It was now the 27th of July, year 1908.
On the morning of his twentieth birthday, Prince Oskar von Hohenzollern woke to the sound of bells.
They rang across Berlin—not in alarm, not in mourning, but in celebration—carrying over palace roofs, gardens, and streets already thick with expectation. Flags hung heavy from balconies. Guards stood polished and still. Carriages rolled through gates in steady procession.
For the German Empire, this was no ordinary birthday.
It was a threshold.
By imperial decree, Kaiser Wilhelm II would formally recognize his fifth son as having come of age in a public ceremony at the Imperial Palace. In practice, the court understood what that truly meant: Oskar was no longer merely tolerated, no longer provisional. He was official.
And Europe was watching.
The palace glittered.
Crystal chandeliers burned bright even in summer daylight. Uniforms gleamed—navy blues, army greys, black and white Prussian formal wear—cut through with silks and jewels worn by women who understood that history often turned on moments exactly like this.
The German nobility had arrived in force.
Daughters of old houses stood carefully positioned, smiles measured, posture perfect. Their families had not come merely to celebrate. They had come to be seen, to be weighed, and—if fortune allowed—to be chosen.
Oskar was young, impossibly wealthy, visibly powerful, and—most dangerously—unattached in the eyes of the law.
That alone made him the most discussed man in the Empire.
By 1908, Oskar had become something more than a prince.
His name was known in factories and ministries alike. The Oskar Industrial Group dominated entire sectors—steel, engines, safety equipment, energy, housing—its true scale known only to a handful of accountants and ministers who slept poorly because of it.
Somewhere between boardrooms and shipyards, without ever quite noticing, Oskar had become Germany's youngest billionaire.
The irony—that he still lived under his parents' roof and had never bothered to purchase a yacht or a single piece of true luxury—was lost on almost everyone.
Rumor did the rest.
To some, he was the embodiment of modern strength: tall beyond reason, broad as a fortress, physically imposing in a way that made caricatures unnecessary. To others, he was simply the man who could end boredom, secure status, and guarantee a future.
Letters poured in by the thousands.
Oskar read none of them.
Foreign envoys were present in careful numbers.
Allies hoped to reaffirm bonds; rivals attended out of necessity rather than affection. Austria-Hungary sent a senior representative with instructions that were politely worded and unmistakable: a Habsburg marriage would be… advantageous.
Wilhelm II listened.
Then declined to interfere.
For once, the Kaiser made his position clear: Germany no longer needed to barter its heirs for security. The Empire was strong enough to afford choice.
That freedom—real or perceived—belonged to Oskar.
And for that, he was quietly grateful.
The ceremony began early in the evening of that day itself, and it followed ancient rhythm.
Clergy in formal vestments. The presence of senior church authority lent the proceedings gravity that even the most cynical courtier could not dismiss. Words were spoken that had been spoken for centuries, binding youth to duty, privilege to obligation.
Oskar stood patiently through it all.
When it finally ended, relief passed through him like a physical sensation.
Wilhelm II stepped forward for the closing address.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Kaiser proclaimed, voice carrying cleanly across the hall, "today we recognize Prince Oskar as having come into his full responsibilities as a man of the Empire."
He paused, eyes briefly lingering on his son.
"Germany has grown strong," Wilhelm continued. "Strong in industry, in science, in arms, and in spirit. I thank God for granting this Empire capable sons—and I thank Him for granting us Prince Oskar."
The hall answered as one.
"May God bless Crown Prince Oskar and the German Empire!"
The sound was thunderous.
Oskar inclined his head slightly, expression composed, a restrained smile playing at the edge of his mouth.
Around him stood the imperial family. Nearby, the high command of the army and navy. Beyond them, industrial leaders, ministers, and representatives of the Reichstag.
And further still—foreign royalty.
Among them stood Princess Patricia of Connaught. She was tied directly to the British Royal Family, a granddaughter of Queen Victoria herself, and—according to rumor—a talented painter as well. There was German blood in her veins through her mother, which only made her presence in Berlin feel more deliberate.
Oskar noticed her the way one noticed a finely made weapon: not loudly, not immediately, but with a growing awareness that something in the room carried weight.
She was twenty-two—old enough to be deliberate, young enough to be dangerous. Tall for a woman of her time, though still shorter than Cecilie, her posture was impeccable: shoulders back, chin level, trained from childhood to occupy space without apology. Her gown was English in cut—ivory silk with a subtle sheen, fitted cleanly through the waist and hips before falling with controlled elegance to the floor. Nothing excessive. Nothing accidental.
The neckline was modest by London standards and daring by old aristocratic Berlin's—just enough to draw the eye without inviting comment. Oskar noted the clean line of her collarbones, the controlled fullness of her chest beneath carefully structured fabric—clearly well supported, clearly deliberate. She was not a girl dressing for romance. She was here to display herself, to tempt a possible partner, and she undeniably had a fine figure—something Oskar could not help but notice, however disciplined his thoughts were.
