Oskar had not left his private VIP cabin once during the entire crossing from London to Germany.
Only when the ship's horn bellowed—long and triumphant—announcing their approach to Wilhelmshaven did he finally emerge.
The cabin door opened, and Oskar stepped out with nothing but a white towel knotted low around his waist, skin still warm, hair damp, posture loose in the way of a man who had been thoroughly satisfied and entirely unhurried.
Someone—efficient, unseen—had placed his travel chest neatly outside the door.
Oskar dragged it inside without comment.
He dressed quickly, grabbing whatever was on top: trousers, shirt, coat. No mirror. No care. Then he turned back to the room.
Patricia lay bent over the small wooden writing desk, limbs slack, Light brown hair spilled across polished wood. Elise had somehow made it back onto the bed, legs still parted, one knee crooked as if her body had simply forgotten to close itself again. Both were unconscious. Spent. Beautifully ruined.
The cabin smelled unmistakably of sweat, heat, and something heavier—an intimacy so thick it clung to the air long after breath had stilled.
Oskar surveyed the scene with mild satisfaction.
Then, without ceremony, he gathered them.
He lifted them easily, arranging them atop the open travel chest with the same practicality one might use when packing uniforms or equipment. Patricia first, then Elise—careful, not gentle. He closed the lid.
Latch. Click.
Done.
He hoisted the chest, stepped out onto the deck, and set it down as though it weighed nothing more than paperwork.
The morning air was sharp and clean. Germany stretched ahead—gray water, steel docks, home.
Oskar sat on the chest, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the coastline slide into focus.
Nearby, his Eternal Guards stood at ease.
Captain Carter stared straight ahead, expression carefully neutral, jaw locked as if carved from the same steel as the ship beneath their boots. Alfred von Kiderlen-Wächter, by contrast, allowed himself one brief glance—first at the travel chest, then at Oskar.
He hesitated.
"Your Highness," he said at last, choosing each word with surgical care, "did you… put those maids into your chest again?"
Oskar shrugged, casual to the point of absurdity.
"Yeah," he replied. "They didn't feel like walking."
Kiderlen stared at him for a heartbeat longer than etiquette allowed.
"…I see."
Oskar caught the concern in his expression and waved it off with a loose flick of his hand.
"Relax," he said. "They're not staying with me. And I don't intend to know who they are." A pause, then a grimace tugged briefly at his mouth. "I realized last night—far too late—that I got played. They didn't need help getting out at all. They wanted the drama."
He leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the grey line of coast ahead.
"And before you ask—yes," Oskar added evenly. "They were together. Intimately. Very much so."
For a fraction of a second, Kiderlen's composure cracked. His eyes widened—just enough to betray surprise—before discipline snapped back into place.
"I see," he said stiffly. "As usual, Your Highness does not seem capable of escaping the attention of women."
He said no more.
Privately, he hoped—fervently—that Oskar had not done what he feared he might have done with those women, and that this strange episode would not spiral into an international embarrassment. As a devout man, conservative in both faith and temperament, Kiderlen had never been comfortable with Oskar's views on marriage or his… unconventional domestic arrangements. Still, there was a line he could tolerate so long as Oskar kept such matters firmly personal—an exception carved for one man, not a doctrine imposed on others.
And in any case, Oskar's power—political, economic, and something harder to name—was undeniable. He was not a man anyone wished to challenge lightly. Not now. Possibly not ever.
Captain Carter said nothing.
But the muscles along his jaw worked as he turned his gaze away, eyes hard with restrained frustration. He did not need explanations. He could already reconstruct the chain of events well enough, and the knowledge irritated him deeply.
If the Eternal Guard had not been barred from Buckingham Palace, none of this would have happened.
After all, his Prince had a reputation—earned or not—for being dangerously susceptible where women were concerned, too often trusting impulse over restraint.
Carter would have stopped it.
The ship eased into port.
---
From there, everything moved fast.
A waiting Muscle Motors A-class swept Oskar away from the docks under heavy escort, engine purring like a restrained predator. From car to platform, from platform to train, the transition was seamless—German efficiency swallowing British chaos whole.
Before boarding, Oskar made a brief detour through the station.
Two female conductors stood near the service corridor, dark skirts immaculate, caps straight, posture crisp. They froze when he approached—half shock, half reflexive discipline.
