“Lukas von Hollenberg looks like he killed someone and no one’s had the nerve to bring it up yet.’”
Lukas shrugged. “True. They were weak. Justice was served.”
Everyone froze. Ethan’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Enzo went very still. Alexander’s eyes widened. “…Kidding,” Lukas added, taking a casual sip of his drink.
The room erupted—not just laughter, but the kind of hysterical, relieved cackling that comes after genuine fear.
“Jesus Christ, Lukas!” Ethan gasped, clutching his chest.
“I actually started mentally reviewing our friendship,” Enzo wheezed.
“The pause was everything,” Alexander managed between breaths. “I was calculating escape routes.”
“Eleven out of ten,” Lukas said, scoring himself. “I terrified you all beautifully.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ethan announced, “we’ve just witnessed the performance of the evening!”
“I accept this honor,” Lukas said solemnly, raising his glass. “On behalf of the ghosts of my enemies.”
Alexander leaned back, the tension gone from his shoulders. “Well. That was horrifying.”
“I’m just saying,” Ethan added, “if we ever go missing, start with him.”
Sebastian raised his glass. “To horrifying truths, questionable fashion choices, and the glorious pettiness of the internet.”
“Cheers,” they all echoed, glasses clinking.
Alexander leaned back in his chair, watching his friends tear each other apart with surgical precision and obvious affection.
This was what Sebastian had given him—not just a stag party, but a reminder that beneath all the titles and scrutiny and impossible expectations, they were still just brothers who could laugh at themselves in a room full of people who cared about them.
It was, Alexander reflected, exactly what he’d needed.
42
Something Borrowed
The palace thrummed like a hive.
Every hallway buzzed with motion. There were florists sprinting with last-minute arrangements, military attachés double-checking medals, and staff whispering into headsets with the tension of a security briefing. Outside, a sea of spectators and press crowded behind barricades, cameras flashing, flags waving. Inside, the atmosphere was tighter, quieter but no less intense.
Somewhere down the corridor, someone was playing Vivaldi on a cello, and someone else was yelling about boutonnières. But in this small sunlit room tucked away in the east wing of the palace, time felt suspended.
Emilia stood in front of the mirror, resplendent in silk and lace. Her veil floated behind her like something enchanted, and the delicate pearl buttons down her back had taken two women and a crochet hook to fasten. But she barely looked at her reflection. She was watching Harper.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Emilia said gently.
Harper blinked. “What thing?”
“The thing where your face looks calm, but your brain is setting things on fire.”
“I’m fine,” Harper said, smoothing the front of her gown. “You’re the bride. You get to spiral. I’m here to pass you tissues and stop you from eloping with your florist.”
“Which I would never do,” Emilia said. “Because I’m in love with Alexander, and also because I’ve met my florist. He’d be more likely to try and run away with Alexander.’”
Harper smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Emilia turned, carefully navigating the train of her gown. “Tell me what’s going on.”