She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes.
“Sebastian?”
“Hmm?”
“If you kiss me right now, I might actually do something irresponsible.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
And in the stillness of the royal gardens, beneath moonlight and scandal, the bastard prince and the woman who’d nearly ruined him leaned into something terrifying and real.
Not perfect. Not clean. But theirs.
46
The Send-Off
The palace was quiet in the early light, the kind of hush that only comes after a truly spectacular party. A few staff moved discreetly through the halls with silver carts of coffee and croissants, their shoes muffled against plush carpets. The scent of roses and candle wax still clung to the air, like the building itself was nursing a hangover.
In one of the royal sitting rooms—less formal, more sun-drenched—Emilia curled into a velvet armchair wearing a cashmere wrap and fluffy slippers that had definitely not been part of any coronation-approved wardrobe.
Alexander entered with two cappuccinos and a bemused expression. “One for you. One for my future public relations disaster when they find out the Queen wore slippers to her own send-off.”
Emilia accepted the coffee with a contented sigh. “Let them try and stop me.”
Harper arrived next, sunglasses perched on her head, holding what looked suspiciously like a mimosa in a travel cup. “You know it’s real love when you let people see you in post-party hair and palace-issued bathrobes.”
“Post-party hair is a lifestyle choice,” Sebastian said, breezing in behind her with a croissant in one hand and the air of someone who had absolutely not gone to bed before 3am. “I’m owning it.”
Jules, Ethan, Lukas, Enzo, and Tereza trickled in after—some yawning,some inexplicably cheerful, all dressed somewhere between casual elegance and aristocratic slouch. Someone had brought a pastry tower. Someone else had already started the second pot of coffee.
Alexander looked around at the assembled chaos and shook his head. “This is what we get for not staging an official farewell. Anarchists in silk pajamas.”
“Oh please,” Jules said, draping herself across a chaise. “If we’d done it last night, we’d all be in tears. This is better. Croissants cushion the emotion.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ethan said. “I’m already on my third pastry and dangerously close to feelings.”
“You’re all impossible,” Emilia said, but her smile was radiant.
Enzo raised his teacup. “To the honeymooners. May your flights be private, your tabloids merciful, and your champagne bubbly.”
“To Emilia and Alexander,” Harper echoed, lifting her mimosa like a royal decree.
Sebastian leaned back against the window frame, watching his brother and new sister-in-law with a quiet smile. “Try to take at least a day before you start fixing the monarchy again.”
“No promises,” Alexander said. “But I was told there’s no Wi-Fi where we’re staying.”
“Scandalous,” Jules murmured.
They gave hugs. Good ones. Emilia’s was long and warm and a little teary with Harper. Alexander’s handshake with Sebastian turned into something more solid, more brotherly.
Finally, bags were loaded, final kisses exchanged, and a quiet staff escort led the couple through the private wing of the palace. The group drifted out onto the balcony to watch the discreet black car pull away down the drive, disappearing into the sunlit hush of a new morning.
For a long moment, they stood in silence.
Then Lukas exhaled. “Well. That’s the only functional couple we had.”
“We’re doomed,” Ethan said.