The flight to Brussels on that rainy afternoon felt endless.

The gray sky unleashed its fury against the small window beside Oliver, raindrops dancing furiously on the glass. But he barely registered the storm outside. His eyes were captivated by a much more powerful force — the sight of Ian.

Ian's voice sounded melodious to Oliver's ears, though he hardly registered what Ian was saying. He was more focused on the cadence, the deep tone punctuated by occasional laughter.

Oliver's eyes roamed shamelessly over every nuance of Ian's expressions — the way his dark eyebrows arched when pondering a thought, the mischievous dimple that formed at the corner of his cheek whenever a smile escaped.

Ian's curls were tousled that day, and the dark strands mingled with his long eyelashes from time to time, hiding his caramel-colored eyes in the warm cabin light.

Ian was probably rambling about his favorite comics — Archie and Jughead, which Oliver had discovered was his childhood passion — or any other topic that escaped his attention.

The last confrontation between them had torn down the walls that separated them, and a new dynamic was emerging from the ashes. The mask of arrogance that Ian used to wear had dissipated, revealing much more intimate and captivating layers in his features.

They still disagreed on many points, of course, and their arguments were often heated. But Oliver's visceral need to rid himself of Ian's presence had evaporated.

In fact, he even appreciated Ian's company most of the time.

Oliver couldn't discern if his perception was distorted or if Ian had truly undergone a genuine transformation before his eyes. This new sense of comfort in each other's presence was both disconcerting and intriguing, as if they were redefining the parameters of their relationship.

Ian interrupted Oliver's reverie with a light touch on his arm.

"Hey, are you still with me?" His deep voice sounded amused, not irritated.

Oliver met his warm amber gaze. "Sorry, Ian," he confessed, sincerity permeating his words, "I was distracted."

Ian nodded with a sympathetic smile, his fingers briefly sliding over Oliver's wrist in a comforting gesture. It was a habit of Ian's, this subtle physical contact, which had initially surprised Oliver, but he soon grew to secretly appreciate.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Ian asked gently.

Oliver shook his head. "Actually, I wasn't thinking about anything specific. I guess I'm just a little anxious about the trip." He leaned back in the soft seat, closing his eyes briefly, as he always did when risking a lie. "But I'm listening, I promise."

Ian resumed the conversation in a calm voice. "I was talking about how the De Courcelle family has important ties to the English crown. A marriage could be a powerful symbol of unity between the two houses."

Oliver rolled his eyes slightly, massaging his temples. "Ian..." There was a veiled plea in his tone. "Can we not talk about that right now?"

"Oliver." His name came out velvety from Ian's lips, almost like a caress. Ian sighed. "We aren't going to Brussels just for a stroll."

"I know, I know." Oliver frowned. "But I never said I'd be entirely willing with this." He watched Ian's dark eyebrows arch slightly. "Why Brussels, anyway?"

"Because apparently no girl in the entire England was good enough for you." Ian shrugged. "If I'm not mistaken, you've rejected dozens in the past few months."

Oliver narrowed his eyes at Ian, but without malice. "Would you marry someone you don't love?"

"Love isn't something instantaneous, Your Highness," Ian replied gently, but his voice was muffled by turbulence that shook the jet, making Oliver shudder. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the arms of the chair. "It's something that is mutually built with time."

Amid the brief chaos, Oliver murmured almost inaudibly: "Have you ever fallen in love, Mr. Harrison-Jones?"

Silence hung between them, filled only by the roar of the engines. Then, Ian responded in a whisper:

"Of course, Prince."

"It doesn't seem so," Oliver replied quietly, relaxing minimally in his seat as the aircraft stabilized. However, he could feel the reassuring weight of Ian's gaze on him, his presence almost within reach.

"Why doesn't it seem so?" Ian asked softly, truly curious.

Oliver shrugged, not filtering his words.

"You always sound so pragmatic when talking about feelings. I could swear you've never really fallen in love before."

Oliver watched as Ian looked away, absorbing his words. There was no judgment in Oliver's tone, just honesty about the distance he sometimes felt emanating from Ian.

"I'm not a machine, Oliver," Ian defended himself. When their eyes met, Oliver was struck by a wave of surprise at seeing vulnerability reflected in Ian's eyes. "It's not like I'm rigid all the time."

