Felicity's POV.
The room was silent. Too silent. Even the machines beside my father hummed softly, giving a steady beep. He looked older than I remembered, frail, as if time had taken the strength from his spine and left behind a man made of shadows and regret. His breathing was shallow. The hospital lights made his skin almost translucent.
But he was still tall, even lying down. His shoulders were broad, though illness had reduced them. His pale blue eyes—so different from my mother's sharp hazel and my own soulful brown—searched my face, as if looking for something lost long ago. I stepped closer and folded my arms, trying to stop my hands from trembling. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Somehow, the silence felt heavier than the truth I knew was coming.
"My daughter…" he began, but the word trailed off.
"No. No. Don't call me that. Please explain to me, Dad. Why did you leave? What was so unbearable that you vanished? You broke our hearts. Mine, Mom's. You left us like we were nothing."
His eyes closed for a moment, as if my question had physically hurt him. When they opened again, there was something clearer behind them, regret sharpened by truth.
"I want to tell the truth. Nothing but the truth," he said quietly.
"I was born into a powerful Scottish noble family. My father was strict, colder than I ever was, and obsessed with legacy and royal alliances. He was tall, sharp-featured, always dressed in dark tailored suits, his silver hair combed back perfectly. He believed in only three things: legacy, bloodline, and power. When I became Duke of Scotland, my future had already been decided. I was the only son of a powerful line with ties to the Crown. Then my sister Charlotte was born. Before I ever met your mother, I had been unofficially promised to marry into a royal bloodline. I was expected to wed a titled woman from an approved family. The engagement was quietly arranged, political, strategic, and expected. Then I studied at Oxford, earning a degree in English Literature. That's where I met your mother, Joy Steve. She was American, studying botanical science. And for me, it was love at first sight. She wasn't easy to please, but I fell for her. Joy had warm hazel eyes, soft skin, and laughter that filled a room. No title. No royal pedigree. But I chose her. We dated, graduated, married, and moved to America. Back then, we were happy. When you were born, Felicity, I was the happiest man alive," he whispered. "But everything began to fall apart the moment my father and the monarchy got involved."
My breath caught in my throat.
"I left," he continued softly, "because I was trying to protect you."
I blinked, my heart pounding. "Protect me from what exactly? From love? From family? From having a father?"
He turned toward the window, the lines on his face deepening.
"When I was still Duke of Scotland, I was expected to marry a noblewoman, a political alliance, a royal match. But I fell in love with your mother instead, and I chose her. That choice embarrassed my father. It angered the monarchy. It created a scandal. My father sided with the Crown. He reminded me that duty comes before love. When I refused to annul my marriage, he disowned me privately, withdrew support, and turned allies against me. He told me something I will never forget: love fades. Legacy does not. Then the monarchy stepped in. My father didn't just 'side' with them he helped design the ultimatum. It was not a suggestion. It was a punishment. The monarchy gave me a choice," he continued, voice lower now. "Step down quietly, leave the country, disappear without your mother and you, restore the alliance and accept exile under strict conditions or watch everything we loved crumble in scandal. If I had stayed, they would have destroyed everything attached to me, your mother's reputation, our stability, even your legitimacy. So I stepped down quietly. I was relocated and placed under supervision. My funds were controlled. My movements are monitored. And part of the agreement was clear: no contact. No letters. No visits. No secret trust funds. No birthday calls. If I broke it, the consequences would fall on your mother and on you."
He broke into a harsh cough, his body folding in on itself. I moved without thinking, grabbed the water, and helped him drink. I steadied his shaking hands until he could swallow. Slowly, painfully, he regained his breath.
"You chose exile," I said bitterly. "You chose silence over your own daughter."
