Shackled To The Enemy King

William and Jonathan exchanged a glance the moment Maximilian’s words settled into the air, something unspoken passing cleanly between them before it turned into the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t amusement, not quite, but recognition. Approval, even. Because that instinct, that immediate, unfiltered response to someone disrespecting the woman you loved... it was one they understood intimately. It was, in many ways, expected.

And yet... There was still a line. A boundary that hadn’t been crossed.

Not yet.

Because what right did a man truly have... before he claimed it?

Maximilian turned toward them, fully expecting a reprimand or at the very least, a pointed comment about overstepping. But neither of them spoke. They simply watched him, their silence measured, waiting—not to correct him, but to hear what he would say next.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, as if grounding himself before stepping forward into something more deliberate.

"I left it at a warning," he said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering, "only because I haven’t proposed yet." There was the faintest shift in his expression then, something darker, more certain. "Once she says yes, I’ll—"

"We know," William and Jonathan said at the same time.

That did it.

That was the line they had been waiting for, not dominance, not impulse, but intention. Not a man reacting in the moment, but one who understood the weight of what he was claiming, and chose it anyway.

This... This was acceptable.

They had already done their part, of course. Quietly. Thoroughly. Alexander had been asked to look into Maximilian, to uncover anything that might be hidden beneath the surface. It wasn’t distrust, not entirely; it was caution. The kind that came from loving Catherine enough to ensure that the man beside her was worthy of the place he intended to take.

And once that was cleared... There would be no more barriers.

Maximilian let out a quiet breath, though his thoughts had already drifted somewhere far less strategic and far more... personal. These men, William and Jonathan, were easily his uncle’s age. Men he would, under any other circumstance, stand a respectful distance from.

And yet, if he married Catherine... They would be his equals in the Preston family.

The thought was strange enough on its own, but what followed it nearly made him pause.

Would their grandchildren call him Grandpa?

His expression almost shifted before he caught himself.

Because they all called Catherine Gigi.

The image lingered just long enough to feel absurd, and then he forced it aside, refocusing as the conversation shifted once more, this time returning to something far more pressing.

Dorian.

The name alone carried weight now, threaded with a danger none of them were willing to underestimate.

"I’ll protect her with everything I have," Maximilian said, and this time there was no edge of humor, no lightness—just quiet, unwavering certainty.

William nodded once, accepting the statement for what it was.

Jonathan, however, studied him for a moment longer before asking, "You’re going to propose to Catherine?"

Maximilian didn’t hesitate.

He nodded. "I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her."

There was no embellishment. No attempt to impress.

Just truth.

Jonathan stilled for a brief moment, something thoughtful flickering across his face. Conviction like that wasn’t something he saw often, not from men Maximilian’s age. Not without hesitation, without doubt woven somewhere beneath it.

He found that he liked it.

But conviction alone wasn’t enough.

"You’re a professor in Meridon," Jonathan said after a pause, his tone shifting—not confrontational, but grounded, practical. "And if Cathy decides to settle here, especially once the lab is built..." He let the thought linger before finishing, "Have the two of you talked about it?"

It wasn’t pressure. Not quite. But it was a necessary question, because love, no matter how certain, still had to survive reality.

Maximilian went quiet.

Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because, for the first time in a long time, he realized he didn’t.

He had planned for this. For her. For them. For years, longer than he cared to admit. Every version of his future had included Catherine, woven into it so seamlessly that he had never once questioned the foundation it stood on.

In his mind, it had always been simple. They would both settle in Meridon. That was the life he had built. The life he had been waiting to share with her.

But now...

That certainty felt... incomplete.

It no longer felt fair, or realistic.

"We need to talk about it," he said finally.

It wasn’t uncertainty. It was acknowledgment.

Jonathan nodded once, satisfied, not with the answer itself, but with the fact that Maximilian understood the question behind it.

-----

Inside, Catherine watched quietly as Sammy gathered herself piece by fragile piece, the storm of her emotions slowly retreating into something more contained, more controlled. The tears hadn’t fully stopped, but they had softened—no longer violent, no longer breaking her apart from the inside. There was a steadiness returning to her posture, a quiet effort to reclaim herself after everything that had just been torn open.

"I understand, Aunt Cathy..." Sammy said at last, her voice hoarse but clear enough. "I wouldn’t have believed my dad even if he told me the truth."

Catherine nodded, her gaze gentle, knowing there was nothing to argue there. Love had a way of distorting reality, of wrapping lies in something that felt too real to question. It wasn’t foolishness. It was... trust, misplaced in the worst possible way.

