," he whispered with excitement. Leaning closer to Lily, as if about to reveal the deepest mysteries of the universe, he continued, "Legend has it that fairies grant wishes to those who ask with unwavering conviction."

Lily's eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement at the "secret" confided, absorbing every word like drops of magic.

"Then think about it. What is your biggest wish today?" Ian invited with a twinkle in his eye. When Lily opened her mouth, he covered his ears, dramatizing scandal, his brown eyes wide. "Oh no, you can't tell me! It must remain a secret between you and the fairies."

Lily's pure, uncontrollable laughter filled the room, crossing the space to Oliver, triggering a smile on his lips as rich and satisfying as any treasure.

"Phew, that was close!" Ian exhaled in playful relief. "I'll leave you and the fairies to your secret meeting, okay? Just let me know when your wish comes true."

He wished Lily good night with a tenderness reminiscent of a summer sun, planting a loving kiss on her forehead before carefully rising from the edge of the bed that barely accommodated him.

It was then that Oliver and Ian's eyes met, and the smile Ian offered was the kind that only appeared when he was in Lily's presence. A wave of pleasure coursed through Oliver's body, leading his thoughts to territories that, for now, should remain uncharted.

Ian approached, his steps silent, while Oliver moved to give him space to pass through the door and close it gently.

"So, you were discussing fairy theories," Oliver observed, maintaining a false-defensive posture with crossed arms, even as Ian's body stopped at a minimal distance from his, but carefully without touching. "You, the supreme skeptic."

Ian shrugged, disarmed and amused. "What did you expect me to talk about with her? The British Constitution? Contemporary tax traps?"

Oliver couldn't help it, laughter escaped, a look of amusement as he rolled his eyes.

But slowly, he allowed his guard to drop, leaning against the wall, his eyes calmly wandering over Ian's face. He still had his hair meticulously combed back, the suit perfectly aligned, except for the lack of tie and belt, the first buttons undone, and the sleeves casually rolled up.

"You have such a sweet way with her," Oliver murmured, his arms now uncrossed, his hands finding a place on Ian's shirt, a light touch over the firmness of the muscles underneath. "You really love her, don't you?"

Gently, Ian placed his hands on Oliver's hips, a palpable kindness even through the fabric of his pajamas. "Well, she's part of you. How could I not love her?"

That sincerity disarmed any remaining defenses Oliver might have had.

His smile blossomed, unrestrained by anything, as Ian enveloped him in an embrace. The outside world now seemed irrelevant in Ian's safe and welcoming arms.

"I never saw it coming, you know?" Oliver admitted, surprised by his own confession.

"Why not? Don't I seem like someone who gets along with kids?" The question came loaded with self-deprecating charm.

Oliver shrugged casually, but soon his arms found their way around Ian's neck, enveloping him in a loose, relaxed hug.

"I just didn't believe in the remote possibility of us being together," he explained, letting the words hang in the air without delving too deep. "But I'm glad I'm wrong."

"Me too," Ian murmured, leaning into the gentle caress Oliver's fingers made on his neck, as if he wanted to get lost in that sensation. "You're all over the internet," he suddenly mentioned, making Oliver lean back slightly to look at him with curiosity. Resigned but apprehensive, Oliver was sure there was no turning back. It was time to accept the inevitable. "People are speculating who the mysterious man is that you fell so madly in love with that you're willing to give up the perfect marriage to a princess."

"Do you think I should tell them?" Oliver's question was sincere, as if seeking genuine guidance, something Ian immediately understood.

"Well, you should wait until the divorce process is finalized," Ian explained almost professionally, though his lips were busy planting subtle, teasing kisses on Oliver's cheek. "It could be seen as a conflict of interest and hinder the process."

"Conflict of interest? We have the same goal," Oliver protested, his voice carrying a light, playful indignation.

Ian laughed, the sound vibrating against Oliver's skin.

"It means I wouldn't be impartial in handling the case and should be removed," he patiently clarified, his lips never straying far from Oliver's skin. "It could invalidate everything I've done so far, including Lily's custody agreement."

"Oh, that definitely can't happen," Oliver murmured, half-lost in the details, as his attention was entirely focused on Ian's path of kisses that found a delicate resting place on his ear.

"You'll have to keep me as your dirty little secret for a bit longer," Ian whispered with a naturally seductive voice.

Oliver took a deep breath, eyes closed, surrendered to the sensations Ian was awakening in him.

"I don't mind, as long as you don't," he replied, sealing the pact.

But Ian just laughed softly, his warm breath enveloping Oliver in a mist of desire.

"I'm fine with it," he promised.

And they were so close, lips almost touching in an anticipated kiss when Laura suddenly appeared.

Her presence made them reluctantly pull apart, the intimate moment interrupted by the news she brought.

"There are paparazzi at the gate," she said directly, her tone restrained, but the concern evident.

"Predictable," Ian commented with a slight roll of his eyes. "They're desperate to find out who Oliver's mysterious lover is."

"Discretion is a virtue now," Oliver pondered, reluctantly disentangling from Ian's embrace, though a pang of discontent persisted. "Part of me wishes we didn't have to hide. For me, we'd be holding hands on the cover of 'The Sun' tomorrow."

Ian displayed that dazzling smile that made Oliver fall more in love each time, his eyebrows raised in a clear "what can we do?" For a moment, Laura and he shared the same expression—a mirror of resignation and complicity that would be comical if it weren't so poignant.

"If only we had someone trustworthy to take your case forward, we could stop pretending," Oliver mused, allowing the thought to linger.

To his surprise, Ian responded, "Well, I have Sabrina."

The reaction was instantaneous. Laura and Oliver turned to him, eyes wide with astonishment.

"And you only mention this now?" Oliver practically challenged him, leaning in with almost theatrical intensity. "Would you trust your life to her?"

The urgency in Oliver's voice was not unfounded.

He was ready, heart open, to face whatever came, ready to storm the main entrance of the castle and cause, at the very least, a commotion—when the insistent buzzing of his phone interrupted his plans undesirably.

With a swift motion, he pulled the device from his pocket, frowning as he saw a foreign country code flashing on the screen.

"Where is this from?" He turned the phone so Ian and Laura could see.

"South Africa? Somalia?" Ian suggested.

"Could it be that even international media is after you now?" Laura speculated in a half-joking tone, but the possibility did not please Oliver.

Suspicious, he slid his finger over the green icon and answered.

A shiver ran through his body when a familiar female voice broke the silence. He could hardly believe the possibility.

Under the apprehensive gazes of Laura and Ian, his voice almost failed when he murmured, the anxiety evident:

"Mum?"