Oskar didn't slow.
"Spare uniforms," he said simply, already reaching into his coat. Money changed hands before either woman could understand what was going on. He took two neatly folded sets from the locker, nodded once in thanks, and walked away while they were still staring after him.
Inside the private railcar, he locked the door.
Only then did he open the travel chest.
The women inside were awake now—drowsy, sore, disoriented. They blinked against the lamplight, trying to orient themselves as Oskar knelt, steady and unembarrassed.
"Up," he said calmly. "Slowly."
He helped them out—not roughly, not gently—like someone handling injured passengers rather than guests. He handed them water. Then food. Simple, solid things. Bread. Meat. Something warm.
"Eat," he said. "You'll feel better."
They did.
When they could stand, he turned his back and laid out the uniforms.
"Get dressed," he added. "Quickly."
They obeyed—grumbling under their breath, clearly more annoyed than frightened. One of them glanced toward the window as the train began to move, eyes lingering with open curiosity.
"So this is Germany," she murmured.
Oskar didn't turn.
"No," he said flatly. "This is a train."
They exchanged a look—half amused, half disappointed.
Once they were dressed, Oskar handed them coats and guided them back toward the chest.
"Again?" one of them protested. "We'd like to see it properly."
"Later," Oskar replied. "Much later. Or never. Depends how well you behave."
That earned him a pair of scowls—but no resistance.
The lid closed. The lock clicked.
The train gathered speed.
Oskar leaned back in his seat at last, rubbing a hand down his face as exhaustion finally caught up with him. Outside the window, the German countryside slid past in muted greens and greys—fields laid out with quiet discipline, villages steady and familiar. Real. Solid. Home.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the ship.
It hadn't been love. It hadn't even truly been desire. What lingered most sharply was anger—cold, corrosive anger—at the realization that he had been played.
The tears, the pleading, the carefully performed helplessness… all of it had been theatre. A calculated attempt to bind him through scandal, obligation, and consequence. Patricia especially had been reckless in her intent—she had wanted permanence, leverage, a future secured by his involvement whether he consented to it or not.
And Oskar knew the trap all too well.
One letter. One accusation. One carefully worded claim sent back to Britain—and his life would unravel in public view. His reputation destroyed. Germany dragged into a crisis it could not afford. A pretext handed to enemies already searching for one.
So he had been cornered.
Not by strength—but by vulnerability.
He had contained the situation as best he could: removed them from London, silenced the immediate threat, prevented the worst outcome. Now what remained was damage control—quiet, decisive, permanent.
A place far from Britain. Enough money to ensure independence. Freedom without proximity.
That was the price of ending it cleanly.
Berlin appeared sooner than expected, the midday sun climbing as the train slowed. Oskar disembarked, went directly to Potsdam, and avoided ceremony entirely. Family could wait. Advisors could wait.
Cecilie could not.
He found her quickly and pulled her aside before questions could form. She barely had time to react before his arms closed around her, the urgency in the gesture startling them both. He kissed her—an apology more than affection—and felt her relax into him.
"I need you," he said quietly. "And I need you to trust me. Please. No questions. Not yet."
She nodded.
That was enough.
Within the hour she was driving personally, hands steady on the wheel of Oskar's Muscle Motors A-Class, the road stretching ahead. Two civilian trucks followed at a distance, each carrying part of what had been taken from Oskar's personal vault—two million Marks in gold, divided, disguised, guarded by Eternal Guards who wore plain coats and serious expressions.
The convoy kept to secondary roads.
Only once—on a quiet stretch framed by trees—did the sound begin.
A dull, unmistakable thudding from the trunk.
Cecilie slowed and pulled to the side of the road. The trucks stopped behind her in perfect order. Guards were out in seconds, weapons half-drawn, instincts flaring.
"It's fine," Cecilie said firmly, already moving.
She ignored the warnings and opened the trunk herself.
Inside lay the travel chest.
When the lid lifted, all three of them froze.
Two young women, dressed in borrowed train conductor uniforms, shielded their eyes from the sudden light, blinking and disoriented.
One of the guards cleared his throat.
"His Highness said Switzerland," he said carefully. "But… who are they?"
Cecilie couldn't answer.
