Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing you notice about Brooks is that she was a looker. Now, that’s just an objective truth—can’t sue him for telling it like it is.

Drake wouldn’t go as far as to call her beautiful or “drop-dead gorge,” as Maxwell so elegantly put it, elbowing Liam hard to the ribs, but she could definitely make a weaker man follow her with his eyes as she passed—her wavy red ombre hair swinging messily, as if proving that the curls were just as stubborn as their owner.

Drake wasn’t a weak man.

The second thing you notice about Brooks is how annoying she was—though one could call it a kind of a “sassy New Yorker charm”. In just under an hour, she managed to scold all four of them: Drake, on account of his poor manners—Haven’t your mother had the time to teach you how to treat a girl?; Tariq, for having less personality than his own shoes he was so obsessed with; Maxwell, for his lackluster beatboxing skills—which Maxwell himself found deeply offensive; and Liam, for having a head too big to fit a crown.

And yet, none of them felt particularly insulted, at least, not enough to request a change of waiter. Instead, they invited the woman to accompany them and show them the city.

Not that anyone asked Drake for his opinion on whether he was cool with an outsider crashing their party. A female outsider crashing their damn bachelor party. The only women Drake had ever seen at bachelor parties were strippers—well, on TV, but still—and he was half-hoping Brooks would at least have enough decency to take her top off or something. 

Needless to say, he was sulking the whole time.

The third thing you notice about Brooks is that she was a huge flirt—a permanent teasing smirk stuck to her face like a brand, seared into place by sheer audacity. Her choice of words could make even a noble lady like Hana flush bright red. Heck, Drake had even seen Brooks make Olivia’s jaw drop clean to the floor with a few whispered words and that damn smirk, followed by a slow, deliberate wink.

The poor, sheltered prince of Cordonia didn’t stand a chance.

But Drake wasn’t a weak man. It would take more than—an admittedly charming—smile and a few teasing compliments to make him kneel.

All in all, Brooks wasn’t that bad—at least as far as loud-mouthed outsiders usually went. She was a breath of fresh air in a stuffy courtroom—someone who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, no matter how powerful the person standing before her.

Someone Drake had grown to wish had been here all along, so it wouldn’t have gotten so damn lonely at times by Liam’s side. Not that he'd ever admit it to her.

Drake had learned his place fairly young, as the prince’s beloved pet—the one Liam had enough heart to take under his wing like a beat-down puppy. And though Liam never treated him like one, the words still stung.

A charity case. A common mutt. A beggar.

Hell, Drake could have grown to hate him if the man wasn’t so damn likable.

Although Drake would never admit it—not even under torturous interrogation—part of him did hate Liam. He felt that pang every time he saw his parents’ embarrassed faces. Every time a noble girl laughed at his clumsy attempt at showing his fancy. Every time he caught himself standing just a step behind Liam, like some loyal hound, while the prince basked in the effortless grace of his birthright.

“The prince and the pauper,” Olivia would sneer whenever she saw them together, like it was some grand joke. Like it wasn’t a truth he already knew down to his bones, a reminder that no matter how much he tried, he’d never be one of them.

A weaker man might not have been able to handle the pressure and run—just like Liam’s brother had.

But Drake wasn’t a weak man.

And yet…

There was a voice inside his head, screaming that he should run now while he still could.

Because something about Riley Brooks was deeply unsettling him.

The last name was necessary—to keep her at arm’s length. To remind himself that she was a passing guest in his world, not someone he could afford to let in. To not let that devious smile worm its way under his thick skin.

But Brooks didn’t seem to care. If anything, she took Drake’s coldness as a challenge.

And she looked like the kind of woman who never backed down from one.

The first time they hang out together—no court, no Hana, no Liam, no House Beaumont, just the two of them—was as surprising as it was fun.

Drake’s not even sure why he invited Brooks in the first place—the words “why don’t you join me?” just sort of tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. If he were to be honest, at least with himself, after that little show she put on at dinner, Drake was intrigued.

No, that’s not the whole truth either—he’s been intrigued for a while now, ever since he learned that Brooks has some serious guts, ever since the Queen asked Brooks what the best quality for a ruler is, and the damn menace looked Her Majesty straight in the eye and, without missing a beat, said, “a really big hat.”

So they sip whiskey—Drake still can’t believe Brooks turned down a bottle that definitely costs more than her annual wages in favor of a little something he keeps in his flask for emergencies—and swap stories about their tough commoner lives. Okay, so maybe it’s mostly just Drake, with Brooks listening and nodding politely, but hell, he deserves to throw himself a little pity party now and then for what he puts up with for Liam.

And maybe he gets a bit too drunk and a tad too sincere when he calls her a wide-eyed baby deer—God, this’ll be fun to try and remember without cringing in the morning—but if Brooks notices, she doesn’t tease him. She just smiles and thanks him. Not a forced smile—like the one she put on while biting into a sour apple or greeting a stuffy noble—but a warm, sincere one, the kind Drake only saw her sharing with Liam. Like she’s actually enjoying listening to his rambles about social structure and good whiskey. 

And when Drake does his sappy toast, Brooks smiles again and says this is the most fun she’s had all day. His heart damn near melts at the words.

