Four years had passed since Ian and Oliver last spoke.

That unexpected call, while Oliver was writhing in anxiety awaiting Lily's arrival, was a gesture of pure altruism that touched the depths of his heart. An act of genuine kindness he would have reciprocated if his time hadn't been consumed by endless commitments, rehearsed smiles, photos beside Sofia, and diplomatic meetings around the globe.

And then, there was Lily.

Lily was a ray of light that, against Oliver's own reluctance, illuminated and transformed his entire perspective. After her arrival, things changed drastically: Oliver was no longer the submissive accomplice to the monarchy's archaic traditions. He became more outspoken about actions and practices that could, even remotely, impact his daughter's well-being and freedom.

They agreed not to expose her image too much and held firm to this agreement, despite protests from the Queen and her loyal advisors. Even though the establishment insisted on opining about how he should raise her, saying he should show her more to the world, none of it mattered to Oliver. When it came to Lily, he was not at the mercy of power. Although her existence was so brief, she awakened in him the desire to transform his legacy into something worthy of her future — a life not just of titles and faded expectations, but a vibrant existence, filled with love and happiness for her.

The longing for Ian dissipated with distance, but never completely vanished. Oliver still found himself thinking of him more than he should, wondering how he was now, what his new habits, preferences, and pleasures were. Ian's presence, even if distant, remained like a warm ember in Oliver's heart, a constant reminder of the deep bond they once shared and the lasting impact he had on his life.

Now, the constant sound of raindrops on the foggy window provided the soundtrack for the stories Oliver told Lily, imagining fairies and enchanted forests. Only the glow from the laptop screen and the warm light of the old lamp bathed the room in a golden aura. His fingers, once agile dancers on the keyboard, now felt like lead statues, tired and stiff from a whole day of conversations with literary ghosts.

Sofia's touch on Oliver's shoulder was so light he almost didn't feel it, like the caress of a feather. She placed a warm, delicate kiss on his temple, and suddenly the floral perfume emanating from her skin momentarily overpowered the subtle fragrances permeating the room, and Oliver allowed his eyelids to close, surrendering to the comfort of her embrace.

Sofia's voice broke the midnight silence, blending perfectly with the calm that covered the room, as if it were intertwined in that cloak of serenity. Her whisper reached Oliver's ears like a gentle summer breeze.

"One more story?" Sofia's voice floated softly, while the silk of her robe danced with the night breeze, brushing gently against Oliver's arm. A muffled murmur escaped his lips, heavy with the fatigue that enveloped him. With persistent tenderness, Sofia's fingers traced the line of Oliver's jaw, guiding his gaze to the depth of her eyes, filled with genuine concern. Her eyes shone with a mixture of care and curiosity. "At this rate, our Lily will be a teen before you finish all these stories," she joked, eliciting a tired smile from Oliver's lips.

Sofia felt the accumulated tension in his shoulders, rigid with the invisible weight they carried. Sliding with the subtlety of a shadow, she leaned over the table, her eyes piercing any barriers Oliver might have erected.

"Are you okay?" The question echoed in the silence, suspended in its own rhetoric.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Oliver retorted, forcing a calm he didn't feel. He looked away but was captured again by the intensity of her touch — a gentle grip that brought the world back into focus.

"Oliver, I know you," Sofia's statement, though spoken in the softest tone, carried an undeniable truth. With a gesture that had become characteristic of her, she placed her hand on Oliver's laptop and closed it, sealing their connection with a comfortable silence. "You haven't been the same since your grandmother's passing. You're distant, constantly isolating yourself here," she observed, while a shadow of understanding passed through her eyes, serene as the surface of a lake disturbed by the wind. "You still harbor resentment, don't you?"

Oliver pondered slowly, as he leaned back in the chair, finally allowing his body to rest amid that ocean of frozen memories of pain. "I just... regret what was lost, what I had to endure," he confessed, his voice devoid of the firmness his position demanded.

"Do you fear he will come tomorrow?" Sofia's question floated between them. There was a rhetorical tone in her speech, but her eyes sought the essence of the truth. Hesitation gripped Oliver's throat, but before it could turn into denial, she reiterated: "You know you can talk to me, don't you?"

