The old clock on the wall struck five o'clock in the afternoon when Oliver entered the imposing Council Room of Buckingham Palace. His steps echoed on the marble floor as he crossed the spacious hall, adorned with richly embroidered tapestries and portraits of past monarchs.

As he approached the long oak table, he noticed his grandmother, Queen Charlotte, already seated at the head. Despite her illness and evident fatigue, she maintained an upright posture and a penetrating gaze behind her thin-framed glasses. To her right, Lord Benjamin Ashford and Lady Victoria Pembroke, two of the most influential royal advisors, were conversing in low voices.

Oliver took his place to the Queen's left, feeling the weight of the crown that would one day be his. Through the tall arched windows, the last orange rays of the June sunset invaded the room, creating dancing patterns on the polished floor.

"Welcome, gentlemen," the Queen announced, her firm voice filling the silence. "Today we will discuss matters of utmost importance for the future of our nation."

Lord Ashford was the first to speak, unfolding a set of documents in front of him. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, allow me to present the proposed environmental plan. It outlines bold measures to reduce the UK's carbon emissions..."

As Ashford spoke, Oliver struggled to concentrate. His gaze wandered to the walls covered with tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battles, fragments of history that influenced the matters they discussed.

Lady Pembroke took the floor next, her voice passionate as she addressed the need for educational reforms. "It is crucial that we invest in the future of our children, providing them with the tools to thrive in a rapidly evolving world."

Oliver nodded mechanically, feeling a growing restlessness. When the silence finally settled, he seized the opportunity. "I understand the importance of these issues," he said, his firm voice contrasting with his youthful appearance. "But what is really my role beyond simply agreeing with the suggestions presented?"

A tense silence hung in the air, finally broken by the Queen. "Your role, Oliver, transcends mere acceptance. Your duty is to ponder, question, and above all, decide what is best for our people."

The Crown Prince met his grandmother's eyes. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, don't you think the role of the monarchy today is more symbolic than practical? Why insist so much on protocols when our real influence is limited?"

The Queen pursed her lips, surprised by Oliver's frankness. Lord Ashford and Lady Pembroke exchanged cautious glances. After a pause, the sovereign replied:

"This discussion is not new, but I have reiterated that underestimating the importance of the monarchy is to ignore the influence we still exert on politics, culture, and most importantly, the stability of this nation."

Refusing to yield, Oliver pressed on: "Wouldn't it be more authentic to collaborate directly with Parliament and the people? Hiding behind traditions may make us seem like mere ceremonial figures."

Queen Charlotte rose from her intricately carved wooden chair with difficulty, her slow movements denoting her advanced age. Her upright posture matched Oliver's, the silent confrontation between the two almost palpable. The cautious glances of Lord Ashford and Lady Pembroke only highlighted the discomfort.

"The traditions you scorn," the Queen began, her firm voice filling the silent hall, "are the foundations on which our country was built. They provide a sense of continuity, something stable that people can rely on in uncertain times."

Oliver met his grandmother's piercing gaze. "Aren't these uncertain times precisely an opportunity for us to rethink and evolve?" He retorted, his voice rising slightly, driven by a mixture of respect and challenge. "To show that we are more than emblems and symbols of a glorious past?"

The heated debate was interrupted by Lord Ashford, who, with the diplomacy of a veteran, intervened gently: "Perhaps both views have merit. Tradition stabilizes us, but adaptability ensures our future."

Oliver and the Queen exchanged a long look, neither willing to fully concede.

Finally, the Queen sighed, exhausted, and sat down again, her movements slow and deliberate. "Here is what you will do, Oliver. When I die and you become king, make your own decisions. Make as many mistakes as you want, I don't care." She raised a thin eyebrow suggestively. "But as long as I breathe and wear this crown, you will follow my guidance." Her tone was intimidating, reinforcing that she was still there, alive and as inflexible as ever. "I hope I don't have to revisit this conversation. After all, you are no longer a child."

The Queen's unwavering determination and stern gaze made it clear that further objections would not be tolerated. Oliver recognized that arguing against his grandmother would be futile.

The atmosphere seemed to precede a war when Lady Pembroke cleared her throat, immediately capturing everyone's attention. Her brief exchange of glances with Oliver, initially hesitant but quickly replaced by resolute professionalism, hinted at the gravity of the matter she would address.