And that’s when he should’ve known. Should’ve nipped this whole “hanging out together past midnight” thing in the bud—if not for his sake or Brooks’, then at least for Liam’s.

Except he doesn’t want to. Because deep down, in that quiet place he never dares look too long, something shifts.

Because this is the most fun he’s had all day too. Because this fragile moment in-between, this stolen breath away from duty and decorum, really does matter to him. It’s warm and quiet and not pompous, but it feels real in a way palace life never does. It feels like something worth holding on to, even if just for a heartbeat.

And so, this is the first time in a while Drake decides to put himself before Liam.

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, not really. That a drink and a shared laugh won’t tip the world off its axis. That Liam surely wouldn’t mind if he came to know. That Drake is a strong enough man to walk away if things ever start to get a tad too far.

Strong enough to not get caught up in the way Brooks laughs, or how she listens like what he says actually matters. Strong enough not to want more.

Except he does. He wants more than he’s willing to admit—even to himself. More time. More smiles. More of these quiet nothings that feel like everything.

But for now, Drake shoves those feelings as far down as he can and plops onto his lavish bed in his sumptuous room—surely a storage closet compared to what the more esteemed guests have gotten—and tells himself he’s got it under control. He stares up at the ceiling, the ghost of a smile still dancing on his lips, and thinks to himself, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

Drake never liked celebrating his birthday—hasn’t done a damn thing for it since he was nine, opting instead for a quiet day with his family. Not that there’s been much of that after his dad passed, and his mom moved away, and his sister vanished into thin air.

Even Liam, with all his noble charm and persistence, knew better than to force him into some grand occasion. Drake would much rather spend the day drinking alone than be the center of attention.

So of course, Brooks ushers everyone to celebrate, and leads a painfully loud, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” like the overenthusiastic menace she is. No wonder Maxwell chose her to represent the House of Beaumont—Brooks is basically its spirit party animal.

As they marched down the streets, Drake swore he was going to have to get back at her for this somehow.

Spending time at a bar isn’t the worst, but Brooks insists on making him suffer. First, by shoving a ridiculous, overpriced fruity drink into his hand—something so pink and sugary it belongs on a tropical beach, in the hands of a platinum blonde in a bikini, not a rugged man in a dimly lit bar. The damn thing even has a tiny umbrella for crying out loud.

She continues her torment by making him ride a mechanical bull. He should’ve known better than to let her goad him into it, but the way she smirked at him, all cocky and full of mischief, made it impossible to back down. And now, with the whole bar cheering, he’s gripping the damn thing for dear life, cursing every second of it. Until the damn thing promptly throws him on his ass.

And as the final cherry on top of his humiliation, she makes him dance.

Drake Walker doesn’t dance. Not in public, not in private, and sure as hell not to the awful pop song blasting through the bar’s speakers. But Brooks doesn’t care. She drags him onto the floor, her laughter bubbling over as she moves in time with the beat, nudging him to do the same. And against all odds—despite the ridiculous drink, despite the sting in his buttocks, despite her winning at every turn—Drake finds himself letting go.

He finds himself having fun.

It pains him to admit it, but he figures Brooks deserves some praise. Drake watches her grin up at him, as it’s time to go, eyes bright and full of life, before she suddenly wraps her arms around him—surprisingly strong in the way she holds on. It’s brief, but warm.

Real.

Drake figures maybe—just maybe—his birthday was worth celebrating every now and then. When the company’s right.

Drake remembers the first time he saw Brooks in her underwear—an image that, since then, he’d recalled more times than he could count.

The first thing that flashed through his mind when he saw her with Tariq was anger, but not the kind he’d expected. He should’ve been mad that Brooks was betraying Liam’s trust with one of his own friends. But instead, a bitter “Why him and not me?” shot through his mind faster than he could shove it down.

But of course, Brooks wasn’t betraying anyone. And of course, she insisted Drake stay so she could tend to his definitely less-than-fatal wounds.

Looking at him with concern while gently sliding a thumb up his bloodied knuckles. Thanking him with that soft, breathy voice that made his stomach tighten, her touch featherlight but lingering just long enough to drive him half-mad. 

Drake wasn’t a weak man, but walking out of Brooks’ room that night without doing something he’d regret took every ounce of his self-control.

And even more so, to fall asleep without touching himself to the memory of her exposed skin and the way her body clung to his in a parting hug—lingering for a moment longer than it should have.

Drake also remembers the second time he saw Brooks in her underwear.

It’s late, and they’re playing pool in his personal playroom—so generously provided by Liam—the scent of chalk dust thick in the air. Brooks leans against the table with that smug confidence of hers, twirling a cue stick between her fingers like she was born with it.

And she ends up being better than he imagined—surprising him as always.

They hit a draw, and Drake furrows his brow in concentration, trying to line up his shot while ignoring the way Brooks watches him, arms folded beneath her chest, lips quirked like she already knows he’s going to screw up.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices—and his breath catches in his throat.

That witch strips.

Drake’s jaw goes slack—same as when Brooks crawled into his tent that one evening—his, not Liam’s, or Hanna’s, or, hell, even Maxwell’s—claiming she was there to seduce him, only to hog all the damn blankets, while he was stuttering like a fool.

He didn’t slip a wink that night.

