Unchosen Crown

PROLOGUE

The autumn morning light crept through the gaps in Oliver's curtains, an insistent, intrusive presence mingling with the dull ache in his head. The cold breeze carried a cruel clarity — it was a reminder that the world moved on, indifferent to whatever had unfolded the night before. Next to him, a red-haired man slept, his body half-covered by the rumpled sheets. Oliver blinked slowly, trying to gather fragments of memory that slipped through his mind, but all he could summon were disjointed images: the clink of glasses, muffled laughter, the sensation of skin that no longer felt like his own.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his head resting in his hands, as if the weight of the past hours could be eased by such a small gesture. Around him, the remnants of the night revealed themselves without ceremony: clothes strewn across the floor, a toppled lamp, empty bottles standing as silent witnesses to something he wasn't sure he wanted to remember. The silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the city outside, irritated him with the normality of an ordinary day. Paris, usually so familiar, felt oddly heavy now, as if something had shifted during the night.

He stood up with effort, staggering toward the window. He looked down at the streets below, the people moving as they always did. He should have found some kind of comfort in the familiar scene, but all he felt was an increasing distance, as if the city were pulling away from him, or perhaps it was he who was drifting away from the city. Before he could process the thought, he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind—firm, in a way that was almost comforting. A deep, sleep-rough voice with a heavy French accent whispered near his ear, "Good morning, Your Highness."

Oliver stiffened. The title, that label he'd been trying to leave behind, echoed uncomfortably in his mind. He turned slowly to face the owner of the voice—the red-haired man, with eyes so green they seemed to want to unravel him. There was a hint of curiosity in his expression, and something more, a kind of careless tenderness that only made Oliver feel more uneasy.

"Please, don't call me that."

The man said nothing, but the silence between them was abruptly interrupted by the insistent ringing of Oliver's phone. He glanced at the screen and felt a chill run down his spine: "James." His heart raced, already knowing that when James called, nothing good followed.

He answered, his throat dry. "James?"

"Prince Oliver," the voice of his valet was tense, formal in a way that Oliver immediately recognized as a sign that something was very, very wrong. James never used that kind of formality unless it was necessary.

"What happened?"

James cleared his throat, and Oliver could imagine him running a tired hand over his face. "It's about your brother, Prince Colin. He's abdicated."

The weight of that news hit him like a speeding train. "What?" was all he could manage to say.

"It was made official this morning," James continued, his voice neutral. "The Queen has ordered Your Royal Highness to return to London immediately."

Abdicated? Colin? The heir, the responsible one, the perfect brother, had given up the throne? And now Oliver, the rebel, the runaway, the prince who never wanted the crown, was destined to carry it.

"What?" he repeated, as if he could pry an explanation out of the word itself. "Why would he do that?"

"It's not wise to discuss this over the phone," James said cautiously. "A jet is on its way to pick you up from Charles de Gaulle. We expect you back by the end of the day."

A deafening silence settled after the call ended. Oliver stood still, the phone still in his hand, his mind racing to catch up with the consequences of what had just happened. The apartment that, only minutes ago, had seemed like home, now felt too small, too cramped to contain the enormity of what this all meant.

He turned toward the window, staring out at the streets of Paris with a blank expression, but the weight of the crown, even from a distance, was already pressing down on his shoulders.

"I... I have to go," he said quietly, not speaking to anyone in particular. The voice felt distant, as if it no longer belonged to him.

The red-haired man watched him, a look of concern slowly spreading across his face. There was a silent understanding there, a comprehension that Oliver hadn't expected, but that somehow provided a brief sense of comfort.

"Are you alright?" The question was gentle, but direct, and for the first time, Oliver realized the gravity in his tone.

"No," he answered, without a second thought. "I was... the spare prince. Now, apparently, I'm next in line."

The words sounded strange to his own ears, as if they belonged to someone else, to a life he had left behind a year ago. They felt foreign, as though he were trying to convince himself of what he was saying.

The man nodded slowly, as if processing it alongside Oliver. "So that's why you lived last night like it was your last."

Oliver blinked, flashes of the previous night flooding his mind in a second: the alcohol, the laughter, the stolen kisses. It all made sense now—the desperate attempt to escape something that, deep down, he knew would catch up to him.

"I don't even know your name," he murmured, a bitter confession.

"Antoine," the man replied with a sad smile. "But does it matter now?"

Oliver nodded silently, grabbing his bag and haphazardly throwing clothes into it. He finished dressing, but before leaving, cast one last glance out the window. Paris continued its routine, but for Oliver, something had ended. 

A life that, deep down, he'd always known he could never truly hold on to.