A pang of guilt hit Oliver. Maybe he had been unfair.

"You don't need to have two personalities," he replied, an uncommon sincerity in his voice. "You can just be yourself with me."

The sound of Ian's subtle laughter echoed through the confined space. "You're the prince," he noted, and Oliver rolled his eyes. "There are protocols to address you."

"Ian, please," Oliver begged, a touch of frustration in his voice. "I don't give a damn about the protocols. I'm not that different from you, after all."

"You are different from me in absolutely everything," Ian countered, and Oliver frowned, questioning him with his gaze. "But I can assure you that I'm more than I appear, Your Highness."

Oliver blinked a few times, his words piquing his interest in knowing Ian beyond the surface.

"I bet you are, Counselor," he said, a slight smile forming on his lips.

◃───────────▹

The private jet broke through the gray veil of clouds, landing smoothly on Belgian soil.

Contrary to usual protocol, Ian yielded to Oliver's insistence and dismissed the formal reception, heading directly to the robust and discreet SUV that awaited them, devoid of any emblems or flags that might reveal their positions.

Oliver was tired of those unnecessary pomp and circumstance, despite the importance of the matters that brought them to Belgium.

The rain pounded against the glass in a hypnotic rhythm as Ian drove through the rural roads. The vibrant green of the fields blended with the gray of the sky, creating a living canvas of colors. Quaint villages slipped by the windows, their pointed roofs emerging through the curtain of water like mountain peaks.

Oliver leaned his head against the seat, allowing the gentle sound of the rain to calm him. For a brief moment, he managed to block out the political agreements and royal obligations awaiting them, surrendering to the simple peace of the countryside. The damp smell of wet earth penetrated his nostrils, a pure and comforting fragrance.

When they entered the main hall of the De Courcelle castle, Oliver was overwhelmed by a sense of smallness in the grandeur around him. Polished marble pillars supported a vaulted ceiling so high it seemed to touch the sky. Centuries-old tapestries narrated epics of Belgian kings and queens in threads of gold and silk. Their steps echoed against the stone floor as they approached, almost intimidated.

Then, his gaze fell on King Philippe on his imposing throne.

A giant of a man, broad-shouldered and with a clenched jaw, he radiated an aura of raw power. His blue eyes pierced Oliver with an icy stare, sending a shiver down his spine. Beside him, Queen Amélie looked like a porcelain doll about to shatter under her husband's overwhelming presence.

"Let's get straight to the point, Prince Oliver," he began, his deep voice echoing through the stone walls. "This union between you and my daughter Anne represents much more than a simple royal marriage. It is a unique opportunity to strengthen ties between Belgium and England."

He paused, his lips curling into a sly smile.

"In exchange for my precious daughter's hand, the Belgian Crown demands certain... concessions from you."

Oliver's stomach turned at the cynicism of those words. Anne was being treated as mere currency for political gain.

"I hear your demands, Your Majesty," he forced himself to respond with a respectful nod, though his clenched fists betrayed the growing anger within him.

"Firstly," the king continued bluntly, "we demand preferential access and reduced rates to English ports and trade routes in the English Channel. This will strengthen our influence in the region." He raised a finger. "Additionally, we desire a permanent seat on England's security council, with veto power over military and intelligence decisions that affect our interests."

Oliver swallowed hard, the weight of those words suffocating him. The man's arrogance was almost palpable, his disdain evident as he stared at him like another disposable pawn in his power game.

"Your Majesty is fully aware of how... bold these proposals are?" He dared to question. "They could generate political instability without proportion in England."

King Philippe rose from his throne, his thunderous voice echoing through the ancient walls.

"It is a minuscule price to pay for my daughter's hand in marriage!" His piercing eyes bore into Oliver. "With this union, Belgium will rise to new heights of power. Accept our terms or disregard any possibility of agreement!"

Queen Amélie placed a delicate hand on her husband's arm, her soft voice contrasting with his arrogant tone.

"Dear, please. Prince Oliver will certainly be a loving husband to our Anne." She gave Oliver an encouraging look, though her lips trembled slightly.

Oliver shot a silent plea to Ian. He needed to get out of there before the situation escalated into something uncontrollable. His heart pounded against his ribs, and a cold chill ran down his spine as the king turned to him again.

