Unchosen Crown

FOOLISH

The first gray rays of sunlight penetrated through the velvet curtains, reluctantly announcing the dawn.

Oliver woke up before Sofia, watching his wife still immersed in deep sleep. His eyes traced the delicate contours of her sleeping face, drawing a tender line with his thumb over her temple. A trembling sigh escaped his lips as he rose, leaving behind the comforting warmth of the sheets.

The castle was already bustling with activity when Oliver emerged from the bedroom. Hurrying servants crossed the majestic corridors, guards changed shifts with resounding steps. He was supposed to prepare for another monotonous day of royal duties, but his heart longed for something more.

His feet guided him of their own accord to Lily's room. The little princess slept serenely, wrapped in old rose silk sheets. Oliver knelt beside the bed, brushing a golden lock from her angelic face.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, placing a tender kiss on her soft forehead.

As he entered the royal wing, Oliver felt anxiety consume him like a slow fire, corroding his insides even before breakfast. The monarchical responsibilities, once an oppressive burden, now seemed like distant trivialities.

His spirit was seized by a feverish urgency, a boldness that defied conventions and protocols.

The power in his hands was a dangerous temptation, and that morning, Oliver yielded to his deepest impulses. With a simple command, he altered the course of events, summoning Ian to Windsor under the pretext of an emergency.

The following hour was torturous — fingernails bitten to the quick, pacing in circles wearing down the throne room floor. When Ian burst into the room, it was as if the very air became electrified.

Ian was a striking sight, even in casual attire. His presence filled the space with an irresistible intensity, challenging the ancestral solemnity of the environment. The contrast between his fiery indignation and Oliver's enigmatic smile created an almost unbearable tension.

"Mr. Harrison-Jones, thank you for your prompt response," Oliver pronounced, his voice a mix of formality and veiled provocation.

Ian advanced, his steps echoing through the room. "Oliver, you dragged me off a damn plane without explanation," he retorted, his voice laden with frustration and a hint of reluctant curiosity. "Funny how it never occurred to me that I had a choice."

"You always have a choice," Oliver replied softly, though a part of him secretly delighted in the power to draw Ian into his orbit.

"Oh, sure. Refusing a royal summons would have been a brilliant option," Ian countered, his sarcasm hitting Oliver like a velvet arrow. "I'm sure your guards would have been very understanding."

Oliver hesitated, momentarily disarmed by the intensity of Ian's gaze. "I called you here for a reason," he finally declared, his voice betraying a rarely displayed vulnerability. "I have a professional proposal for you."

Ian's eyebrow arched in question, and an ironic smile appeared on his lips. With an impatient gesture, he brushed aside a rebellious lock of hair falling over his eyes. It was then that he noticed the embroidered pillow casually thrown over his shoulder, hastily discarding it with poorly disguised embarrassment.

Ian arched an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "Unless you're planning to abdicate the throne and already selecting suitors for your daughter, I don't see how I can be of use."

Oliver sighed, allowing his mask of composure to slip. "You know I'm kind of lost in all this, Ian," he admitted. "Most of the time, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing."