Unchosen Crown

FIRE AND GASOLINE

Prince Oliver leaned back in the hard chair of the meeting room, observing the solemnity of the setting with vacant eyes.

The scene around him — heavy damask curtains, meticulously arranged porcelain, gleaming crystal chandeliers — was a perfect representation of power and tradition. This was what was expected of such a place, right? And yet, as he tried to absorb the grandeur surrounding him, all he felt was a growing discomfort, an unbearable suffocation. 

Ian, on the other hand, remained focused on his iPad, every movement precise, almost robotic. He swiped through profiles with professional coldness, as if deciding on stock purchases, not choosing a future Queen Consort. His eyes scanned through nationality, titles, lineage, even hobbies — as if human affinity could be calculated in a perfect equation.

"She seems interesting," Ian said, turning the device toward Oliver. The photo showed a blonde woman, her smile seemingly trained to never falter under the weight of a royal title. A perfectly crafted doll, with no room for error. Oliver felt a wave of discomfort starting at the base of his spine, rising to press against his throat.

"This is absurd." His voice came out muffled, caught between exhaustion and frustration. "Who put together this information, anyway?"

Ian sighed, the gesture filled with a silent exasperation that had become habitual. His expression didn't change. He was used to Oliver's objections. Perhaps he even expected them, like one awaits an inevitable storm.

Oliver felt the knot of his tie tighten around his neck, and the memory of Paris drifted into his thoughts, soft as a breeze. A year ago, the bohemian streets of the city had freed him from royal chains, allowed him to breathe with his own lungs, without the invisible strings now pulling him back to this damned upholstered chair.

Unfazed, Ian leaned forward slightly, reinforcing his point with the same gravity he used when closing legal deals. "These, Your Highness, are the women most suited for the role of your future wife."

Oliver frowned, feeling his irritation grow. "Suited by whose standards? You're treating me like a breeding bull, selecting a female to mate with me."

Ian remained unperturbed, drumming his fingers on the table, his gaze hardening. "Your Highness, we've discussed this. It's not about you or me. It's about continuity. A royal marriage is more than a personal union; it's an alliance that keeps the Crown firm in the public's imagination."

The irony was suffocating. Oliver extended his hands, trying to hold back a response that wouldn't explode instantly, but failed. "This is a farce, not a debate." He laughed, a hollow sound echoing off the walls. "How are we still discussing whether I should marry someone just because she... fits the mold you've created?"

Ian closed his eyes for a second — a microcosm of carefully suppressed irritation — and massaged his temple as though handling a complex mathematical dilemma, not another person's life. "Your Highness, this isn't about want. It's about necessity."

"Necessity? For whom?" Oliver leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the words slipping out as if they no longer belonged to him. "For you? For the country? For the damned tradition?" He turned his face toward the advisor, eyes gleaming with restrained anger. "And what about me? Am I a disposable piece in this immutable game?"

Ian straightened, his body as rigid as marble. "I'm not here to discuss the value of your personal happiness, Your Highness. I'm here to ensure your lineage fulfills its role, which goes beyond any individual desire."

Taking a deep breath, Oliver summoned his courage and tried once more: "Mr. Harrison-Jones, please, listen to me—"

The door creaked before Oliver could continue. Queen Charlotte entered, her presence immediately snuffing out any remaining warmth in the room. She raised her hand with a minuscule gesture, and Oliver knew he had lost — not just the argument, but something deeper, more vital.