A heavy, prolonged sigh seemed to fill Oliver's private office with a resonance that disturbed the cloak of silence. Oliver and Sofia, though immersed in this collective trance of introspection, knew, without needing words, who "he" was — a ghost from another time, whose name still lingered in the air like the distant echo of a bell.

Oliver's gaze wandered through the tangled veins on the mahogany table before him, its polished surface witnessing his silent despair, allowing him to postpone the confrontation with the understanding implicit in her eyes.

In the fireplace, a log succumbed to the heat with a sudden crack, releasing a catharsis of dancing sparks that disappeared as quickly as they appeared.

"I doubt he will come, Sofia." Oliver's voice carried a raw honesty that seemed to tear through the silence.

His words were not for her, but for himself, a desperate attempt to convince his restless heart.

Sofia observed him with a depth that only she possessed, her eyes an ocean in which Oliver often drowned.

"Oliver, you loved him before you met me," she said softly, building a bridge of understanding between them. The gentle insistence in her voice resonated within him with an almost palpable intensity, igniting a flame of guilt in his chest. "It's understandable that you feel this way."

"I don't feel anything," Oliver stated, his lie so dense it seemed to hover between them like a gray mist defying reality. "The chance of Ian showing up at the memorial tomorrow is slim." His hand slid involuntarily over the cold surface of the table, seeking something solid amid a whirlwind of emotions threatening to explode. "What really worries me is the chaos my life is about to turn into after this."

Sofia's finger brushed Oliver's chin, encouraging him to face her, to confront the solemn tribunal of her deep gaze.

"Darling," she whispered, and her breath was a soft touch on his lips, a fleeting but meaningful kiss. Her smile, an aurora of hope, sought to illuminate the dark corners of Oliver's mind. "You are a brilliant leader, an exceptional husband, and an incredible father. This will be just another title you will have to bear, but there is no need to change who you truly are."

A smile, modest in its expression but immense in its gratitude, curved Oliver's lips.

"Thank you, Sof," he said, his voice a thin line between faith and doubt. Tenderly, as if trying to realign his scattered soul, she played with the rebellious strands of his hair.

"Come to bed," she called softly, suggesting a moment of rest so he could calm his exhausted body and mind. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

◃───────────▹

A solemn silence enveloped St. George's Chapel as the grand oak doors creaked open reverently. The ancient echo reverberated off the chiseled stone walls, revealing a spectacle that embodied centuries of British monarchical tradition.

Sunbeams filtered through historic stained glass, casting a sacred kaleidoscope of colors on the cold stone floor, as if divine grace itself was touching the mortal realm. The nave was a majestic sight: handcrafted mahogany pews aligned in a solemn invitation to contemplation. Each seat was occupied by illustrious figures, from diplomats to members of royal houses, all dressed in mourning attire, reflecting the solemnity of the rite.

The air was thick with a muffled murmur, a hum of reflection emanating from the gathering of minds pondering the end of an era.

At the altar, Queen Charlotte's coffin stood as an imposing monument, draped with the majestic Royal Standard. Beside it, the crown and scepter rested on crimson velvet cushions. A sea of white flowers, exuding the soft scent of jasmine and lilies, filled the sacred space, a tribute to Her Majesty's favorite blooms.

In the rhythmic quiet, only the metallic clink of decorations on the chests of Royal Guards contrasted with the soft murmur of footsteps on marble.

Yet, for Oliver, none of it felt real. His grandmother wasn't truly there — it was just an empty ceremonial ritual, a series of poetically recited words for a lifeless portrait.

In the heart of the chapel, the expressions of those present were of reverence and sorrow, but within him, conflicting emotions stirred.

Charlotte was his grandmother, but their relationship had cooled over the years, distanced by divergent choices, separate paths, in that complex web of royal duties and protocols. And in the moment of honoring her, words failed him, battling between the truth of his feelings and the expectation to maintain a noble façade.

