Chapter 22.

Present day.

Charlotte found herself delighted in her discovery. Her father had said so much she had not had time to digest it, let alone decide how it made her feel.

But one thing that had danced in her head was her father's admission that the assassin in the dungeons had died from overexertion.

Edward had not killed him!

She had been worried he was a bad person, despite their strong affinity for each other, and had felt guilty for still liking him, even after she had thought he was a killer. She no longer had a reason not to trust him. She wondered why that brought her joy.

She thought about Oliver, her father's advice to accept her situation with him. He was her friend and she was supposed to help him, there was no reason to make things harder than they ought to be.

She knew that he once loved her, but she was not sure he still did. Her feelings for him were complicated and she was not one to acknowledge complicated feelings until she was sure.

She was suddenly overcome with shame, realizing that his brother had died only a day ago, and she had been so caught up in the circus that had become her life she forgot he was also grieving.

The palace was so pretentious and unconcerned that she had forgotten about Frederick, something she had vowed to herself would never happen. She steeled her resolve to at least try to make amends with Oliver, knowing it was unfair to blame him for his father's decision.

As she rounded the corner, she got a sense of strong deja vu, as her eyes caught Oliver's form outside his room, talking with a guard. Her breath caught in her throat as he looked up, holding her gaze. She could not read his face. She wondered if she was ready to be civilized with him.

Oliver dismissed the guard he was talking to and held her gaze as she limped towards him with the help of her guard.

As she reached him, he took a step back, leaned on the wall, and smiled.

"Are you going to punch me?" he asked, his voice teasing, but unsure.

"If that is what you want, who am I to deny a prince of his pleasures?" she teased back, stopping a safe distance away for good measure.

Oliver studied her for a moment. She almost dropped his gaze, uncomfortable, but managed to hold it long enough for him to find whatever he was looking for.

He relaxed, and she too, found herself relaxing. The guard shot her a curious look, obviously noticing the change. She felt exposed and shot him a playful glare.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice was a little icy.

"Could we… speak?" she stumbled around her words.

"We are, aren't we?"

She looked at him accusingly. Why did he want to make this harder than it needed to be? But then again, she couldn't blame his cautiousness on anyone but herself.

He sighed tiredly

"Alright, walk with me," he said, extending a hand out for support.

She took it as a sign of peace, taking it and limping into him and swinging her left hand over his shoulder. He wrapped his right arm around her waist, fully supporting her weight, and a shiver ran down her back at his touch, causing her to stiffen. She hoped he hadn't noticed.

He then turned and walked past his room towards his office, the four guards trailing uncomfortably behind them.

In the office, he helped her into the chair he had been resting on earlier when his father had been in the room, and took the chair behind the table, settling into it comfortably.

Charlotte looked around the room, her eyes stopping at the huge portrait of Fredrick behind him. She liked the illusion that he was watching over them and imagined that he would be proud she took the first step to make amends with Oliver.

"So, this is now your office?" she asked.

He remained quiet, watching her.

"I understand," she said, "I haven't made things easier for any of us since your father brought me here, I'm sorry." she lowered her gaze to the table.

Oliver lifted an eyebrow in surprise, and she realized he had not expected an apology. 

"What did you want to speak to me about?" he asked, his voice all business.

Charlotte studied him, his cold face told her that he was not going to make this easy.

They sat in silence for a few moments, before either of them spoke, Charlotte wondering what to say and Oliver debating whether to wait for her to speak. He had debated making the first move towards peace between them, but had not been ready to bare out anything to her, remembering the last time he had done so, she had left him broken in the dark.

Finally, just when he was ready to swallow his pride, she had come to him, seemingly with the same intention, and made his life much easier. He, however, would not make it easy for her. She would have to beg him for whatever she wanted. He hoped he had the strength to keep her waiting like she had.

He watched her quietly, relishing the discomfort in her demeanor. He almost felt sorry for her, the palace had diminished her sense of power and control.

"Well," she started. "Your father insists that we are to be married… I just thought," she paused, looking for the right words, "maybe we shouldn't be making things harder than they ought to be… perhaps we could start by being friends again?" the last part was rushed out of her mouth. She winced as she said the words, and looked at anything in the room but him.

Oliver almost laughed, even in their position, all she wanted to be was friends.

"Charlotte, the only person making things harder than they ought to be is you, perhaps this is a conversation you should have with yourself?" he found himself asking, lacking the patience to accommodate her feelings any longer.

Charlotte looked at him as if he had struck her.

"Why won't you forgive me?" her voice cracked with emotion.

"Be honest Charlotte, you are only doing this to please your father, don't pretend you care, please. We do need to treat this as anything more than a duty. You do your part, and I do mine." he said.

He wondered if this was what his father had pictured when he told him to fix things with her. But he knew Charlotte, would only love him if she convinced herself she had to. All he had to do was make sure she could not tell his feelings. he knew she still felt something. The shiver when he had wrapped his arm around her waist for support had confirmed this. If only she could embrace the feelings.

Her whole body changed. Her spine straightened and posture fixed as she sat up properly in her chair.

"That seems like a proper arrangement," she said, "I do my duty and you do yours. What's my duty?" she asked.

He smiled. Perhaps things would be easier than he had anticipated.

"I will ask for your hand in marriage officially tomorrow, you will say yes. Then your duties will be delegated to you officially and a wedding day will be set for when I return from the north."

"Sounds perfect, wait, you are going to the north?" she asked, her proper posture disappearing as she leaned over the table in surprise.

"Yes, in two days."

"In two days?" 

"That is what I said."

She was quiet for a moment. 

"Can I come too?"

He held her gaze. "No," he said. "Your place is now here, waiting for me."

As much as it would anger her father, to bring her with him, he did not need his fiance demeaning his position among the people he was supposed to be making a strong impression on.

"Oh," her voice was disappointed. She resumed her proper posture. "What time do you ask for my hand?"

"Tomorrow at noon. In the gardens. Please look surprised, a few people will be there."

She smiled at him, a weak, empty smile that chilled his soul to the bone. He sensed malice in her. What had he done?

"I can do that," she said. "Is there any more you wanted?"

"You are the one that requested this meeting," he said, a matter of fact.

"Then I have nothing more. I will take my leave now." she turned to leave.

Oliver watched the swing of her hips as she walked out. The dress she wore complimented her figure perfectly. He wondered how long he could keep up the unbothered facade, but knew that Charlotte had to come to him in her own time.

From his view of her back, he could not tell she had made a decision that would bring extreme consequences for both of them.