She looked like a woman dressing for scrutiny—or perhaps for examination by a very specific pair of eyes.
Her light brown hair was arranged with precision, pinned in a style meant to survive hours of conversation and judgment. Pearls rested at her throat. White gloves remained immaculate. Everything about her said, without a word: I belong here.
And she knew exactly why she had been invited.
Oskar caught her gaze more than once. Each time she attempted composure, yet could not help herself—blushing faintly, looking down, then gathering herself again. More telling still was where her gaze went next. Not to the generals. Not to the ministers.
But to the long table set aside for his household.
Anna. Tanya. The children. Karl. Bertha.
Commoners.
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Not outrage.
Displeasure.
She did not like it. That much was obvious.
To Patricia, power was inherited, ordered, layered correctly. A prince surrounded by women who had not been born into court—and worse, who were entirely comfortable there—was not romantic.
It was… improper.
And yet.
She looked back at him again.
Longer this time.
Oskar understood her type immediately.
She was here to measure him.
To decide whether marrying him would grant her proximity to the heart of Germany—or whether he was too unstable, too uncontrollable, too odd to be managed.
And yes—he was quite certain she would report her findings back to Britain, trying in her own way to uncover how Germany's most disruptive prince had produced so many inventions, so much influence, so much power.
The celebrations rolled on—this evening being not only his own, but also the birthday of his three eldest children. Little Imperiel, Juniel, and Lailael had just turned three: wide-eyed, silver-haired, and still looking almost unreal in their intensity, like figures drawn from a story rather than born into the world.
Music rose. Voices overlapped. The palace softened into something almost alive.
Oskar did not remain an observer.
He joined the dance.
Tradition demanded it—and he had learned long ago that refusing tradition too openly only gave enemies something solid to cling to.
When the first dance was announced, fate—or careful planning—placed Princess Patricia of Connaught directly in his path.
She stood before him, her head barely reaching the level of his chest, forcing her to look up—not just a little, but noticeably. Her blue eyes blinked with a mix of hopeful curiosity and calculation as she took him in. Oskar smiled down at her, his gaze betraying him for a brief moment—dropping from her eyes to her chest and then back again.
She noticed.
The corner of her mouth curved mischievously as he offered his hand. She accepted without hesitation.
Her white gloves were gone, as were Oskar's black ones, leaving nothing between them but skin. Her fingers were slender, delicate, slightly cool—so small in his grasp that his hand could close around hers with effortless ease. By contrast, his own looked almost animal in scale, heavy and powerful, as if they truly belonged to something closer to a gorilla than a man.
The difference in size was immediate—and unmistakable.
What struck Oskar most was how clearly he could feel her lightness through touch, how fragile she seemed compared to him. And just as clearly, she felt the opposite: the vast, immovable solidity of him. Two meters tall. Nearly two hundred kilograms of controlled mass, standing with ease where other men shifted and fidgeted. When his hand closed around hers it was not forceful—but dominance was unavoidable. A simple, undeniable physical fact.
He felt her react.
A fractional tightening of her fingers. A breath drawn a moment deeper than necessary.
She masked it instantly—or tried to. Up close, he could see the faint red bloom in her cheeks.
As the music swelled and the dance truly began, she stiffened for a heartbeat when his hand settled against her back and her body pressed closer to his. She did not pull away. Instead, she leaned in, clearly trying to meet his eyes—eyes that were frustratingly far above hers due to the height difference.
Oskar, however, was not looking at her eyes.
He was looking at her chest again.
She realized it and pouted playfully.
"Your Highness," she said, composed but teasing, "my eyes are not that far down. They are higher."
"Ah, Princess," he replied smoothly, entirely unconvincing, "I was merely admiring your necklace. It is truly magnificent—very eye-catching."
She smiled, amused despite herself.
Then, without missing a beat, he switched languages effortlessly.
"I hope you are enjoying Berlin."
The accent landed like a quiet shock.
British. Polished. Almost too perfect.
James Bond would have approved.
Her brows lifted before she could stop herself.
"I wasn't aware Prussian princes were educated in such… refined London accents," she said lightly.
"They aren't," Oskar replied, guiding her into the first turn with a strength that made the movement feel inevitable rather than requested. "I'm simply—as you may have noticed—more varied in my interests than most."
She laughed softly.
The court noticed.
As they moved, she became increasingly aware of him—not just his size, but his stillness. He did not need to prove anything. He wasn't trying to dominate the room; he simply existed within it, and everything else adjusted. He did not rush. The dance bent around him rather than the other way around.
To her, it felt as if the rest of the world had faded. For that moment, there was only him and her.
It was unsettling.
And thrilling.
Up close, she noticed the scars on his right palm—ugly, unmistakable marks where a bullet had torn through flesh at close range. Evidence of how narrowly death had missed him. To some, it was a reminder of danger. To her, it was a symbol of resistance: the scarred hand raised in quiet defiance.
The thickness of his forearm did not escape her attention either.
