Shackled To The Enemy King

"I always thought I failed her as a father," James admitted, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "That I took her childhood from her because I didn’t know how to handle things... didn’t know how to handle her."

His hand came up unconsciously, brushing at the corner of his eye before he let it fall again.

"She was always so serious... so understanding. Never threw tantrums. Never demanded anything. Never complained." His voice grew quieter with each word. "She just... took on responsibilities. Without being asked."

Maximilian listened in silence, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t show.

He knew why.

He knew exactly why Catherine had changed so abruptly, why she had shed her childhood like something unnecessary. Those memories... that past life... it had reshaped her in ways no one around her could ever fully understand.

And James... James had carried the weight of that misunderstanding all these years.

"It’s not your fault, sir," Maximilian said gently.

James only smiled, that same wry, unconvinced curve of his lips returning, as though the words were kind but not enough to undo years of quiet guilt. He had raised four sons. He knew what raising children demanded, knew the chaos, the defiance, the noise that came with it.

Catherine had given him none of that.

And somehow, that hurt more.

"She grew up by herself," he said softly, more to himself than to Maximilian. "Right in front of me."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then James looked back at him, something lighter returning to his expression.

"But with you..." he said, and this time his smile reached deeper, warmer, "I can see she’s finally feeling free."

The memory of her from earlier lingered in his mind—teasing, stubborn, playful in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. The way she had smiled without restraint, the way color had risen to her cheeks, the way she had argued over something as trivial as getting coffee.

It had been... effortless.

Natural.

Like she was finally living at the age she was meant to be.

He didn’t need to be told what that meant. He knew.

She was in love.

And nothing, in all the years he had spent worrying over her, brought him more peace than that realization.

"Well," James said suddenly, shifting the mood with a firm slap to his thigh, as though refusing to linger too long in sentiment, "what next? I suppose I should meet your family. Tell me about them."

Maximilian almost smiled.

Of course, James would have already looked into his background—men like him never left something like that to chance. But this wasn’t about information.

This was about connection.

So he told him.

Spoke of his family, their lives, their dynamics—not as a report, but as something personal, something offered rather than inspected. James listened closely, asking a question here and there, weighing not just the facts, but the way Maximilian spoke of them.

When Maximilian mentioned that it wasn’t necessary for him to travel to meet them, James dismissed it almost immediately.

"I’ll go," he said simply. "If my daughter is going to be part of that family, I’ll see them myself."

There was no arguing with that.

Maximilian inclined his head in agreement.

James didn’t just want to see them; he wanted to understand the people who raised a man his daughter had chosen.

And just then, a knock sounded at the door.

Both men glanced toward it.

Catherine.

She walked in balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a neatly wrapped sandwich in the other, her expression carrying a quiet sort of triumph, as though she had accomplished something far more significant than a simple errand.

"I sneaked this in for you, Daddy," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

Before he could even respond, she tore off a small piece of the sandwich and held it up to him, eyes bright with mischief. James, who had been momentarily delighted at the sight of real food, leaned forward without resistance and took the bite, savoring it far more than he would have admitted. Catherine, entirely unashamed, finished the rest herself, chewing with a contented ease.

James exhaled, half amused, half resigned. At least he had tasted something real.

Maximilian watched the exchange with a quiet softness in his gaze before excusing himself, giving them the space he knew they needed. As the door closed behind him, the room seemed to settle into a gentler silence.

Catherine slipped into the chair beside her father and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, the gesture instinctive, almost childlike in its comfort.

"So, Daddy..." she began, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier playfulness. "What do you think of my choice?"

James didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a second longer than usual.

"You’re happy," he said at last. "And that’s all that matters...For a long time... I wasn’t sure you ever would be."

Catherine’s eyes widened, just for a fleeting moment.

She had thought... no, she had assumed, that she was trying to be happy. That she was moving toward it, cautiously, deliberately.

But now that he said it...

Was she already there?

The realization settled into her slowly, like warmth spreading through her chest, and before she could stop it, a soft smile bloomed across her face—unforced, unguarded.

Maybe she was.

She reached for his hand, lifting it gently and pressing it against her cheek, holding it there as though grounding herself in something steady and familiar.

"Daddy... listen to the doctors," she said quietly. "I want you to walk me down the aisle."

Her voice faltered just slightly.

"I want my wedding to be proper. I already don’t have my mother, so... I need you."

The rest caught in her throat.

Her eyes burned, the sting rising too quickly for her to hide, and she had to blink hard to keep it from spilling over.

James didn’t let her finish.

He pulled her closer, one arm wrapping around her with a firmness that spoke louder than any reassurance.

"I will, Bitty Bean," he said softly, the nickname slipping out with ease. "I’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll walk you down the aisle."

Catherine sniffed, a small, uneven breath escaping her as something tight in her chest loosened just a little.

"You’ll have to be there for my children too," she added, her voice still thick, but steadier now. "Their weddings... and my grandchildren."

James almost laughed at that, at how far ahead she had leapt, how easily she spoke of a future that stretched far beyond the present.

It felt impossibly distant.

And yet... He only hummed in agreement, his hand tightening slightly around hers.

Because this... this was the first time she had ever asked something of him.

She did not quietly endure, she did not silently accept... But she had asked.

He had always thought he would die for his children without hesitation.

But now... Now she was asking him to live.

And for that, he would try.

He would try with everything he had.