Unchosen Crown

BACK TO THE START

The soft hum of the private jet lulled Oliver as he flew above the clouds. It wasn't a flight he had chosen but an obligation — yet another of the many that dragged him to a predetermined destination. The sterile cabin, all gray plastic and metal, enclosed him like a barrier, cold and distant, as impersonal as the real life he longed for beyond those confines. Outside, the sun cast a golden light on the world, but through the filtered glass, its intensity was muted, leaving only shadows.

"Prince Oliver?" The flight attendant's voice broke the silence, formal and polite, but without the warmth of a genuine greeting. Oliver didn't bother to look up. The mention of his title sounded increasingly foreign, a reminder of the life he was supposed to assume but never truly wanted. "Oliver" felt more genuine to him, closer to the man he longed to be — a simple name, beginning and ending in a single breath.

Still, he found himself at the crossroads of eras, where his name was nothing more than a coded inheritance, a shackle inscribed with the authority of a symbol that he now bore on his chest. He sighed, watching the clouds. Freedom seemed so tempting and, at the same time, so unattainable.

The flight attendant, a model of professionalism in her pristine uniform, watched him with the serenity of someone who had seen it all. Oliver inhaled deeply, accepting the inevitable, and with a gentle gesture, surrendered.

"Where exactly are we?"

She gave him a kind nod before announcing pompously, "We'll be on the ground shortly, Your Royal Highness. Five minutes to landing."

As the attendant walked away, he allowed himself to close his eyes. He felt suspended between two worlds: the sky, where he could be anyone, and the earth, where the weight of the crown and royal duty awaited him like invisible chains. As the jet sliced through the air, Oliver felt terribly isolated. Being seen as an untouchable artifact of royalty was exhausting. Yet there he was, alone on this flight over the Atlantic, heading for a country where responsibilities firmly anchored him.

Shortly after, the jet touched down. The familiarity of Heathrow brought no comfort. Every face in the airport seemed to know him, judge him, observe him. When Robert, his head of security, approached with a discreet nod, Oliver knew what was coming.

"The Queen is waiting, sir."

Oliver nodded solemnly; there was no time to waste. His journey had brought him back to the heart of his homeland, and the matriarch of his family, Queen Charlotte, awaited him to discuss the next chapters of his legacy.

As they drove through the rural roads under a gray sky, Oliver distracted himself by contemplating the quintessentially British landscapes unfolding before him. Softly colored villages, stone houses, and immaculate gardens, all bathed in a melancholy light so characteristic of the country. Windsor Castle loomed on the horizon, its sharp towers reaching upward like the hands of a clock marking the passage of time relentlessly. The ancient windows, the sturdy walls — everything there exuded tradition and history. A history that he now had to bear, an inheritance that always felt more like a prison than a privilege.

As they crossed the wrought iron gates, Oliver felt the pressure mount. Here, every stone told the story of ancestors who had bowed under the weight of the crown. With each step, his heart raced. He wasn't just entering the castle; he was approaching a crossroads.

The path to the Queen's chamber felt like a walk toward the slaughterhouse — each irregular heartbeat counting down to confront his own destiny. Upon entering the hall, his eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing presence of his grandmother, Queen Charlotte. Standing like a statue of authority, she held the stern expression Oliver knew so well, but her emerald eyes gleamed with an almost imperceptible affection at seeing him.