Nor did the calm, watchful intelligence in his eyes—not the eager ambition she was accustomed to in men who wanted something from her.
He wanted nothing.
Yet his gaze lingered over her body without shame, making it clear that he was not opposed to wanting her.
She had heard the rumors, of course—that he ruled his household with an iron hand, tolerated no infighting, no disobedience, and would use force without hesitation to impose order. That made him dangerous.
Strangely… it also excited her.
Though she wondered how much of it was true.
"You are quite different from the rumors," she said carefully. "From the way you speak and carry yourself, you seem far gentler than the title Iron Prince suggests."
"Oh?" Oskar allowed a faint smile. "That's disappointing. Do I not look like a tyrant of steel made manifest? The embodiment of mighty Hercules—slayer of lions and hydras? Or perhaps Julius Caesar himself?"
Her lips curved despite herself.
"Well," she replied, amused, "I had hoped to see you at the Olympics this summer. People said you might attend, yet you did not. Instead, you allowed your countrymen to take home the prizes. The Games are said to continue until October—surely you could still join?"
Oskar smiled.
He had intended to go, once. The absurd length of the Games—nearly half a year—still amused his modern mind, though it was perfectly normal for the era.
"It's quite simple," he said. "It wouldn't have been fair."
She blinked. "Not fair?"
"Realistically," he continued calmly, "could anyone have broken my records if I had competed?"
The statement was arrogant.
And yet—coming from him—it made sense.
She broke into light laughter at his audacity and, without thinking, slapped his chest playfully mid-dance. Several onlookers gasped.
He didn't even flinch.
She was drawn to him. She felt it clearly now—and it irritated her deeply. Attraction was supposed to be controlled, weaponized, never felt.
And yet, when he leaned in slightly to guide her through another turn, she felt his warmth, his solidity, the overwhelming sense that if he chose to stop, the entire room would have to flow around him.
She did not pull away.
Oskar, for his part, harbored no illusions.
She was beautiful—undeniably so. Balanced, refined, and acutely aware of her effect. A woman who could dominate salons and command rooms with ease.
But she was also an emissary.
A question wrapped in silk.
If she married him, she would seek access. Influence. Answers. She would want to understand how his mind worked—how a man so young had reshaped industry, medicine, warfare.
And she would send that knowledge home.
And besides those points there was no guarantee such a marriage would soften the Entente or draw Britain closer to Germany. Her political value, despite her royal status, was limited.
Still…
He could not deny the pull.
"Your dress suits you," he said evenly. "It was chosen with intelligence."
Her eyes snapped up.
Not pretty.
Not lovely.
Intelligent.
That unsettled her more than any compliment.
"Thank you," she said softly. "I take that as a compliment."
"As it was intended."
They danced on.
Measured. Close. Watched.
And as chandeliers glowed overhead and Europe leaned in from behind polite smiles, both understood the truth of the moment:
This was not courtship.
This was reconnaissance—on both sides.
And neither was quite certain who was winning.
But elsewhere in the ballroom, certainty existed of a different kind.
Luise stood rigid near the edge of the floor, fingers curled so tightly together that her nails pressed half-moons into her palms. She watched in silence as yet another beautiful, older woman moved with her brother—her brother—claiming his attention with ease she herself had never mastered.
Oskar had been her first kiss.
That memory burned sharper than pride, sharper than reason.
Seeing another woman's hand on his chest, her body pressed close to his, felt less like etiquette and more like theft. Luise's jaw tightened as she fought the childish, dangerous urge to cross the room and remind the princess—very loudly—that some things were not hers to touch.
At the long household table, the mood had shifted just as violently.
Bertha leaned forward, eyes narrowed, posture tense as coiled steel. Anna's expression had gone cold and unreadable, the kind that preceded decisive action. Tanya muttered something under her breath that was very much not a prayer.
Even Cecilie—usually careful, usually restrained—had gone pale, lips pressed thin as she watched the dance unfold.
They were not rivals.
They were not naïve.
They were women who had shared Oskar in one way or another, who had accepted each other, protected each other, and understood the unspoken rules that governed him.
And this British princess was not part of that understanding.
The closeness was wrong.
The familiarity worse.
The playful slap to his chest—too intimate, too confident—crossed a line none of them had granted permission to cross.
Had it not been for Karl's sudden, frantic intervention—murmuring sharply, one hand braced against the table—and Gustav's quiet but immovable presence behind them, the scene might have ended very differently.
More than one noblewoman would have learned that night that titles did not make one untouchable.
Across the ballroom, laughter rose. Applause followed a turn in the dance. The court smiled, unaware—or pretending not to notice—the tension coiling beneath silk and jewels.
And Prince Oskar, moving calmly at the center of it all, felt the weight shift.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But unmistakably.
The dance had ended.
The consequences had not.
And as the orchestra carried the final notes into the vaulted ceiling, suddenly everything changed. Trumpets sounded, and a truly unexpected announcement came.