Because at that moment, the taller of the two women stirred, stretched stiffly, and pushed herself upright. She squinted into the sunlight, frowned at it, then focused on Cecilie.
In flawless German—precise, educated, unmistakably accented—she said:
"Oh. Good morning. How are you today, my good German friend?"
The world tilted.
Cecilie knew that face.
Princess Patricia of Connaught.
She said nothing.
She did nothing.
She understood immediately that this was not a moment for shock or truth. This was a moment that required speed, silence, and absolute control.
Together with the guards, she helped the women out of the trunk, settled them into the back seat of the A-Class, and closed the door without ceremony.
The engine roared back to life.
The convoy pulled onto the road again, accelerating toward the distant outline of mountains—toward Switzerland, neutrality, and the thin hope that this mess could be buried far from the reach of empires.
Cecilie kept her eyes on the road.
This could still be fixed.
But only if no one lost their nerve now.
Cecilie escorted the convoy only as far as the border.
That was the line she would not cross—not because she lacked courage, but because implication mattered. Once past Swiss customs, anything further would no longer be a mistake. It would be participation.
Luckily, recognition of the car, carried them through. The border guards recognized the Muscle Motors A-class immediately and waved it through with barely a glance, more impressed by the vehicle than curious about its cargo. The trucks also followed without incident.
Just beyond the checkpoint, Cecilie pulled over.
She stepped out, composed, and opened the rear door.
"This is as far as I go," she said evenly. "You will switch vehicles. Now."
The two women obeyed with remarkable ease, as if the disruption itself amused them. They climbed out of the car and into the trucks without protest, laughing softly among themselves, already treating the situation like an adventure rather than an exile.
Two members of the Third Company of the Eternal Guard stood nearby, silent and rigid.
They had expected their posting to involve guarding the Crown Prince.
They had not expected this, but orders were orders.
Their assignment, given to them by Cecilie was briefed and brutal in its simplicity:
arrange provisional identities,
secure residence,
store the gold discreetly,
ensure the women vanished cleanly.
Switzerland offered the perfect cover: neutral, discreet, wealthy, and accustomed to foreigners with money and secrets. And hopefully, any and all links between Germany and the Princess could be buried here.
As Cecilie turned the car around and headed back toward Germany, she caught one last glimpse of the scene in her mirror.
The two guards stood stiffly beside the trucks. While the two women were already talking animatedly—arguing over goals, their relationship with Oskar, scenery, and what they would buy first in town.
God help those men, Cecilie thought grimly as she drove away.
---
Oskar, meanwhile, had returned to Potsdam.
The Crown Prince of Germany did not get to hide for long.
His father summoned him immediately.
The conversation was not loud—but it was severe. Britain had inquired. Quietly. Officially. The British Ambassador himself arrived soon after, polite to the point of frost, pressing for "clarification" regarding the whereabouts of Princess Patricia and her maid.
Oskar played dumb.
Perfectly.
He denied knowledge. Expressed concern. Offered cooperation without substance. Every word measured, every expression bored and faintly insulted by the implication.
The Ambassador left angry.
Which, under the circumstances, was preferable to suspicious.
Everything remained in private channels—for now.
But pressure mounted.
The court whispered. His wives watched him more closely than usual. Cecilie returned from her "drive" subdued and distant, her silence louder than any confession.
Oskar had tried to keep the entire affair discreet.
But lies, he knew, were like paper in rain.
They held—until they didn't.
Then, at the end of May, the tension broke.
Word came through the British Embassy in Switzerland.
The situation had… resolved itself.
Princess Patricia and her maid had presented themselves openly, without embarrassment, and declared—quite publicly—that they would not be returning to Britain. The princess stated she was in love with Elise, that they intended to live together, and that she wished no further contact with her family.
The embassy staff were stunned.
They were also relieved.
The two women did not linger. Within hours, they departed—apparently on Muscle Motors motorcycles, roaring off into the countryside like lunatics, leaving scandal, diplomacy, and propriety choking on their dust.
The matter was quietly closed.
Oskar breathed again.
But the relief was brief.
---
June 1910 arrived with consequences.
Within the span of days, the governments of Britain, France, and Russia announced—almost in unison—that the People's Welfare Lottery operating within their borders was immoral, exploitative, and illegal.