"The Princess Anne turned eighteen last month. As the heir to the throne, she was raised in a protected environment, shielded from worldly temptations." His eyes gleamed with paternal pride. "I can assure you, Prince Oliver, that my daughter remains pure and untouched — a true jewel to be wed."

A hot flush crept up Oliver's neck as the meaning of those words hit him. The King spoke of Anne as if she were a valuable commodity to be traded, exalting her virtue to get the highest possible price in the transaction.

Oliver swallowed hard, horrified.

Ian stood stoically by his side, but his eyes bore into Oliver's with urgency. Oliver cleared his throat, desperately searching for a diplomatic response.

"Your Majesty, surely Princess Anne is an admirable lady." The words came out choked, a lump forming in his throat. He needed to leave immediately before he exploded. "However, if you permit, I would like to discuss a private matter with my advisor, Mr. Harrison-Jones. Could we step out for a moment?"

The King nodded stiffly. Oliver turned abruptly, grabbing Ian's arm hard enough to leave marks, dragging him out of the suffocating chamber. His lungs burned, pleading for fresh air.

He dashed through the labyrinthine corridors, his mind spinning in chaotic turmoil. He heard Ian's hurried steps behind him, calling his name, but his words were just distant noise.

He needed to escape, to flee that maddening place at any cost.

He turned randomly, stumbling down staircases, rushing through empty halls like a cornered animal, until he finally saw a stained glass door that seemed to lead to the gardens. When the moist breeze touched his face, Oliver inhaled deeply.

"Oliver!" Ian grabbed his wrist firmly, forcing him to face him. His flushed face and dark curls plastered to his forehead by the drizzle only fueled the growing fire inside Oliver. "What's going on?"

"You must be kidding!" Oliver raged, shaking him off brusquely. "Is this some kind of revenge for my opposition to the damned royal traditions? Something I said that particularly offended you?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Confusion illuminated Ian's eyes, causing his eyebrows to furrow.

"You can't be serious, Ian," Oliver panted, a bitter laugh leaving him breathless. "It's impossible for that man to speak of his own daughter as if she were nothing more than an object, a commodity to be traded! On top of that, offering her to me as if I were some kind of... sexual predator or something!"

Indignation bubbled up in waves within Oliver.

He began stomping violently on the garden stones, the crunching sounds of his soles only fueling his growing fury. He rubbed his hair roughly, seeking some relief, but the sensation of the strands between his fingers merely followed the chaotic trajectory of his unraveling emotions.

"Oliver..." Ian made a move to approach, but Oliver stepped back.

"I should feel honored to have the opportunity to..." he trailed off, disgusted just by uttering those words. "How can you agree with this? How can everyone act as if this is normal? She's just a child, Ian!"

Oliver trembled from head to toe, impotence and indignation merging into a storm of conflicting feelings. However, an irrevocable certainty was taking shape — he would not condone this atrocity, even if it meant defying the king himself.

"Of course I don't think it's normal, Oliver," Ian murmured, approaching him slowly, as if wanting to avoid startling him. "I also find this attitude abominable, but we have no control over it. If the Queen ordered us to come—"

"For God's sake, Ian!" Oliver interrupted, exasperated. "Don't you see how far this blind faith in the Queen's orders is going?" He exploded, throwing his arms up in a reaction far less discreet than it should have been.

Ian let his arms drop to his sides, releasing a weary sigh of resignation. He looked around, and in the ensuing silence, their breaths mingled.

He furrowed his brows, deepening the lines on his forehead.

"What do you want me to do, Oliver?"

Oliver stared at him firmly, his jaw clenched with corrosive indignation.

He wouldn't open his mouth to let his emotions spill out through banal words, aware of how easily he could fall into ridicule or worse, madness. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Ian, his pupils penetrating Ian's, conveying a single thought.

However, Oliver made sure to articulate:

"I want you to take me back home. Now."

His voice brooked no argument. He didn't expect a response.

He simply straightened up and started walking towards the garden exit. The situation had exceeded all acceptable limits, and he needed to leave that place before he did or said something that could bring him bigger problems.

Ian let out another sigh, seeming to surrender to the inevitable circumstances.

"Alright," he conceded. "Let's go."