"Well, Your Majesty," she began, her voice cutting through the silence like a sharp blade, "as everyone must be aware, the press is buzzing with speculations about Prince Oliver's marriage. With over a year since the ceremony and still no heirs, the tabloids have begun to concoct various assumptions. The Palace itself even fueled a rumor that they are trying to conceive but facing difficulties. It is imperative that we take measures to redirect the narrative."

Oliver's face burned with shame and irritation at having his private life dissected and debated like a spectacle.

"I am aware of this... situation, Victoria," the Queen responded with a measured tone, offering little relief to Oliver's discomfort. His grandmother avoided meeting his gaze, only increasing the sense of embarrassment simmering within the prince.

"We propose a diversion tactic," Victoria continued, "reintroducing Princess Alice to the center of social activities." She spoke with calculated casualness, as if Alice were just another piece in the royal family's strategic game.

The idea of using his sister as a distraction for the curious eyes of the tabloids and high society was a notion hard for Oliver to swallow. He could visualize the camera flashes chasing Alice, dissecting her every move in search of juicy gossip.

"Given her prolonged absence, it is conceivable that the upper classes may have shifted their focus," Victoria explained smoothly, her rehearsed delivery suggesting such manipulations were second nature to her. "Alice is of marriageable age, so it is prudent to keep her in the spotlight for now until..." She paused, casting a sad glance in Oliver's direction. "Well, until the Prince and Princess resolve their issues."

The words hung like a toxic cloud. Oliver swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He could feel the furtive glances of the advisors on him, judging, speculating about the rumors surrounding his marriage to Sofia.

Across the long table, Lord Ashford cleared his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Perhaps we should consider a more... direct approach," he suggested, choosing his words carefully. "A joint interview, for instance, could calm the waters and decisively dispel the rumors."

Indignation rose within Oliver like a surging wave, a dangerous fury he fought to contain. His fists clenched involuntarily on the table, nails digging into the old wood.

"I see no sense in this proposal. There is not a single problem between Sofia and me," he countered, his voice firm as steel, both a defense and an attack. The mention of "marital problems" was an intrusion he could not let pass.

"You are rarely seen together, Oliver," replied Queen Charlotte, the implicit acidity in her words striking him like poisoned arrows. "Speculation was inevitable."

That was a line Oliver would not allow them to cross. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

"No matter what assumptions they make, you have no right to our private life nor to plan it as you see fit!" Each word was a blow against the relentless intrusion into their lives. His grandmother's surprise at such audacity was evident in her narrowed eyes, a clear sign of disapproval.

Lady Victoria's uncomfortable cough briefly broke the tension before she timidly tried to steer the dialogue back to the tracks of diplomacy.

"Your Highness, with all due respect, consideration for the future and sustainability of the monarchy involves..."

"Enough!" Oliver's command pierced the air like a bullet. He slammed his hands on the table, making the objects on it tremble. The old mahogany table, a symbol of stability and perpetuity, now seemed to mock his suffering. Heavy breaths filled his chest, a clear manifestation of the internal struggle between reason and emotion. "I am tired of this subject. There are more important things than the image of this family. And this sick obsession with an heir... It is nothing but ambition!" His burning gaze challenged anyone to contradict his exasperation.

At that moment, the need to escape the suffocating atmosphere was overwhelming. Oliver turned on his heel and marched to the massive oak door, opening it with a fluid motion, still carrying a wounded dignity.

But before crossing the threshold, he turned one last time, allowing his penetrating gaze to sweep the silent room. The advisors seemed like statues, immobile in the face of his fury.

"You already exercise a suffocating control over every part of my existence," his voice sounded dangerously like a challenge. "You have already taken everything that truly mattered to me, but there are two things I will not allow." He paused, his determination unwavering. "Forcing me to bring another human being into this sick dynamic and treating Alice as you treated me."

The surprise was visible on the advisors' faces, a combination of shock and perplexity. His grandmother's defiant expression, however, was replaced by thoughtful silence — her lack of verbal repression more eloquent than any reply.

"I am willing to bear this burden, to preserve the legacy that, rightfully or not, falls upon me," Oliver continued, his words imbued with combative resignation.

His eyes shone with unwavering determination, challenging anyone to contradict him. "But we will need to start setting limits here for this to work, otherwise, I regret to say, but you will have many more smoke screens to weave, and I believe that is not ideal, is it?"

He left the room with determined steps, closing the door behind him with a bang that echoed through the corridors. That moment served not only as a confrontation but also as a milestone, possibly the beginning of a new era of understanding — or even greater conflicts.

◃───────────▹

The darkening twilight was slowly devouring the daylight, each minute dragging on like an eternity.