"No," he said, locking eyes with mine. "I chose peace. You were just a little girl. I thought if I left, you'd be safe. Free from pressure, titles, politics. I didn't know I'd lose you in the process. My father later reclaimed influence within the royal structure. He died a few years later, disappointed and unyielding. We never reconciled. I lost my title. I lost my father. I lost my family. And eventually, I lost you. I did not disappear because I stopped loving you. I disappeared because they made sure I had no choice. When you were born, things worsened. You were a legitimate heir but not born from an approved royal match, which made you a complication. Before my father died, he reinstated the inheritance line. Here is the truth: you are still the rightful blood heir. Even if I stepped down, even if the title was restructured, even if the monarchy buried it. Your bloodline still exists in the records. I chose exile to protect your mother and you politically, but I made one fatal mistake. I never explained. I convinced myself that silence would protect you. That distance would erase the scandal. That you would live a peaceful life. Instead, I abandoned you emotionally. That is the tragedy. The agreement required no financial trace publicly linking me to you. If I broke it, the monarchy would expose everything. So I chose to look heartless. If I stayed near you, the press would follow. If I kept in contact, the scandal would remain alive. If I acknowledged you publicly, succession authorities would start asking questions. So I left you behind. And I never explained. My marriage broke a political alliance. When you were born, everything escalated. You were legitimate, which meant you had a claim. Bloodline questions could destabilise inheritance. The monarchy did not want a scandal about a duke defying tradition, an heir born outside approved nobility, and a destroyed alliance. So they forced an ultimatum. Not a threat, a quiet legal agreement. If I refused, Joy would be investigated. Her background would be dragged publicly. Your legitimacy would be questioned. The media would destroy you both. I signed. That is where I became tragic. I could have explained it to your mother privately. I could have fought harder. I could have trusted you with the truth. Instead, I chose control. I chose silence. I believed I knew best. I underestimated the emotional damage. That is my flaw. I protected you politically, but I abandoned you emotionally. I fell ill recently. The illness is stress-induced and long untreated. After exile, I isolated myself. I lived in a coastal estate in northern Scotland. Cold wind. Minimal staff. I never remarried. I kept every photo of you in a locked drawer. I watched from afar. But I never reached out. Part of me believed that if you hated me, you would be safer. That is the darkest part. I accepted being the villain in your story. But I still have my wedding ring."
I couldn't speak. My lips pressed into a thin line.
His face crumpled. "I watched you from afar. Every birthday. Every achievement. I had someone send me photographs of you. I know it doesn't make up for anything, but I never stopped caring. I'm sorry. I never stopped loving you, my daughter. My Ninu."
"Wait… why did you call me that? I thought Mom called me that or is it you? And what does it mean?"
"Yes, I made it up. A nickname. Doesn't mean anything, just formed it myself."
"Oh okay. But what about your mother? My grandmother?"
"My mother died very young, when I was just fifteen. It broke me. I couldn't eat for a year. But I survived with my father, then I met Joy, and my father disowned me."
I stared at him. My heart ached to forgive, to hug him. My mind screamed betrayal. Somewhere between the two, I whispered,
"I'm so, so sorry. You suffered a lot. I don't know if I can forgive you… But I'm here. That has to mean something. And don't worry, you'll get better."
He nodded. Tears welled in his eyes. "It means everything."
In that fragile silence, I felt something shift. Not healed. But no longer completely broken.
>>>>>>>>>>
Christopher's POV.
While Felicity faced her dad, I found myself cornered, royally, by my own. My father stood in the hospital garden like a marble statue, arms behind his back. His jaw was set tight, like a commander preparing for battle. Royal briefings, treaties, meetings… and now, all over my love life.
"She made quite the impression," he said without looking at me.
I tilted my head, frowning. "Who?"
"Felicity. She lit up the palace, your sister's best friend, fire in sneakers," he said, pausing. "But that doesn't make her a suitable match, Christopher."
I scoffed. "Not a suitable match? Says who? Because she doesn't come with a title? She's not on your precious royal pedigree list?"
He turned slowly and gave me a sharp look. "This isn't about love, Christopher. It's about duty. You're a Prince. You were born for responsibility, not daydreams and rebellion."
I stepped closer. "But I love her. I breathe when I'm with her. She makes me feel really like a man, not a title. Isn't that worth something?"
Grayson arched his brow. "You think love is enough? Love fades. Alliances last."
"She's more than enough," I said firmly. "You like her. I know you do. And she's not just anyone, she's the daughter of a Duke."
He exhaled sharply. "Yes, I like her. She has a spark. But spark isn't structure. She doesn't fit."
"Then let me make her fit," I challenged.
"Give me a chance, father. She didn't even know I was a prince until recently. I know she will fall for me. It will be for me, not the crown."
Silence stretched between us, heavy as a storm cloud. Then finally, he spoke. "One month."
I blinked. "What?"
"One month," he repeated. "You show me this isn't just infatuation. You get her to truly like you. Love you even. Not out of sympathy or loyalty, but genuinely. If she doesn't…" He trailed off.
I squared my shoulders. "If she doesn't?"
"You will marry Mia," Grayson said.
I gaped. "Excuse me? You're kidding, right?"
He didn't move, speak, or give any sign of emotion.
The words hit like a gunshot. "You're serious."
"That's the ultimatum," he said coldly. "One month. Win her heart. Convince her. Convince the court. Convince the country." His eyes locked onto mine. "Convince me. Or the engagement to Mia goes back on."
I stared at him. "This is blackmail."
"No," he said coldly. "This is the monarchy."
The words stung, but I didn't flinch. Because only one phrase burned in my mind like wildfire: Game on.
I smirked and gave him a slight bow. "Challenge accepted, Your Majesty."
Because Felicity Paddington already had my heart. Now, I have one month to win hers. And failure? Not an option.