She’s looking at him with that same smirk of hers, the one that tells him that Brooks knows exactly what she’s doing, but her voice is airy and innocent, like she’s got no idea why his grip on the cue stick just went white-knuckled, like she doesn’t notice the way his gaze drags over her bare skin, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Drake isn’t a weak man, so he tries his best to stay focused.

But he still ends up losing.

“I think that means I’m owed a prize for my victory,” Brooks murmurs, her mischievous grin downright sinful.

Drake exhales sharply, gripping the pool cue a little too tight. First she wins him at drinking, and now she wins him at pool. He’s really starting to lose his edge.

“All right, what is it you want?” he grumps.

The look Brooks gives him makes him swallow nervously—his pants feeling too damn tight for comfort.

When she finally speaks, her voice is silky and sensual, dragging over his skin like the slow burn of a nettle.

“I think I want…” she pauses just long enough to make him sweat “…a pair of matching tattoos?”

Drake’s not sure if he wants to laugh with relief or howl from disappointment.

Drake isn’t a weak man, but that night, he comes imagining winning that game instead—and asking Brooks to get down on her knees as his prize. He can’t help but feel like scum afterwards.

He also doesn’t wash his biceps for weeks—a cartoonish lion proudly hiding underneath his shirt, with Brooks smiling and him and winking, like they had their own little secret now, hidden form the rest of the world.

None of the Hollywood movies Drake saw as a kid ever did justice to New York.

The city was a loud, constant buzz of life, nothing like the quiet, steady pace of Cordonia he’d gotten used to over the years. The streets were packed to the brim—night and day, the honking never ceased, and people moved with an urgency he rarely saw back home. Drake had to admit, though, it had a certain charm—in that chaotic, unpredictable way. It was kind of nice being back here again.

He meets Brooks at a jewelry store while trying to find a present for Liam’s wedding, and, to be brutally honest, while one part of him was sad to see his best friend got stuck with a broad like Madeline, a bigger part of him was relieved that Liam wasn’t marrying Brooks instead. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to muster the courage to buy a gift for their wedding. He’d feel…

Probably like Brooks is feeling right now, staring at Madeline’s ring.

Her expression is unreadable, but Drake knows her well enough by now to see the flicker of something beneath it. Regret? Resignation? Whatever it is, it makes his jaw clench.

Anger swells within Drake’s chest—that is low, even for their future queen. Then again, the witch lied about her chocolate allergy just to make Hana cry. She told Brooks with a smirk, like it was all just a game to her. Like other people’s feelings were merely amusing inconveniences in her perfectly calculated world.

He quickly drags Brooks away from the store under the pretense of finding the perfect gift for Liam.

They spend the whole day looking, and all that window-shopping makes Drake rethink the limits of his generosity.

Still, maybe it was the way Brooks had a knack for picking out things he never would’ve considered, or how the time seemed to stretch longer than usual as they made their way from one store to another, but Drake found himself starting to enjoy it. Just a little.

There was something about the rhythm of the day—the easy pace, the way Brooks would talk about the most random things, making him laugh even when Drake didn’t want to. It was almost... comfortable. Hell, he even ends up buying that ridiculously over-priced outfit she picks for him.

But by the time Brooks helps him find something suitable for a gift, he’s aching for a drink.

To his surprise, she accompanies, basically drags him along, saying she knows the perfect place.

…which turns out to be the very restaurant she served them in on that fateful night. Drake isn’t sure if she brought him here out of nostalgia or to rub her boss’s face in the fact that she’s royalty now. He can’t blame her either way.

She throws down that weird fiery shot as if it’s water, while he’s mulling over the pleasant taste of American whiskey, rolling it around his mouth—still feeling slightly self-conscious in his new outfit. They reminisce about old times, about how far they’ve both come, and Drake can’t help but stare longingly at the woman sitting across from him. The way the dim light flickers over her face, the way her lips curl ever so slightly when she teases him—it makes his chest ache with a dull pain. She’s right here, but she isn’t his. She never was and never will be.

He can’t help but imagine what life could’ve been like had he lived in New York and met Brooks here, at the restaurant, without Liam and the court and the wedding.

He imagines drinking alone at the bar, being the lone badger as usual, and Brooks still stopping by between her tables to chat him up, saying he looks like he could use a friend. He’d scoff and grouch but would be secretly glad she noticed him. He’d stay until closing, and Brooks would usher him out of the place, clinging onto his arm, insisting she had to find a way to cheer him up. They’d go somewhere—maybe Coney Island—and Drake would groan about how cheesy it is, rolling his eyes at the flashing carnival lights, the overenthusiastic barkers trying to sell stuffed animals bigger than they were. But Brooks would laugh, shove a stick of cotton candy into his hands, and dare him to win her a prize. And damn it, maybe he would. Maybe he’d let himself get swept along, falling into something reckless and real.

But the fantasy crashes when he checks the time; they have a UN party to attend. A room full of stuffy diplomats—Drake’s personal kind of Hell.

But seems Brooks ain’t done with him yet.

She drags him over to the pier, saying it’s a shortcut to their hotel, and Drake finds himself playing along. It’s getting late, and the sun is setting beautifully over the water, casting long golden streaks across the rippling surface. For a moment, he lets himself soak it in—the quiet lull of the evening, the distant hum of the city, the way the light catches in Brooks’ ombre hair as she walks ahead of him. She looks back over her shoulder, flashing him a smile, and his heart stumbles in his chest.