Trapped in his old room in the cold depths of the Palace, Oliver suffocated in oppressive loneliness. The cell phone in his trembling hands was now an instrument of torture as he desperately tried to connect with Ian. But the voicemail responded with an impersonal emptiness, mocking his desperate need to hear the voice he longed for most.

The urgency to vent, to find refuge in comforting words, or even to succumb to tears, was overwhelming.

The time difference felt like an insurmountable abyss.

When the clock finally struck seven in the evening, Oliver persisted stubbornly until Ian answered. Frustration and exhaustion overflowed in his first words, harsh as blades.

"I must have called a hundred times," he barked, not even allowing a greeting. Irritation, insomnia, and an explosive readiness defined his precarious state.

"Sorry, love, I was in a meeting," came Ian's soothing reply, only fueling Oliver's resentment further.

His retort was a venomous dart, exposing the depth of his hurt over the growing distance.

"Another meeting? Maybe I should schedule one to talk to you."

Ian sighed, the sound traveling through the line like a weary lament.

"Oliver, you know I've been working hard, and you have your duties too."

The voice of reason whispered in a corner of Oliver's mind, pleading for understanding, but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of stress.

"But I'm always available when you call me at two in the morning to chat," he shot back, his composure slipping away.

Ian's new sigh, laden with exhaustion and resignation, crossed the phone line like a cold wave.

"I didn't know it bothered you so much. Sometimes, it's the only time I have, Oliver."

The irony dripped bitterly from Oliver's words. "I imagine. So many princes to visit, isn't that right?"

"What exactly does that mean?" Ian's question was an open invitation to confrontation that paradoxically made Oliver retreat for a moment.

"Nothing," he emphasized, his voice suddenly low, tinged with despair. "Nothing, Ian. I just... need you to be there when I need you."

"Oh really?" Ian's exasperation broke the silence with a harsh laugh, sending chills down Oliver's spine. "Maybe I should cancel everything so that when you get tired of parading your wife like a trophy, you can come talk to me."

The offense pierced deep, leaving a trail of blazing indignation. Oliver's next words were sharp blades. "I have never, not once, put her above you..."

"Oh, because the rumors say you two are closer than ever," Ian countered with an equal dose of corrosive sarcasm. "That you're trying."

"Those are just rumors spread by the Palace to divert attention, Ian. You know that." Oliver's attempt at explanation was abruptly cut off.

"Congratulations, then," Ian mocked, the sarcasm dripping like acid. "The rumors are succeeding, spreading even across the Atlantic."

The argument quickly escalated into a visceral confrontation, marked by sharp exchanges and lacerating truths. What had once been a superficial conversation now exposed the tumultuous and repressed layers of their relationship. The tension between them manifested vividly as their truths intertwined with old, exposed wounds.

"What the hell are you implying?" Oliver's voice not only exploded in fury but tore through the previous silence with the ferocity of an imminent storm. He needed to expel that suffocating anguish. "It was you who suggested that I have an heir to ensure the stability of the fucking Crown!"

"But not like this!" Ian's reply came in a trembling, yet fervent shout. Before Oliver could respond, he seemed to regain his composure, exhaling a heavy sigh tinged with resignation. "Oliver, I think we should end this."

His tone had changed to icy apathy, a sudden plunge into freezing waters after the scorching heat of Oliver's emotions.

Oliver's reaction was instinctive, a brief moment of calm. "You're right. This argument is going too far." But he still didn't grasp the true implication behind Ian's words.

"No, Oliver. We need to end this dysfunctional game we're playing," Ian intervened, the hesitation barely disguising the iron determination underlying his next devastating declaration. "We should end this relationship — if I can even call it that."

His words descended like a guillotine, affirming that this was not a hypothesis but the execution of everything they meant to each other.

Ian's declaration hit Oliver like a cold wave, fear replacing anger. "What?" he stammered, the incredulity exposing his raw vulnerability.

"We barely see each other, we rarely talk," Ian articulated with a clarity that betrayed more than his veneer of stability. "You're about to become king, under even more unbearable pressure. I think it's better we end this before we truly come to hate each other."

"I could never hate you," Oliver whispered, his voice trembling with desperate anguish.

"I bet you said the same to your grandmother at some point," Ian retorted, using Oliver's own history as a sharp weapon. The allusion to simpler times, now twisted into condemnation, tore him apart inside. "Look at you now."

The air seemed to have been sucked from the room as Ian's words hit Oliver like a punch to the gut. A blind fury, like liquid fire in his veins, exploded inside him.