The truth was, an abyss separated them — a gap that now confronted him as he approached the pulpit to pay his final respects.

As he took his place at the front, his eyes swept over the congregation in search of a genuine connection, and there he was: Ian. Unmistakable, even from a distance, his presence was a solitary beacon shining in the sea of mourners. He stood just a few meters away, his slender, imposing figure highlighted by the impeccable cut of his black overcoat.

As Oliver stood at the elevated altar, the details of Ian became clearer, evoking memories of when their closeness was as real as the frantic beats of his heart at that moment. Ian had changed, yet his gaze held an intensity capable of breaking down Oliver's defenses, leaving him vulnerable with a familiarity that seemed to enchant the time and space around them.

Turning his head slightly, Oliver felt a sigh catch in his throat, as if the air had condensed into a dense mist, reluctant to leave his lungs.

Ian's sharp features were even more defined, each angle sculpted with precision. The sunlight highlighted his meticulously trimmed beard that framed his jaw, each hair aligned like soldiers in formation. His dark hair was a restless tide of carefully disheveled curls falling over his forehead, a rebellious contrast to the reverence permeating the chapel, as if defying solemnity with calculated insubordination.

Ian's shoulders had broadened, as if pillars of strength had been added to his frame since their last meeting, each muscle built with dedication to create a mask of severity that did not match his true essence.

Between the open buttons of his collar, a glimpse of bronzed skin was visible, a subtle reminder of the Asian summer. In the brief meeting of their eyes, Ian's — hazel refuges speckled with caramel hues — burned with a passion that seemed to emanate from his soul, glowing against the tan of his skin, and even for fractions of a second, such intensity was potent enough to revive long-buried sensations, awakening dormant memories.

The light pressure on his forearm was like a fairy's touch, almost imperceptible yet capable of bringing him back to tangible reality, anchoring him in the present. Sofia, by his side, offered him a serene smile, a reassuring link to the here and now. Lily, nestled in her arms, played distractedly with the golden waves over Sofia's shoulders, completely oblivious to the surrounding solemnity, immersed in her world of childlike innocence.

It was at that moment that Oliver truly reconnected with the purpose of that day: to pay a worthy tribute to Queen Charlotte, with words that should reflect his respect and gratitude.

Ian averted his gaze, as if sensing the intensity of the moment, and a veil of memories enveloped Oliver, rescuing vivid recollections of stolen kisses in deserted corridors, the comforting grip of Ian's hands on his in moments of uncertainty, and the electric current his touch brought to life, coursing through Oliver's skin like lava.

Fighting against the frantic rhythm of his heart, which seemed ready to burst from his chest with each beat, Oliver sought to find balance, a foothold that would allow him to navigate those turbulent waters.

This was his life now, built with more meticulousness than that of a craftsman — each detail carefully selected, each decision made with surgical precision — an existence he would not relinquish for an uncertain past, no matter how tempting it was. However, with Ian lingering in the shadows of his present, a question settled in, insistent and persistent: where should his heart truly rest?

When Oliver began his speech, the ritual and pomp of the ceremony dissipated.

The chapel, with its spectral colors and imposing architecture, was just a theater of shadows, a stage for the enactment of a role he had grown accustomed to. All in honor of a life that was no longer there, an emptiness disguised as formality. And in that void, it was Ian's presence that stood out, a silent beacon calling for something lost, something deeply human that Oliver struggled to suppress.

With the palms of his hands softly pressed against the finely carved wood of the pulpit, he felt all eyes on him, and suddenly an overwhelming responsibility threatened to engulf him.

Each face in the crowd revealed a nuance of respect and expectation, gazes that saw him as the heir to the throne who should guide the nation through the tragedy. But behind that carefully constructed mask, his mind wandered between memories of a childhood surrounded by the presence of the matriarch who now lay there, inert in her final bed, and the magnetic silhouette of Ian, dominating his deepest desires.

