Dorian sat in his office, staring at the towering stack of work spread across his desk. The sight was almost familiar enough to be comforting, yet it weighed on him the same way it always had.

Nothing had changed.

Not from the days he sat on a throne, not from the days he ruled with absolute authority—this endless stream of decisions, reports, problems waiting to be solved. It had followed him into this life as if it belonged to him as much as his own shadow.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.

Back then, he had handled everything himself. Every petition, every strategy, every judgment passed through his hands. It was control, and he had valued it.

Until Katerina came.

His gaze unfocused slightly as the memory settled in.

She had not taken power outright. The court would never have allowed that. But she had done something far more dangerous—far more effective. She had built a system around him, a council that filtered, managed, resolved. Problems that once demanded his attention no longer reached him unless they truly mattered.

Elyndra had run smoother under her quiet influence than it ever had under his direct command.

And he had noticed.

He had noticed how she worked, how she understood details his ministers overlooked, how she saw patterns before they formed. She was sharper than any advisor he had, more precise than the entire council combined.

She could have ruled it all.

But he never let her.

He preferred her beside him, within reach, where he could hear her thoughts, weigh them, and decide. He told himself it was because she wasn’t meant to lead alone. Intelligence didn’t make a ruler. Authority did.

And authority had always been his.

Dorian let out a low breath, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest.

"I miss you, my queen..." he murmured, his voice softer than anything he allowed others to hear. "You would have made this easier."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

A month.

He had given her a month.

The thought lingered, then shifted.

Maybe that was too long. Maybe a week was enough.

He could bring her back sooner, where she belonged. By his side. Under his control. Where she would remember what she was meant to be.

His feet dropped from the desk as he leaned forward, stretching slightly—

And then his screen chimed.

A new email.

His eyes narrowed faintly as he glanced at the subject line. Jonathan.

He clicked it open.

As he read, something in his expression changed. Slowly, deliberately, the tension in his face eased, replaced by something sharper. Something pleased.

A smile formed. A certain smile.

"Caught you, my queen..." he murmured under his breath. "You should have known your place was always beside me."

A low chuckle escaped him, quiet but filled with satisfaction.

So this was how it would be.

He wouldn’t need to chase her.

Wouldn’t need to force anything.

If her research was compromised—if what she had built was no longer secure—then she would come to him on her own. She would have no choice but to reach out, to negotiate, to stand in front of him again.

Exactly where he wanted her.

Dorian straightened, already moving.

He didn’t hesitate.

He replied to Jonathan immediately, summoning him for a meeting. Whatever price Jonathan wanted, it didn’t matter. Money, influence, protection—he would give it.

Because in return... He would get Catherine back. She always comes back when the world fails her.

And this time, he wouldn’t let her slip away again.

-----

Maximilian watched Catherine as she sat beside him, a glass of wine cradled loosely in her hand, her attention entirely captured by the ring on her finger. She had been like this the whole day—quietly mesmerized, as though the world had narrowed down to that single band of gold and shifting light.

He had expected something else.

Excitement, yes—but louder. Messages sent, photos taken, her family group flooded with updates, laughter echoing through calls. Instead, she stayed close to him, as though this moment was something she didn’t want to share just yet.

Just them.

When they returned to the castle, she insisted on cooking. Not just a simple meal, but something elaborate, dish after dish prepared with a focus that surprised him. Every time he tried to step in, she pushed him out with a stubborn little glare, refusing his help entirely.

He watched her instead.

And somewhere along the way, he realized the truth—this wasn’t about the food.

It was about giving.

The little princess he had once known... had grown into someone who wanted to return what she received, in her own way.

By the time they sat down to eat, the table was filled, and by the time they finished, Maximilian leaned back with a quiet exhale, a rare fullness settling in him.

He hadn’t expected her to be this good.

When she started clearing the table, he moved to help again, only for her to brush him off once more and move toward the sink.

"We have people for this, Catherine," he said, finally stepping in and lifting her easily into his arms before she could protest further.

She laughed, the sound soft and unguarded as she leaned into him.

"I wanted to do something for you," she murmured.

"You’re a strange one," he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Since when does the lady feel the need to repay the man who woos her?"

It had always been the other way around. The man pursued, the woman accepted or refused. There was no debt in it, no balance to be restored.

But Catherine didn’t argue.

She simply rested against him, as though the answer was something she felt rather than something she needed to explain.

Later, in their room, she sat close to him again, leaning lightly against his shoulder, her wine glass in hand. Her fingers kept turning slightly, watching the Alexandrite catch the light, shifting colors with every movement.

Every now and then, she would giggle softly to herself, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.

Maximilian watched her, amused and quietly puzzled.

"You haven’t told your family," he pointed out.

Her phone had been forgotten entirely—left near the lake until he picked it up. He had expected her to panic over it, or at least look for it, but she hadn’t even noticed.

"Tomorrow..." Catherine said, turning her head toward him.

Her cheeks were flushed, her smile soft and a little unfocused.

"Today..." she added, her voice gentler now, "...is ours."

The words lingered.

Maximilian’s expression softened as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He understood. The moment she told her family, everything would change—calls, excitement, interruptions.

This quiet...

This belonged only to them.

"Ours?" he echoed, lifting her effortlessly and settling her onto his lap, her legs on either side of him, his hands resting naturally at her waist.

She looked at him, her eyes warm, a little hazy from the wine, but steady in a way that mattered.

"Kiss me, Catherine," he said softly.

She let out a quiet laugh, teasing even now.

"How romantic," she murmured.

But she leaned in anyway.

The kiss was slow at first, gentle, almost testing—until it deepened, their breaths mingling, the space between them disappearing entirely. Her fingers curled lightly against him, his hold on her tightening just enough to keep her close, as though neither of them wanted to break away. His tongue slipped inside, drawing moans out of her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, until there wasn’t even air between them.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, quiet and unending.

Inside, time seemed to soften, stretch, and settle around them, as though the world itself had stilled just for this moment.

For that night, nothing else existed.

The kiss deepened, lingering and unhurried, until it became something more. Catherine’s hand slid inside his trousers, her touch deliberate as she traced along his hardened length.

Maximilian caught her wrist, his grip firm as he stilled her movement. His gaze lifted to hers, eyes dark and breath uneven, taking in the faint haze clouding her vision and the flush blooming across her cheeks from the wine.

"Don’t tempt me, Catherine," he said, his voice low, strained with restraint.

"Why not?" she asked softly, almost innocently, even as her hand slipped forward again, ignoring his warning.

His jaw tightened, every muscle in him going rigid as he looked at her. Something in his eyes sharpened to something predatory and intense, his desire surging to the surface, threatening to overpower everything else he held back.

"Poor little Moosemilian is suffering..." she teased, a slow smirk curving her lips. Tilting her head, she let her finger brush along her lower lip, her gaze never leaving his.

"Shall I help you?"

Maximilian leaned back comfortably. He didn’t think she was drunk and teasing. He had a feeling she got drunk to gather courage exactly for this.

Since, she wanted to help him...

"Nothing about me is little, Milday," he said.

Catherine’s lips curved to a smirk. "I can say..." she said, her hold tightening around his length.

Maximilian bit his lower lip and threw his head back. This feeling...

But...

"Wait," he said, sitting straight. "Stop this, Catherine."