“You know,” she says, stepping closer to the railing, resting her hands against the cool metal, “I always loved doing this.”

Drake raises a brow. “What, making a party full of snobs wait, while you entertain a commoner?”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “No, you prick, just… taking a detour. Sneaking away from everything for a while. Skipped a lot of classes in favor of being here back in the day. Probably why I ended up a waitress.” She picks up a loose pebble and throws it into the water with a practiced motion, watching it skip across the surface. “Not that I regret it. Some of my best memories are from stolen moments like these.”

Brooks turns to face him.

“It’s nice, isn’t it. To pretend, even for a little while, that there is only this moment and you’re right where you need to be.”

Her voice is soft, raw, and the look she gives him is so yearning, so searching that it makes his throat go dry. It’s not just a passing glance—it’s the kind of look that lingers, that asks questions neither of them is brave enough to answer. The kind that makes him wonder if she’s been thinking the same things that usually keep him awake at night.

Drake swallows, the weight of her words pressing against something deep inside him. He knows exactly what she means. Pretending has been his lifeline—pretending the court gossips don’t sting, pretending he’s fine abandoning the hope of building his own life because Liam needed him, pretending that standing in the shadows was always his choice and not just the only role left for him to play, pretending that he didn’t spend too many sleepless nights wishing things were different.

Pretending he never wanted her in the first place.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice tight. “It is.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The city moves around them, a blur of distant voices and fading light. And maybe it’s the whiskey, or the way the air feels electric between them, but Drake has the sudden urge to reach out. To pull her closer, just once, and see if she indeed tastes like trouble and tequila, just like he always imagined.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

But before he can make a move—before he can let himself fall—Brooks exhales sharply, pushing away from the railing.

“Well, I guess if we don’t get going now, we really will be late.” She tries for something breezy, something easy, but there’s a note in her voice that betrays her—something like hesitation. Or regret.

She almost sounds disappointed, and Drake has a sudden urge to apologize.

Internally, he kicks himself for being such a coward. For letting the moment slip through his fingers. For always choosing silence over risk. He watches her walk ahead, hands shoved in her pockets, shoulders slightly tense, and wonders if she’s hoping he’ll stop her—turn her around and lock their lips in a passionate kiss like in some rom-com. And just for a second, Drake wonders if he should.

But instead, he sighs and falls into step beside her, the ghost of what could have been lingering between them.

Drake never liked Olivia.

Besides the obvious reason—her being a cold, raging cunt—there was also the matter of her perception. The bitch was keen on sniffing out people’s weaknesses like a hound on a blood trail, and then throwing them back in their faces with a vicious smile on her red lips.

So, when she approaches him over the UN function, her heels clicking against the polished floor with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how much she’s about to ruin his night, Drake already knows he’s in for it.

He considers just turning and walking away, but Olivia moves fast—her manicured claws sinking deep into his arm, cutting off his prepared excuse to leave with that signature evil smirk, her devious green eyes gleaming with amusement. The witch tilts her head, studying him like a cat playing with its food before the kill, then sighs dramatically.

“Why hello, stable boy. I heard you’ve been keeping Riley so occupied these days that she will soon be able to carry that mutt of hers in the bags under her eyes.”

Drake tenses, forcing himself to roll his shoulders like her words don’t dig under his skin. He won’t give her the satisfaction.

“You don’t have anything better to do than run your mouth, Liv?” His tone is flat, unimpressed, but his fingers twitch at his side, the unspoken words “I feel nothing for her”  grate like sandpaper in his throat. Like he’s been repeating them so much, he’s trying to make himself believe them too.

She notices—of course she does—and that damn smirk of hers only widens. But then Olivia's nose crunches, and she scoffs as if offended by his attempted deflection.

“Oh please, anyone with eyes can see your pathetic little crush from miles away. Some friend you are.”

Drake despises her. But even more, he despises himself.

Because she’s right.

Olivia steps closer, voice dipping into something almost mocking—except there’s an edge to it, something bitter hidden beneath the venom.

“Liam loves Riley. If I can accept it and get out of the way of his happiness, then so can you.”

Drake swallows hard, but his throat stays dry.

Because for the first time since he’s known her, Olivia has shown to be the better person out of the two of them.

In the end, he doesn’t manage to fool even Maxwell.

“So… Riley’s, uh… fun to hang with, right?”

Drake just raises an eyebrow at him, not saying a word. That’s been kind of his and Maxwell’s thing ever since he learned about Savannah. He was quickly growing to like it.

“I mean, she’s smart, dependable, knows how to party, has some amazing moves...” Maxwell punctuates each trait with a tap of his finger. “And I bet she could drink even you under the table.” He smirks, fingers now restlessly tapping a rhythm against the bar. “Heck, if I were looking for a breakdancing competition partner, I’d look no further!”

He chuckles, but then his smile fades, turning serious. And serious Maxwell is as unnerving as it is unnatural. 

“But… if she’s gonna break dance with anyone, it should be Liam, don’t you think?”

