Unchosen Crown

TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY

The morning light flooded the royal jet as it flew over the Baltic Sea, returning from Stockholm to London.

The unexpected dive the night before had resulted in a slight cold for both Oliver and Ian. However, Ian seemed to cope better with the symptoms, his voice only slightly hoarse and his eyes only a little puffy, while Oliver felt his nose tingling and a persistent headache.

Still, Ian maintained his natural charm, his long dark lashes framing almond-brown eyes with an almost hypnotic elegance. His voice, even with the slight roughness, echoed through the cabin with an engaging cadence as he discussed various topics, from insightful observations on international politics to jokes and quips that brought smiles to Oliver's face.

Oliver found himself lost in observing every nuance of Ian's expressions — the way his lips curved into mischievous smiles or tightened in thoughtful frowns. There was something captivating about his energy, even when slightly unwell, that drew Oliver like a moth to a flame.

Ian's left hand rested on Oliver's, their long, elegant fingers intertwined, sending waves of warmth through Oliver's body. That simple touch filled him with a sense of contentment and peace, as if nothing else mattered but Ian's close presence.

Eventually, exhaustion seemed to overtake Ian, his eyes closing slowly until his breathing became slow and steady, indicating he had finally succumbed to sleep once more. Oliver nestled a little closer, inhaling the light scent of Ian's skin, and allowed his own fatigue to envelop him, falling asleep by his side, lulled by the safety of the moment.

When they arrived at Buckingham Palace, the Queen received them in her private office, beaming with happiness.

"Oh, Oliver, I am so delighted that you and Princess Sofia have finally met and understood each other," she celebrated, hugging Oliver warmly. He caught a whiff of her floral perfume, which she had worn for decades, clinging to his red coat. "I feared this day would never come."

Oliver forced a smile, stifled in the Queen's embrace.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Grandma. After all, I just met her."

"That's precisely why I want to invite her to a dinner here at the Palace," she released him abruptly.

Oliver glanced at Ian, who was always stationed by the door, observing the scene with keen eyes. He saw a flicker of surprise and deep displeasure in them.

"A dinner?" Oliver looked back at her, his mind racing to find a way to dissuade her, to no avail. "But, Grandma, we dined together just yesterday."

"From what I heard, she was only present for dessert," she said, touching the tip of Oliver's nose with her ruby-ringed finger. "I really want to get to know her better, my grandson. I'm sure she'll love to meet you again in a more intimate setting."

Oliver felt the pressure in his chest increase, aware that there was no escaping this invitation. He took a deep breath and forced a smile before asking to be excused and leaving, with Ian discreetly following. Oliver knew that the Queen was determined to strengthen the bonds between them, and he had no choice but to accept her invitation, even though part of him still felt reluctant to speed things up.

"Did she consult you about this dinner?" Oliver asked Ian as they walked to the dining room. Since they had arrived after lunch, it awaited him at the table, while Ian opted to eat in the kitchen. Oliver decided to join him.

"She's the Queen, Oliver," Ian replied as if it were obvious even to a child. "She doesn't consult me about these things. In fact, she doesn't consult me about anything. I'm just here to assist you, not to make decisions."