"We gather today to honor the memory of a monumental figure in our history," the words flowed from his lips, driven more by duty than genuine emotion, as he wove a symphony of praises to Queen Charlotte, exalting her virtues and legacy. Yet, with each carefully chosen word, a fierce duel raged within him: the need for perfection, to honor his grandmother's memory before the nation, against the overwhelming desire to dive into Ian's eyes, shining from the other side of the chapel like two guiding stars in the darkness. "Queen Charlotte was not just a ruler, but a beacon of hope and an example of leadership that transcended the borders of our nation. We honor not only her majesty but also the enduring impact she had on our lives, shaping and inspiring generations with her wisdom and compassion. Her virtues were numerous: unwavering courage in the face of the harshest challenges, deep empathy for the less fortunate, and a firm commitment to the well-being of her people," Oliver swallowed hard, finally succumbing to Ian's penetrating gaze, the only one able to see beyond the facade of the grieving prince and glimpse the true essence of his soul.

And as the narrative of his speech wove the journey of an admirable sovereign, painting a vivid portrait of her unwavering dedication to her people and country, each pause, each interrupted breath, served as an opportunity to search for Ian's face in the crowd, yearning for those eyes that seemed to hold the entire world.

"As heir to this throne, I understand that it is my duty to continue the legacy left by my grandmother, following in the footsteps of her exemplary leadership. We must face the future challenges with the same determination and courage she demonstrated, always guided by the values she cherished: justice, compassion, and humility. Let this moment of farewell also be a reminder that, although Queen Charlotte's physical presence may have left us, her immortal spirit will continue to illuminate our path. May her light shine eternally over our kingdom, inspiring us to be the best versions of ourselves, more united, more resilient, and more dedicated in all that we do. We will honor her memory, not just with empty words but with concrete actions, working tirelessly to build a prosperous and just future, a living testament to her extraordinary reign." The speech found its epilogue in words that reverberated through the stone vault of the chapel with solemn cadence. Following protocol, he called for a moment of introspection, an instant of silence in honor of the Queen's memory, before concluding: "May Queen Charlotte's soul find eternal peace. Thank you."

As the ceremony ended, an organ began to fill the space with deep, reverent notes, a fitting soundtrack for the final farewell.

Oliver lifted his head to respectfully acknowledge those who approached, receiving condolences mechanically, while his eyes continued to search for Ian.

As the formalities of departure proceeded, with each handshake and nod, he felt the window for a reunion with Ian narrowing. His chest tightened with each wasted second, as he was detained by trivial conversations and veiled thanks for his performance as the future bearer of the crown.

Finally, when the last of the attendees shook his hand and Oliver could make his way through the crowd, his heart raced with the hope of finding him. However, like a leaf carried by the autumn breeze, he saw Ian slip away through the side door.

A sense of emptiness filled the space where he had been, the missed opportunity adding another layer of grief to an already somber day.

And then, reality collapsed upon him, not just as a prince, but as a man. He stood there, motionless, as the last vestiges of the formal ceremony dissipated, marking the end of more than an era: the closing of a private chapter in his own story.

With the chapel emptying and silence invading the sacred space, he watched as St. George's Chapel was bathed in a soft twilight glow. The sun set on the horizon, painting the sky with shades of orange and pink, and soon the cool evening air enveloped the scene, bringing with it a delicate fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass. Shadows danced among the pine and cypress trees, spreading across the stone floor as the first nocturnal singers began their gentle melodies.

Wrapped in a dark coat, he left the chapel with determined steps, feeling the weight of the crown upon his head.

The last guests exchanged respectful murmurs before departing when his eyes were irresistibly drawn to a solitary figure on a small terrace adjacent to the chapel. Ian. Contemplating the view of the valley below, where lights punctuated the growing darkness and the starry sky stretched out in all its infinite glory.

Oliver's heart raced, as if struck by lightning. An avalanche of memories and repressed emotions flooded him all at once.

Four long years had dragged by since their last encounter. Four years of deafening silence, unbearable emptiness, and a searing pain that never left him. Oliver still loved him, with an intensity that transcended existence itself, deeper than he ever imagined possible. But the world had changed, they had changed.

The responsibilities of the crown now belonged to Oliver, and no matter how much his heart yearned to break free, he knew he couldn't escape them.

