Unchosen Crown

EPILOGUE

Ian's voice echoed off the walls, filling the space with a sense of urgency.

"Oliver! Come on, we're running late!"

Oliver moved like a whirlwind, his bare feet sliding across the polished wooden floor as he dressed hurriedly. His eyes frantically scanned the familiar room, searching for the car keys that seemed to have vanished amid the organized chaos. He didn't want an official vehicle to take them — not that night.

He wanted it to be just the two of them, without all the pomp and security that usually accompanied them. Thomas's Battersea was so close, just a few minutes' drive away, and he longed for that moment of normalcy.

In the past two years, Lily had traded her fencing swords for the spotlight of the theater — a transition that brought relief to Ian. That night, they would watch her debut on stage, a moment awaited with a mix of pride and excitement. The Christmas performance would unfold under the cold curtain of London winter.

Hastily slipping into his thick wool coat, Oliver felt the rough, heavy fabric brush against his skin. His leather gloves, marked by frequent use, slid easily over his fingers as he wrapped the heavy cashmere scarf around his neck, feeling its comforting warmth envelop him like a hug.

Ian waited impatiently at the door, his slender, elegant silhouette clad in an oversized dark coat and a fluffy light beige sweater. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold, but his brown eyes sparkled with anticipation and enthusiasm. It was always amusing how their perceptions of temperature were so different — for Oliver, England's biting cold was penetrating, while Ian seemed perfectly comfortable, almost as if he were still in the mild climate of California.

"Alright, let's go," Oliver exhaled as he passed by Ian, his breath forming small clouds of vapor in the cold air as he hurried through the ornate corridors of the Castle.

Their steps echoed through the empty hallways, the sound reverberating off the ancient stone walls until they reached the exit. The black, sleek car awaited them near the imposing wrought iron gate, and Ian took the lead, as always, settling comfortably in the driver's seat.

As Ian drove through the busy streets of London, Oliver's mind wandered through the events of the past years.

Since Sofia moved to Kensington, they shared custody of Lily — she spent most of the week with her mother, while Oliver's weekends were entirely dedicated to his little princess.

The friendly relationship allowed for exceptions and flexibility, making everything easier.

Things were quite good most of the time. Oliver strived to balance his public and private life, relying on Ian and Catherine's unwavering support.

Finally, people had stopped trying to interfere in his personal life.

Ian, on the other hand, was increasingly involved in politics, though behind the scenes, since the exposure of his relationship with Oliver didn't leave a good impression on his influence in Parliament. Still, he earned respect and admiration from advisers with his sharp intelligence and strategic skill.

They were stronger than ever.

During the quick drive, the familiar melodies of a classic rock tune softly filled the car's space. Watching through the window, Oliver's eyes followed the hesitant descent of the snowflakes, giving the city a dreamy white veil. The cold air outside slightly misted the glass, drawing whimsical patterns of ice crystals.

"Are you okay?" Ian's voice broke Oliver's thoughts, his brown eyes watching him with concern.

"Sure," Oliver replied, his voice hesitant, betraying his attempt to sound carefree. But Ian knew him too well to be deceived.