Drake’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away, just takes a long, slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch between them. Maybe if he ignores it long enough, Maxwell will drop it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Maxwell just leans in, resting his chin on his palm, watching Drake with way too much interest. “You know, you’re not as good at this whole ‘playing it cool’ thing as you think you are.”

Drake exhales sharply, setting his glass down with a little too much force. “And you’re really bad at minding your own damn business.”

Maxwell grins like that’s the answer he was expecting. “Come on. It’s not a crime to talk about feelings.”

“It should be.”

Maxwell snickers as Drake levels him with his signature flat look. “Oh, cooome ooooon—you know I have a PhD in bad decisions, so I’m more than qualified to help.”

“You are the last person I’d take advice from,” Drake says, rubbing a hand down his face with a sigh. Maxwell gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. 

“Rude. But fair.”

He clicks his tongue with a playful pout, tilting his head as if deeply contemplating the situation, before flashing Drake a grin that’s just a little too knowing for comfort.

“Drake, I know you care for Riley. And that you care for Liam. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Drake stiffens.

Maxwell doesn’t let up. “You’re stuck between wanting her and not wanting to hurt him. So, instead, you’re just… standing still. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, does it? Nor for either of you.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, eyes flicking between Drake and the empty space beside him, like Riley might materialize just from the weight of their conversation.

Drake doesn’t move, but his grip tightens around his glass.

“So maybe…” Maxwell leans in, voice softer now, “you should stop ignoring the elephant in the room and just… talk it out—all three of you.”

Drake lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, I bet that’ll go over real well.”

Maxwell shrugs. “Look, Bertrand will rip me a new one for saying this, but… You know, I could’ve been wrong about Riley’s being perfect for Liam. Maybe who she really belongs with is you.” His voice still carries that uncharacteristic seriousness, like he actually means it. “But if you don’t speak soon—someone will end up getting hurt.”

Drake exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He wants to tell Maxwell to shut the hell up. To mind his own damn business. To stop acting like this is something that can be fixed with a simple conversation.

But the worst part?

The worst part is that a tiny, stubborn part of him wants to believe it’s that easy.

He drains the rest of his drink and asks for a refill.

Maxwell sighs, shaking his head. “Alright, broody-buddy, keep suffering in silence if you want. Just… think about it, alright?”

Drake doesn’t answer.

But later that night, when he’s lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Maxwell’s words echo in his head.

And for the first time, he wonders if he’s been truly doing the right thing this whole time.

Perhaps, he is just a weak man after all.

They do end up going to Coney Island—albeit not for a date but as a group activity. Brooks, being Brooks, doesn’t let that stop her from turning it into something fun, and even a crappy fortune from a fake fortune teller can’t ruin his day.

By the end of the night, she even managed to win him a toy—a stuffed pink… cat, he thinks? It’s a blow to Drake’s masculine pride—his ego taking a bit of hit as the small crowd chuckles around them—but he still accepts it. Begrudgingly, of course.

But despite himself, there’s something about the softness of the plushie in his hands, the goofy grin on Brooks’ face as she hands it to him, that makes his heart give an unexpected lurch. Deep down, he’s secretly grinning like a kid who’s been given the best prize of the night. It’s stupid, but... he can’t help it but pet the thing’s head affectionately.

By the end of the day, they reach the Ferris wheel, and by some stroke of luck, Brooks ends up in a cart with him instead of Liam. Maxwell shoots him a subtle wink and a thumbs-up, which only makes Drake scowl.

He’s never been the sentimental type—never cared much for the romanticized views of city lights or love-struck moments. But as the wheel begins its slow ascent, something shifts in the air around them. The view is breathtaking—New York sprawling out below them, the lights of the city twinkling like a sea of stars, each one shimmering with its own untold story.

But what catches Drake most isn’t the skyline. It’s the way Brooks’ face lights up, the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from her like a sun. For a moment, he forgets about the chaos of the day and the crowd below. All he can focus on is her, the way her smile seems to outshine the city itself. It makes his chest feel... something he ain't quite womanly enough to describe. Something like contentment, or maybe just a damn good feeling. Whatever it is, it catches him off guard.

He suddenly realizes that with all the allegations cleared, this might be his last chance to clear the air with Brooks.

Trying to ease the tension in his chest, Drake rocks the cart a little, but all it gets him is a squeaking sound from Brooks as she loses her balance and tumbles right into his lap. For a second, he doesn’t know what to do—she’s sitting there, wide-eyed and flustered, and doing everything in her power not to laugh, while he prays to God, he doesn’t get a hard on from this.

Drake asks if she’s okay because he doesn’t know what else to do. His mind’s racing, unsure of the right move, and for a split second, he thinks Brooks might actually ask him to kiss her. His chest tightens at the thought, his pulse quickening in a way he can’t quite explain.

But instead of leaning in, she gives him a playful wink, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Nice knowing I can always count on you, when life's trying to bring me down,” she teases, her voice light and breezy.

Drake’s mind stumbles over the words as he leans back, trying to mask the mix of emotions churning inside him. “Sure,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-sighing, trying—and failing—to hide just how flustered he is. The sudden urge to laugh off the tension feels too familiar, like it’s a protective instinct he’s grown far too accustomed to.

