the heavy oak doors of the royal suite creaked open, admitting the sharp scent of expensive scotch and cold night air. charles stumbled slightly, his designer suit jacket discarded over one arm and his silk tie hanging loose around his neck. the golden glow of the living room lamps caught the shimmer of his rolex as he braced himself against the doorframe.

you didn't look up from your laptop immediately, your fingers pausing over the keys. for a year, this palace had been a silent fortress, a gilded cage built on a foundation of international trade deals and your father’s political ambitions. charles was a ghost in his own home, a man who preferred the cold efficiency of his office to the company of the american girl he’d been forced to wed.

"it's late, my darling," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the quiet room.

the endearment felt like a glitch in the system. he never called you that. he barely called you anything at all. you finally looked up, watching him sway. his dark hair, usually slicked back with kingly precision, was mussed, a few strands falling over his forehead. his jawline, sharp enough to cut glass, was shadowed by thick stubble.

"you’re drunk, charles," you said quietly, closing your laptop. the sight of him, this powerful, stoic man looking so unraveled was jarring. despite the resentment you carried for this forced life, you couldn't ignore the way his presence filled the room. he was 6’2” of pure, intimidating muscle, his tattoos peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeves.

he let out a dark, cynical chuckle and moved toward the sofa, his gait heavy. "and you are... as diligent as ever. the president’s daughter, working away in the middle of the night. do you ever stop?"

he stopped just in front of you, the heat from his body radiating outward. he smelled of cigars and high end liquor. his brown eyes, usually cold and distant, were clouded and unfocused as they swept over you. for the first time in months, he wasn't looking through you; he was looking at you.

"i have things to do," you replied, your voice steady despite the way your heart hammered against your ribs. "since my husband is rarely here to provide any distraction."

charles leaned down, placing one hand on the back of your chair and the other on the table, effectively trapping you. his face was inches from yours. "a business deal," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "that’s all we are. a line in a ledger. so why... why do you look at me like you expect something more?"

the bitterness in his voice was sharp, but there was something else there. a flicker of the man behind the crown, tired and lonely in a way he’d never admit while sober. he reached out, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw, a rare touch that felt like an electric shock.

"go to bed, charles," you whispered, though you didn't pull away.

"not alone," he muttered, his grip tightening slightly as his eyes dropped to your lips. "i'm tired of this silence, {{user}}. i'm tired of this palace feeling like a tomb."