"You know what, Ian? Fine. If that's what you want, then go ahead!" he spat, the bitterness poisoning every syllable. "Go destroy the life of another royal family member, since you're so good at it."

Oliver heard a sigh, a slight puff of air hitting the microphone.

"So that's what I did. I destroyed your life." The words came out heavy, laden with a disappointment that seemed to crush his heart.

"No?" Oliver exploded, tears streaming freely down his contorted face. "Then what are you doing, Ian? Leaving me in this hell, moving on with your life as if you never loved me?" His voice broke into an anguished sob. "You're killing me slowly, Ian. Slowly but surely."

Ian's voice on the other end sounded almost funereal, and Oliver's heart clenched, realizing the injustice of his own words. "Do you think I had a choice? Do you think either of us had a choice?"

"You were all I had in this damn world!" Oliver sobbed, each word a stab to his chest. "The only good thing! And now you have your job, your life, everything without me. While I'm stuck here, alone."

Ian responded, the sadness palpable in every syllable. "Oliver, why are you acting like a child? You know it wasn't my choice to leave you. I'm just drowning myself in work to avoid going insane. All I see is you letting Sofia take what should be mine."

"It's all your fault!" Oliver accused, the sob giving way to blind rancor.

He knew it wasn't true, but he needed to punish Ian for his own misery.

"That's right, Oliver," Ian conceded with a painful sigh. "I'm sorry for destroying your life. I swear it wasn't my intention. I hope you see that it's not just you who is suffering in this curse."

The fury seemed to take a break, and Oliver closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before trying again. "Ian, listen—"

"No, Oliver," Ian interrupted, the harshness in his voice making Oliver shudder. "I love you like hell, but I can't go on with this. You can't keep accusing me of something that was never under my control."

Ian's resolute tone, as if he were certain of what he was doing, made Oliver's heart contract.

"Please—" Oliver pleaded, ready to make any promise, just to keep him there.

"I hope the memory of me, of us, doesn't stop you from building your family," Ian said, the pain evident in every word. "I'm letting you go, Oliver. Before this destroys us completely."

Oliver stared at the silent phone in his trembling hands, feeling as if the whole world had collapsed around him. Ian's final words cruelly echoed in his mind — "Goodbye, Your Royal Highness." A bitter reminder of all the dreams and hopes they once shared, now reduced to ashes.

He let out a guttural moan, the sound of pure agony escaping from his depths. He threw the phone against the wall with all the force he could muster, watching it shatter in a shower of metal and glass. But even that violent catharsis couldn't alleviate the searing pain consuming him.

The impulse to fly to Spain and beg Ian for reconciliation was interrupted by soft knocks on the door.

Sofia entered, bringing a bottle of wine and a complacent smile.

The latch clicked shut with a soft thud. Oliver remained in the shadows, his body bent by disappointment. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the ticking of the old clock in the corner of the room.

Sofia spoke, her voice low but firm: "That was cruel of you."

Oliver looked up, his eyes shining with anger and shame. "You heard?"

"The whole floor heard," she replied, her neutral tone contrasting with the gravity of the situation.

The realization hit Oliver like a punch to the gut. "Damn," he murmured, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Don't worry, they won't talk," Sofia tried to reassure him, though her words sounded hollow, devoid of any conviction. She approached, the subtle scent of her jasmine perfume filling the space between them. "Wine?" she offered, the moonlight reflecting off the glass bottle.

Oliver nodded, giving in. "Ian broke up with me."

Sofia's eyebrows raised, then furrowed. "Really? Or was it another misunderstanding like the ones you two have been having frequently?"

"He said we should stop seeing each other,"

Oliver clarified, his voice hoarse.

Sofia sat beside him, the mattress sinking slightly under her weight. "You already hardly see each other. Does this change much?"

The painful truth emerged from Oliver's lips: "We barely see each other, we hardly talk... He's right. We've drifted so far apart that breaking up feels like a formality."

Sofia nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding. "It still hurts."

"Like hell," Oliver admitted, his voice breaking on the word.

"You're both under tremendous pressure," Sofia consoled, though hope seemed a distant flame, too weak to warm the cold corners of reality. "It's understandable that things are... complicated," she continued, her eyes searching Oliver's.

But his mind was firmly parked in the harsh truth, his head shaking stubbornly in denial.

"Complicated is an understatement," he uttered. Somehow, verbalizing it made things painfully real. "I'm about to become king, and what realistic future is there for us?"