And in that moment, Catherine couldn’t help but see the reflection.

A different time. A different life.

But the same kind of fall.

There had been a time when she, too, had loved like that—completely, blindly, without leaving room for doubt. And when it shattered, she hadn’t stayed to question it, hadn’t stayed to listen. She had turned away, choosing pride over pain, silence over confrontation.

She hadn’t realized then that silence could destroy just as thoroughly.

That not knowing could become a prison.

At least Sammy... Sammy had been caught before she could fall too far.

Billy had dragged her back into the safety of family, into a space where she was watched, grounded, protected. The ranch, her father’s supervision, the constant presence of people who cared—it had kept her from unraveling completely, even if she hadn’t known why at the time.

Catherine exhaled slowly, her fingers resting lightly against Sammy’s arm.

"Do you want to meet him?" she asked, her voice careful, measured.

It wasn’t an easy question.

And it wasn’t a casual one either.

Catherine knew what it meant to walk away without answers. To let anger seal every door before truth had a chance to step through. It preserved dignity and ego, yes, but it left something unfinished, something that lingered long after the moment had passed.

She didn’t want that for Sammy.

Didn’t want her to carry ghosts she could have laid to rest.

But Sammy didn’t hesitate.

She shook her head almost immediately, a sharp, almost incredulous sound escaping her.

"Did you see his current picture, Aunt?" she said, her lips curling faintly despite the remnants of tears. "He’s balding and looks... rotten."

Catherine blinked.

"I don’t want to talk to him," Sammy continued, her voice gaining strength now, something fiercer threading through it. "I don’t want to give him that. I know it eats him, knowing I’m not visiting him. His narcissistic ass must be boiling inside thinking I don’t care about him."

There was a pause—just long enough for the weight of her words to settle.

"Let him suffer more."

Catherine stared at her for a moment.

And then, she laughed, softly, but genuinely, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.

"Alright," she said, shaking her head slightly, something warm easing into her expression. "Fair enough."

Because this... This wasn’t avoidance or denial. This was clarity.

The truth hadn’t broken Sammy. It had freed her.

And for that, Catherine was quietly grateful.

"But, Sammy," she added after a moment, her tone shifting just slightly, something more teasing slipping in, "the best way to get back at him... is to find real love."

Sammy snorted, the sound half-amused, half incredulous. "Look who suddenly became an expert on dating," she shot back, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

For a brief moment, the heaviness lifted.

But then she grew quiet again, her expression turning thoughtful, as if something had just occurred to her.

"Does your Professor Moosemilian have any friends?" she asked casually.

Catherine stiffened.

"What?" she said, her brows drawing together. "Why are you saying his name like that?"

There was a distinct edge to her tone now.

Because if there was anyone allowed to butcher Maximilian’s name... It was her.

And her alone.

Sammy rolled her eyes, the last remnants of her earlier grief now tucked away behind something lighter, something more familiar. "Fine... can I call him Uncle then?" she asked, her tone deliberately innocent, though the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

Catherine stilled.

She knew exactly what that meant.

It wasn’t just teasing. It wasn’t just Sammy being Sammy. There was an implication in it—a quiet acknowledgment, a step forward, a place being offered to Maximilian within the family in a way that hadn’t been spoken aloud until now.

And despite everything, despite the caution she carried from a life that no longer existed, despite the memories that should have made her hesitate, her heart still betrayed her.

It skipped.

Soft.

Unsteady.

Hopeful.

She should have been more careful. She knew that. She knew better than to let something as fragile as happiness settle so easily into her chest. But it came anyway, uninvited and undeniable.

"At least he’s older than you," Catherine said, masking it with composure, though her voice held the faintest warmth. "It’ll be easier."

Sammy laughed, the sound freer now, less weighed down. "So, does Uncle have any friends?" she pressed, leaning back slightly, mischief fully restored. "Single and ready to mingle?"

Catherine shook her head, already dismissing the idea. "If you like men who are aristocratic, pale, and smell like cigars," she said dryly.

Sammy’s face twisted immediately. "That sounds like a horror story," she muttered, visibly cringing at the mental image.

But the humor didn’t linger.

Not this time.

Because something shifted in her expression, subtle but unmistakable. The playfulness faded, replaced by something quieter. Something more careful.

"Are you happy, Aunt?" she asked.

The question landed softly.

But it didn’t feel soft.

For a moment, Catherine didn’t answer.

Didn’t even move.

Because it wasn’t a simple question, not for her.