Oliver took a deep breath, letting the night air invigorate his lungs, as if seeking strength for the inevitable. With hesitant steps, he approached Ian, torn between apprehension and longing for that reunion.

Ian turned, revealing those hypnotic eyes that had always captivated Oliver, capable of stealing his breath even after all these years. For a moment, it was as if time had frozen. In that gaze, Oliver saw the same feelings he carried: love, longing, regret.

Before he could articulate words, Ian broke the silence with his familiar, velvety voice.

"I never could forget how stunning the view is from here at night," he paused, contemplative. "In fact, every memory of this place remains vivid."

"Really?" Oliver's voice sounded hoarse, slightly trembling before the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He struggled to maintain composure, though each exchanged word was a poignant reminder of what could have been, of what they had been denied living.

"Every detail," Ian emphasized, his gaze fixed on his. Finally, he turned to face him, and his amber eyes seemed to burn with an unusual intensity. "I'm sorry for your loss," he offered politely, though Oliver knew the Queen's passing wasn't a cause of deep lament for Ian.

Oliver involuntarily looked away, unable to sustain Ian's scrutiny.

"The last time I heard of you, you were engaged," he ventured, trying to keep the conversation on safe ground, though he knew it was impossible when it came to the two of them.

Their souls were intertwined by bonds too deep to be easily untied.

Ian shook his head, a melancholy smile curving his lips. "Oh. Well, that was never a possibility."

Oliver swallowed hard, his heart pounding erratically. "Why?"

Their eyes met again, and Oliver got lost in those fiery irises, in the strip of skin exposed above the collar of his black shirt, in the shadow of the perfect beard.

Oliver saw Ian's jaw clench tightly, and he drew in a brief breath, as if summoning the courage to verbalize whatever was on his mind at that moment.

Oliver didn't know what to expect, yet Ian's receptiveness was definitely a surprise.

He was there, imposing under the light of the medieval sconces, breathing calmly while remaining still, rooted mere inches away.

After those damned four years.

Oliver's gaze was inexorably drawn to Ian's lips, watching spellbound as the tip of his tongue languidly moistened the lower one. His heart skipped a beat when Ian invaded his personal space, his overwhelming presence awakening a wave of heat under his skin.

The woody, fresh fragrance emanating from Ian's body was an intoxicating scent, evoking forbidden memories that Oliver struggled to suppress.

Too close. Too tempting. And he was human, after all.

However, before Oliver could succumb to the impulse to close the space between them, a small body collided with his legs, abruptly yanking him from the hypnotic trance Ian had put him in.

It was Lily, a ray of innocent light in her pajamas adorned with smiling clouds.

Her determined little arms wrapped around Oliver's knees like tiny anchors, firmly grounding him to reality with disarming sweetness.

Ian automatically stepped back, a gentle smile illuminating his features when his eyes finally landed on Oliver's daughter. The electrifying tension that had enveloped them moments before dissipated, calmed by the angelic aura that Lily emanated.

"Daddy, storytime?" Lily's sleepy voice sounded like an irrefutable request, and Oliver lifted her in his arms, seeking comfort in the warm embrace of that small body.

"Of course, my love," he replied tenderly, letting all his paternal affection shine through each syllable. "Would you like to say hello to Mr. Harrison-Jones?"

Lily turned to face Ian, her blue eyes sparkling with childlike curiosity.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Lily Victoria Elizabeth Bernadotte Somerset-Fitzwilliam," the little one recited with adorable seriousness, mixing up the surnames with youthful grace.

"Fitzwilliam-Somerset, darling," Oliver corrected her gently, his eyes twinkling with paternal pride at the small confusion. "She always reverses them," he explained to Ian with a relaxed shrug, a genuine smile curving his lips.

"Well, it's no wonder," Ian joked, and Oliver felt his heart leap at the crystalline sound of that familiar laugh. However, when Ian turned to the child in his arms, his expression softened. "It's an honor to meet you, Princess," he bowed theatrically, his deep voice adopting a playful tone that made Oliver's skin tingle. "I'm Ian. And, you know, I think it sounds much better the way you said it. Your dad should consider changing it."