He secretly wishes they could stay up there forever, just the two of them, suspended in that strange, in-between space where everything feels lighter. But, of course, the ride eventually ends, and the world below drags them back into reality.

And just like that, the moment slips away, filed under all the other almosts between them—unspoken, unresolved.

When it’s time to head back, Brooks lingers, absently twisting the pearl bracelet—Liam's gift—between her fingers. Drake finds himself falling behind too, his steps slowing until they’re side by side. Up ahead, Maxwell, Liam, and Hana stride on enthusiastically, their laughter ringing through the night, carefree and light.

And why shouldn’t they celebrate? Everything is perfect. Brooks’ honor is restored, Liam’s engagement to Madeline is off, and all the bad guys are forced to dance in steel shoes on a pile of hot coals. Everything is as it should be.

And yet Brooks seems lost in thought. Drake clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

“Thanks for today,” he says. But what he really means is thank you for every quiet kindness she’s shown him since they've met.

Brooks looks up at him and smiles. “Don't mention it, Agent Marshmallow.”

Her gaze turns somber once again.

They don’t say anything else until they reach their hotel.

Everyone goes back to their rooms, except for the two of them. Brooks lingers hesitantly, her fingertips brushing against the doorframe as she chews on her lip.

“You know, we still haven’t celebrated my liberation properly.” Her voice is light, but there’s something off about it, something strained. “What do you say me and you hit the bar upstairs?”

Drake smiles.

They sit at the bar—him drinking whiskey, Brooks sipping a glass of wine. The mood is more suited for a funeral than a celebration. The laughter from earlier feels like a distant memory, swallowed up by the weight pressing between them now.

The tension could be cut with a knife, and Drake can’t seem to find the right words to break it. He tries trash-talking Madeline, yet Brooks just sighs and says she feels bad for her. He mentions how glad he is that Liam finally looks happy again, but she just downs the rest of her glass and asks for another. So he tried shutting the hell up, but that only made Brooks mumble something under her breath, forehead resting on the bar table.

He rubs the faint lines on his forehead, struggling to find something appropriate to say.

“Drake.” Her voice, almost pleading, cuts through the silence—sharp yet fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering.

He turns, only to shift uncomfortably at the drunk sincerity burning in Brooks’ eyes. Her fingers graze the rim of her half-empty—“half-full!” Maxwell’s voice suddenly screams in his head—glass, like she’s searching for something to anchor herself to.

“Yes, Brooks?”

Her expression twists into something pained.

“That’s not my name, you know.”

Drake stumbles over his words, unsure if he should turn it into a teasing joke or take her seriously. The easy way out is right there—he could smirk, shrug it off, act like this moment doesn’t matter. But the weight in her gaze pins him down, demanding something real.

A moment passes, locked in that tense silence.

For God’s sake, he wants this woman, yet he can’t even bring himself to say her name.

Drake opens his mouth, then closes it. The words are right there—her name, the truth, everything he’s never said but has felt for so damn long. Yet, his throat locks up, and all that comes out is a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

She waits. For a moment, then another. Long enough to let him speak if he’s going to. But when nothing comes, something in her eyes dims.

Brooks nods, just once, like she’s made peace with something he hasn’t.

“Well, I’m getting real tired.” Drake’s not sure if Brooks is talking about the night or his own cowardice. “Have a good night then,” she adds, her voice sharp.

Then she turns and walks away, leaving Drake sitting there with a whiskey glass in his hand and a hollow, sinking feeling in his chest.

When he finally manages to fall asleep that night, he dreams of Brooks. She’s standing just out of reach, smiling in the way that drives him crazy, like she knows something he doesn’t. He tries to call her name, but no sound comes out. She only shakes her head, stepping back into the shadows.

When he wakes up, the ache in his chest feels worse than any hangover.

That very same day, Brooks and Liam announce their engagement.

When Drake takes a bullet for Brooks, it feels natural—like his whole life has been just a long, winding road leading up to this moment. Like every choice, every mistake, every unspoken word was always meant to end here, with him throwing himself between her and the assailant.

He doesn’t have enough time to think of anything before he jumps, but lying afterwards in a pool of his own blood Drake thinks that this is the best way things could’ve turned out. Now there’s no need to have any kind of hard conversations or break anyone’s heart. No need to watch her slip further away, to force a smile while she stands at Liam’s side, to swallow down the words he never had the courage to say. This way, he gets to be her hero one last time—no complications, no regrets.

This is for the best.

Brooks clasps his right hand, her grip tight—too tight, like she’s trying to anchor him here, refusing to let him slip away. Liam holds his left, his usual calm shattered, eyes wild with fear.

Drake wants to tell them both to relax, that it’s not as bad as it looks, but the truth is, he’s never felt this cold before, his vision blurs at the edges.

Brooks is saying something—his name, over and over, her voice cracking in ways he’s never heard before. Liam’s shouting for the ambulance, for someone to hurry the hell up, but their words start to sound distant, muffled. Like they’re coming from another world entirely.

Drake tries to smirk, tries to throw out one last joke to ease the tension—something like, “Sorry for stealing the spotlight on your big day,” but his lips barely move, and the effort costs more than he expected. His body feels heavy, the pain distant now, drowned out by the steady rush of blood pounding in his ears.

Damn, it hurts.