Operations were suspended immediately.
Accounts were frozen.
Funds awaiting transfer were seized.
The blow was surgical—and devastating.
The British and French markets alone accounted for nearly a third of the lottery's profits. Losing them was not a wound. It was an amputation.
And Oskar had already spent two million Marks in gold ensuring the problem went away.
Sitting alone, the numbers finally settled in his mind.
And for the first time, he felt something close to bitter understanding.
This, he realized, was the lesson wealthy men whispered about—the one he had never truly believed, the one he had once dismissed as exaggeration told over cigars and wine.
That some women did not want love.
Or marriage.
Or even permanence.
They wanted leverage.
A child.
A tie.
A reason for money to flow forever.
And he had paid dearly.
Some day—years from now, perhaps—he was certain those two would come calling. Not with threats. Not with anger. Simply with expectation. And when that day came, he would not be able to refuse without reopening wounds best left buried.
From that moment on, Oskar understood something essential about power and desire.
You could afford many things when you were rich.
But you could not afford carelessness with intimacy.
Not again.
Not in this timeline.
Not if he wanted to avoid being remembered as the man who accidentally helped set the world on fire.
At least, he told himself, Patricia and Elise were now free—truly free in the only way that mattered. Rich enough to vanish. Untouchable enough that Britain would never dare publicize the truth. A princess running off with her maid-lover was not a scandal the British Crown would willingly place on its own head. Shame would fall inward, not outward.
They would be exiled quietly.
Their allowances severed.
Their names erased from polite conversation.
But Switzerland would protect money far better than titles ever had.
A lakeside villa—fifty thousand Marks a year, perhaps more. Living costs another fifty thousand. Even then, the sum he had given them would last decades, especially if they lived as eccentrics rather than royalty. Long enough that they would not need to bother him again.
He hoped.
---
The palace gym was empty when Oskar wandered in that night.
He had not been invited to bed.
Three wives. Three crossed arms. Three identical looks of disbelief when he had insisted—again—that he had not smuggled a British princess out of England in a travel chest.
So he trained.
Pushups. Squats. Pulls. Anything to burn thought into muscle. Sweat slicked his back as he moved, breath steady, rhythm familiar enough to quiet the noise in his head.
The door banged open.
Karl ran in, coat half on, face pale.
"Oskar—what do we do now?" he blurted. "Our branch heads in Britain, France, and Russia have been arrested. Operations seized. Accounts frozen."
Oskar stopped mid-movement and straightened slowly.
The People's Welfare Lottery.
Free money. Endless money. Or so it had seemed.
"How bad?" Oskar asked.
Karl swallowed. "Nearly half of the Lotteries total annual income. The British and French markets were the backbone. Losing them—"
"I know," Oskar said quietly.
The speed of it still surprised him. He had expected resistance. Sabotage. Legal pressure.
He had not expected decisiveness.
"Did we violate tax law?" Oskar asked flatly.
Karl shook his head at once. "No. Never. We ran those operations clean precisely to avoid this. Even when local managers were… less than admirable, the books were spotless. There is no leverage there."
Oskar cursed under his breath.
"So they are targeting me directly."
He had always known Britain, France, and Russia would not tolerate a German lottery siphoning wealth to build ships—but he had underestimated how quickly they would move once given a pretext.
And he had handed them one.
If only I hadn't slept with that damned princess, and her cute little maid…
The thought tasted bitter.
Karl stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"There, there, my friend," he said quietly. "This was coming eventually. You knew it. We planned for it. And as for London—keep it buried. Deep. No good comes from reopening it."
He hesitated, then added with a crooked half-smile, trying to lighten the weight:
"And if it helps… at least you seem to have once again proven your… fertility."
Oskar snorted despite himself.
"Thank you, Karl. Truly."
Karl gestured toward the weights. "Mind if I join you?"
"Please."
They trained together then, as they always had—side by side, silent when silence was needed, speaking only when breath allowed. Best friends forged in steel and pressure, not sentiment.
The world outside was already shifting.
Enemies circling.
Markets closing.
Knives coming out behind smiles.
But for a brief hour, there was only iron, sweat, and the comfort of familiarity.
Tomorrow, Oskar would start planning countermeasures.
Tonight, he would simply endure.