He winked conspiratorially at Lily, who giggled openly, intrigued by the mischievous proposal.

"Don't cause me trouble," Oliver returned, letting out another soft laugh.

Ian studied him with a look of deep admiration, his almond eyes shining with indescribable intensity. "I was right after all," he announced. "You really have become an extraordinary father."

Oliver smiled shyly against Lily's hair, touched by the naked sincerity in Ian's words.

"Thank you," he murmured, his heart warmed and tightened at the same time. "I never imagined I'd take on this role, but the cliché is true, isn't it? She's my whole world now."

Oliver held Lily close, trying to ignore the electricity that still seemed to crackle in the air between him and Ian, a tension that shouldn't be there, yet the feeling was so comfortable, it hurt.

It was as if they were dancing on a tightrope, balancing between the past and the present — what could have been and what is.

Ian's gaze traveled over Lily's delicate features, a tiny replica of Oliver.

"She looks so much like you," he murmured.

But the observation brought back the discomfort, now tinged with a new feeling — guilt.

Oliver nodded, a serene smile curving his lips as he looked at his sleeping daughter. However, his eyes carried a melancholic gleam.

"In many ways," he replied, feeling a lump form in his throat at the thought of how she had also inherited the title, the privileges, the limitations. "It's a heavy burden, isn't it?"

"Looking like you?" Ian seemed confused for a moment, but then his eyes met Oliver's, indecipherable as he added, "I don't see anything burdensome in that."

The blush that tinged Oliver's cheeks was the most adorable sight for Ian. He watched, captivated, as Oliver gently stroked Lily's golden hair, a gesture so simple yet filled with paternal love.

"Actually, that she inherited more from me than just appearance." Oliver swallowed hard, as if the next words caused him physical pain. "She also inherited the burden of this surname."

Ian pondered his words for a moment before responding.

"That surname is not a curse. It's just a name," Ian asserted. "You are the boss now. You decide what it represents."

Hearing Ian say those words was like finally recognizing his position. He was the king. The epitome of authority in that scenario, and it made no sense to act as if he were still the prince trapped by the inflexible rules that had stripped him of his own essence.

Oliver felt his body stiffen as if growing before Ian's eyes. Yet, he didn't feel powerful over any aspects other than himself. How he lived his life. How he raised his daughter.

Ian watched him as if he could see the gears turning inside Oliver's head, the ideas clicking into place, the determination pulsing in the olive-green of his eyes.

However, before he could recalibrate his feelings, decide what should be said, Lily's arms tightened around his neck, calling him back to reality once more. A glance at the clock revealed it was already too late to keep her awake.

"Sorry," Oliver cleared his throat, indicating the sleeping child on his shoulder. "I need to put her to bed. Do you mind—"

"Of course not, go ahead," Ian interrupted with a sympathetic gesture.

Oliver thanked him with a cordial smile, passing by as he headed toward the entrance of the Castle. As they walked side by side, their shoulders almost touching, Oliver briefly turned. He felt Ian's presence like a gravitational force, pulling him inexorably closer. Memories of fervent kisses, urgent caresses, flooded his mind like a speeding train.

Their eyes met, and for a sublime moment, everything around them dissolved.

The world seemed to slow down, reality melting into a haze of uncontained desire. Oliver felt the urgency to give in, to surrender to the fire consuming him. But like a lightning bolt of lucidity, he remembered the insurmountable barriers that separated them.

With superhuman effort, he forced a serene smile.

"It was very good to see you again, Ian," he managed to say, each word a sharp blade cutting into his chest.

Calling him by name was almost a familiar impulse, and Oliver knew that time held a different meaning for them. He realized they could be apart for one, ten, fifty years, and he would still be enchanted by the waves of his dark hair, the dimples in his smile, the long eyelashes casting charming shadows on his cheekbones.

By the combination of details that made his beauty seem unreal.

"You too," Ian replied, and for a moment, they were connected again by the vivid memory of their history, by the silenced desire within each of them.