Drake wonders how much more would it hurt had Brooks—no, Riley—been his. Probably a hell of a lot worse.

Maybe as much as Samantha will hurt attending her brother's funeral.

No, he shakes his head.

This is for the best.

Well, this is it. This is where his exciting life story ends. From a stable boy to a local hero. The person assigned to write his biography will probably be bored out of their mind—this is the only truly exciting thing he's ever done in his life. A footnote in the grand scheme of things, really. Still, he could be damn well proud of it.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto Riley's tear-streaked face, as her fingers tighten around his, he feels a pang of regret churning in his chest. He almost wishes he’d done something a little more memorable.

Hell, I’m not ready to—

No.

This is for the best, he reminds himself.

The wedding is still on, and Drake’s plan to die from a gunshot wound just to avoid attending has failed spectacularly. Instead of slipping away peacefully, he’s stuck in a hospital bed, bedridden and in pain, forced to listen to Maxwell’s overly dramatic retelling of the incident every time someone new walks into the room.

And the visitors just keep piling up. There’s a steady rotation of local nobles, reporters, friends, family, and a bunch of unfamiliar faces stopping by to offer their gratitude—each one leaving behind flowers, fruit baskets, words of gratitue or poorly concealed pity in their eyes. Drake's hospital room is starting to look more like a funeral parlor with each damn passing day.

Hell, even Olivia shows up, much to Drake's surprise, and she manages to hold her venomous tongue for once, her usually cold gaze looking at him with a hint of respect.

Still, he's never felt so weak and useless in his whole damn life.

Worse still, Riley—no, Brooks—and Liam visit him almost every day.

Drake forces himself to sit through it, nodding at their words, making half-hearted jokes, pretending that watching them together doesn’t hurt worse than the bullet he took. The sight of them, so effortlessly happy, makes him want to rip out the IV and make a run for it, but just imagining how well that will go over makes Drake grits his teeth, forcing himself to sit still like the good mutt he is.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now. What’s the point of surviving when he’s still lost everything that mattered?

A pink cat plushie sitting atop the bedside table, stares at him accusingly.

Despite the media, the whole damn royal court, and his own friends singing his praises for saving the future queen of Cordonia, Drake feels like such a weak, pathetic excuse of a man, watching the woman he loves kiss Liam’s cheek tenderly when they think he’s not looking.

It’s the day of Brooks’ and Liam’s fairy-tale wedding. The air is thick with celebration, but Drake feels like he's drowning in the weight of it all.

He stands on the edge of the room, a glass of fine whiskey in his hand—a courtesy of Liam for his best man—watching the crowd as it swells with joy and cheer. Everything looks perfect, a storybook scene. Except for him.

Brooks finds him—because she always does. Her presence is impossible to miss, a golden aura in a sea of smiling faces. She slips through the crowd, her heels clicking with the same precision as always, but this time, it’s different. She no longer carries the carefree air of the woman he once knew. There’s something colder in the way she moves, something more guarded.

She stops in front of him, that familiar spark of mischief still flickering in her eyes—until it’s replaced by something far more serious. There’s an air of importance to her now, a quiet authority that wasn’t there before. Even her hair has changed—the ombre is gone, the length much shorter now, styled in an updo that looks more fitting for a queen now than a New York waitress.

“Drake.”

The way she says his name still makes him feel like he’s the only person in the room. That hint of intimacy still lingers between them, even with everything that’s changed. It makes his chest tighten.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, for a moment not even bothering to hide the resentment leaking through his words. A reminder of her new title—the one that made everything between them impossible.

Her gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she steps closer, her presence overwhelming, her eyes set on him—only him. She’s so close he can smell her perfume—something softer than what she used to wear—drifting between them.

“Thank you for coming. I know these things are not your cup of tea.” Her voice softens, but there’s no denying the quiet sadness in it, as though she’s acknowledging the distance between them—both physical and emotional.

“Hard to ditch a wedding when you’re the best man,” he quips, trying to brush off the weight of the situation. “But I’m definitely hitting a dive bar afterwards.” His smile is thin, almost pained, “Wanna come with?”

He remembers the time they sneaked into a bar in France. He didn’t think about that now but back then Brooks ditched a chance to spend more time with Liam—or anyone else, really—in favor of hanging out a grumpy man at a grimy dive bar and listen to his pathetic whining. That’s when he poured his little heart out to her about Savannah, and Brooks said she’d always be there for him. And for a moment—a single pitiful moment—Drake let himself believe she meant it.

Brooks chuckles, shaking her head, lips curling into that small familiar smile for just a moment but it’s gone just as fast.

“Afraid I can’t, seeing as this is my own wedding.” Her eyes flicker away for just a second before she meets his gaze again, as though something unsaid passes between them.

“But…” she hesitates, her words slow and deliberate. “Maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Right now.”

The idea hits Drake like a brick to the head. She wants to leave, even if it’s just for a few moments, just long enough to escape the ceremony. Something about it feels rather foolish, like licking honey off the edge of a knife—as if stepping out of line might unravel everything he's worked so hard to hold together. And yet, a part of him—a weak, pitiful part of him—can’t find it in him to say no.

Drake has always been terrible at doing the right thing.

“Let’s go, Brooks,” he says, trying to muster as my confidence as he can into those words.