Sofia didn't respond, merely covering his hand lightly with hers.

◃───────────▹

The Château d'Yquem flowed uninterruptedly, each sweet sip untying the knots that imprisoned their souls in a state of lightness. Confessions and memories blurred the boundaries of reality.

"I was twelve when she stole my heart," Oliver declared theatrically, his hand pressed against his chest.

Sofia's crystalline laughter echoed through the walls. "Betty Boop was your first crush?" she repeated, surprise and mockery dancing on her lips curved in a complicit smile, followed by more laughter.

Oliver joined in the laughter, grateful for this thread of connection amidst the heavy revelations. "Come on, don't tell me you've never been charmed by someone unexpected?"

"Not by a cartoon character," Sofia retorted with sparkling malice, before admitting seriously, "I was raised to reserve those feelings for an idealized marriage, but I never imagined these would be the circumstances."

Guilt assailed him, a constant shadow. "I'm sorry," Oliver offered, knowing the words were insufficient.

"Why?" Sofia questioned, emptying her glass with a gesture that seemed to seal an internal decision.

"You deserve to be with someone who makes you feel whole," he insisted, the sincerity resonating in his voice, though his heart tightened at the impossibility of it.

A shy blush bloomed on Sofia's cheeks as she responded with rare courage, "Well... I don't think that's possible."

"I wouldn't judge you, you know?" Oliver mumbled, the fog of alcohol blurring his discernment and loosening his tongue. "We're friends, after all. I don't want you to waste your life out of consideration for me, because God knows I haven't shown the same for you."

"That's not what I mean," she interrupted, as if correcting a misunderstanding he hadn't even realized. "You're not just my husband, Oliver." She turned fully to him, her blue eyes clear and resolute even in the dim light. His heart raced, anticipating words that could change absolutely everything. "You're the man I chose, despite the distorted circumstances."

Her words hit him like lightning, illuminating a reality he had been trying to ignore.

"What?" he stammered.

"I'm just trying to say that..." The hesitation in Sofia's voice made Oliver's heart sink, pounding furiously against his ribs. He swallowed hard, silently begging for his suspicions to be wrong. But fate was not on his side, evidenced by the cutting words that tore through the air: "We've been living together for a year, Oliver. And I finally understand how Ian fell for you so quickly."

The world spun around Oliver.

"Sofia..." Oliver jumped off the bed, rubbing his face desperately as if he could erase the last few seconds.

Sofia also stood up, her presence a tangible force behind him, distinct and assertive.

"I'm not by your side out of obligation, Oliver, not like a wife putting her husband on a pedestal," she asserted. "I'm here by my own choice. That's the truth you need to face."

Her proximity became undeniable, a deeper reality than he had ever imagined. Sofia's touch on his shoulder set off alarms in his mind, though his body was slow to comprehend, sluggish in apprehension. With gentle insistence, she turned him to face her, and Oliver was disarmed, yielding to her guidance, unsure of the path forward.

"What are you doing?" Oliver's voice came out in a hoarse whisper, his eyes tightly shut, as if he wanted to block any external stimuli that might pull him out of that protective numbness.

But Sofia did not relent.

Her fingers traced the exposed nape of Oliver's neck in a slow, deliberate caress. Her thumbs gently massaged the warm skin behind his ears, seeking some reaction. The delicate touch was so different from Ian's firm, encompassing embraces that Oliver barely knew how to respond.

"It's okay," she whispered sweetly, like soothing a wounded animal.

Numbed by alcohol and the consuming sadness, Oliver allowed himself to be guided by that tender touch. He had no idea what he was doing, merely following his body's desperate call for any form of comfort.

Then, the unexpected happened: his body, starved for affection, responded.

Sofia approached cautiously, her warm breath brushing against Oliver's closed lips. He remained still, vulnerable, surrendered, unable to protest when her thumb slid along his jawline in an intimate, reverent caress — a gesture of submission that disconcerted him.

"Sofia... I never..." Lucidity briefly flickered, but it extinguished when Sofia's soft lips gently claimed his.

The boundaries between desire and need, consent and surrender, blurred in that kiss. Sofia touched him with a lightness that left him even more exposed, stripped not just of clothing but of all his defenses.

When she murmured between wet kisses, "Let me take care of you," Oliver knew there was no turning back.

With a minimal nod, he fully surrendered to that strange sensation of being treated with such reverence.

Sofia guided him to the bed with a mix of softness and desperation, like rescuing a castaway adrift in the ocean of his own pain.