The weight of the choice hits him in waves, but there's something intoxicating about the idea of being with her again, even if it’s just for a short time, even if he knows how wrong it feels.

They end up on the balcony overlooking the garden and the hedge maze where Liam and Drake had spent their whole childhood playing. The scent of roses drifts through the air—nostalgic and suffocating—the distant hum of music from the reception filtering through the grand doors behind them.

Drake knows he should say something, anything, to break the tension. But before he can, Brooks turns to him, her expression unreadable. “Why did you never kiss me?” she asks suddenly, her voice low and thoughtful.

Drake chokes on his drink, the question catching him completely off guard. He blinks, trying to focus.

What the hell?

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take it back. Just watches him with those sharp, searching eyes, waiting.

“That’s a hell of a question to be asking on your wedding day,” he says, his voice shaky as he laughs, trying to pretend it was merely an amusing joke, but it fails to sound genuine. The words feel hollow, the laughter forced.

“And I won’t let you get out of answering it,” she fires back, her voice unyielding, stubborn. She’s never let him off the hook before, and clearly, she doesn’t plan to start now.

Drake exhales harshly, running a free hand through his hair. “You’re really asking me that now?”

Brooks shrugs, but there’s something fragile in the way her fingers tighten around the balcony railing. “If not now, then when?”

He stares at her, his pulse hammering in his throat. Damn her. Damn this whole night. Because deep down, they both already know the answer.

He never kissed her because he was terrified. Because wanting her felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at the jagged rocks below. Because kissing her would’ve meant falling—hard and fast—with no way back.

And now? Now, it was too late.

Drake takes a long breath, trying to find his footing, but her eyes—those bright ember eyes—pierce through him. She looks uncharacteristically serious, almost pissed. There’s no hint of the playful, teasing Brooks he’s so used to. Instead, there’s something raw there—something unforgiving. And for the first time in a long time, Drake feels his own anger bubbling to the surface.

“Well, why did you never fucking ask?” the words tumble out before he can stop them, the bitterness seeping into his tone, raw and unfiltered. He regrets it the moment they leave his mouth, the acid sting of his own vulnerability cutting deeper than he expected.

Brooks stares at him for a moment, her gaze softening before she responds, her voice surprisingly quiet, the sadness unmasked. “Suppose I didn’t want to take sole responsibility for breaking Liam’s heart.”

Drake nods, his own heart feeling like it’s being squeezed in his chest. He can’t quite find the right words, but he knows exactly what she means. It’s not that she couldn’t love him—it’s that they both knew it would destroy the one person they cared about most. And somehow, in the end, it’s easier to walk away, even when every part of him screams otherwise.

“Me neither,” he admits quietly, all the bitterness gone. He doesn't really know how to handle this conversation.

Silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable, a silent tension that both of them seem to be avoiding but can’t escape. And just when he thinks it might break him, when the silence feels like it might swallow them both whole, Drake blurts out the question that’s been clawing at him, the one he’s been avoiding for so long.

“Do you love him?” He cringes inwardly from how weak his voice sounds, how desperate it feels.

Brook smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. It rarely reaches her eyes anymore and it’s like he’s the only one who even notices.

“He’s my husband and my king, and he’s been the most kind to me. I will serve him as well as Cordonia till my last breath.”

The words fall like a weight. Not love. Duty.

Brook’s smile is kind, but forced, no trace of her usual mischievous lip-curl. It’s amazing how quickly the court had managed to change what was once an open-book into someone who hides behind carefully chosen words. The woman who once knew how to laugh in the face of everything is now a shell of that strong person.

Or maybe that’s what true strength looks like.

Drake nods, unsure what to say next, but before he can get too lost in his own thoughts, she speaks again.

“Thank you, Drake. For everything.”

Her voice is soft, almost wistful. She looks somber but poised, like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower. Like a wife seeing her husband off to war. Like she’s saying goodbye, even though he’s still standing here, breathing.

Drake forces a smile, his lips tight. This is it, isn’t it? The moment he always knew was coming but never wanted to face.

His arm lifts absently, fingers brushing over the bullet scar hidden beneath his suit.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

And then she’s gone. Just like that. Slipping away into the crowd, into her new life, into a future that doesn’t have space for him.

Drake is a weak man, so he doesn’t stop her. Instead, he downs the glass and lets it slip through his fingers, watching it fall from the balcony, shattering along with his heart. Then he straightens his suit and goes back to fulfill his duty.

They take their vows. He holds her hand. They share a kiss.

Drake watches from his rightful place—slightly behind Liam, the applause echoing in his ears. Every cheer feels like another nail sealing the coffin of what they could've been.

Throughout it all, Drake wants to look away but doesn’t. Because that would be mercy, and he hasn’t earned any. Because seeing her smile for another man feels like a punishment carved specially for him.

One he knows damn well he deserves.

Drake is a weak man, so after the ceremony he hides at the back of the hall, drowning himself in whiskey—glass after glass—numbing every jagged emotion slicing through his chest. Because if he lets himself feel it—really feel it—he’s not sure he’ll survive the night. So he raises another glass, toasts loudly and drunkenly to the Queen’s health, though no one’s listening, and lets the burn remind him he’s still painfully alive.