“This is the most dangerous thing either of us has ever done,” he said quietly. “Be careful. Be smart. And remember, the moment this feels like it’s going sideways, we pull the plug. No story is worth destroying lives over.”
Harper nodded and stepped into the hallway, the hum of the newsroom rushing back in like a wave. Her phone buzzed as two new messages came in.
Emilia:Call me when you can! So much to talk about! Love you!
Sebastian:We need to talk. Tonight.
Harper stared at the screen, her hands trembling slightly. Her best friend. Her source. The investigation wasn’t just hers anymore. It was a minefield and she was walking into it blind.
She just hoped she was still sharp enough to survive it.
4
Fake It Till You Make It: Royal Edition
The transition from Your Highness to Your Majesty should have felt monumental. Instead, it felt like drowning in appointments.
But for Alexander, it wasn’t the title that weighed most, it was the calendar. Each day stretched before him like a battle plan: relentless, overbooked, and devoid of oxygen.
He dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy suit, his dark hair still damp from the shower he’d taken after his morning workout. He’d been up since five. He studied briefing notes over black coffee, everything from agricultural subsidies in the south to notes on the delicate diplomatic overtures meant to thaw Caledonia’s frostbitten foreign relations.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But this was the job now.
King Alexander James Edward—twenty eight years old, recently crowned, chronically sleep- deprived, and determined not to screw it up.
A knock at the door announced Thomas, his equerry carrying the day’s schedule and already frowning. “You’re late for your own life,” he said, tone mild, stride brisk. He carried a leather portfolio and the composure of someone who’d once salvaged an G7 summit with a spreadsheet and a glare. “Today’s highlights. First you’re expected at the veterans’ memorial unveiling at nine. Then a working lunch with the energy minister. Afterthat, the Education Committee briefing—still pressing for digital curriculum reform—and the State Dinner briefing with Foreign Affairs at six.”
Alexander looked at the full schedule and flipped a page. “No breaks?”
Thomas didn’t blink. “No, we need the time between meetings for correspondence, reviewing notes, and of course a few engagement-related tasks.”
Alexander sighed. “Living the dream.”
The coronation had been a moment. Grand. Symphonic. Unavoidable. This, the endless symphony of logistics and expectations—was the afterparty that wouldn’t end.
The palace looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. The mirrors reflected the same man— same brooding brow, same too-serious mouth—but now the suit carried weight. Authority clung like a second skin. And the corridors echoed just a little too loudly with the footfalls of someone trying not to fumble an entire country. “Think they’ll ever stop looking at me like an imposter?” he asked.
Thomas didn’t miss a beat. “No, sir. Not any time soon. Which is why you must never act like one.” Thomas was not warm. Not fuzzy. But real—and more useful than a dozen other palace advisers. By 8:45, he was outside the capital’s new veterans’ center. The rest of the morning he was shaking hands, nodding through speeches, laying a wreath with solemn grace. Cameras clicked like mechanical insects. Somewhere in the crowd, a child called his name. He turned, smiled, waved. The papers would call it natural charm. He called it muscle memory.
The lunch was worse. The energy minister droned on about nuclear viability while Alexander tried not to rub at his temple. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His tea had gone cold. He’d once thought ruling would be about shaping the future. Mostly, it was about listening to people complain, making hard decisions with too little time, and enduring scrutiny from a thousand angles.
After the education briefing, where he hadto politely dismantle an ill-considered AI initiative from a tech-happy earl, Thomas finally pulled him aside. “There’s a twenty-minute gap before the dinner prep. You could—”
“Coffee,” Alexander said immediately.
Thomas gave a short nod. “I’ll have it brought to the private study.”
The private study was the only room in the palace that still felt like it belonged to him. Books lined the walls. A record player sat under the window. And on the desk, in a plain frame, was a photo of Emilia laughing in the garden, head tilted back, sunlight in her hair.
He stared at it now, coffee in hand. She would have hated today’s education meeting. He could hear her now—who approved that proposal, and had they ever seen a classroom? The thought made his lips twitch.
Then his smile faded. He hadn’t spoken to her since this morning. Alexander set the coffee down and ran a hand through his hair. He should be preparing for the State Dinner briefing. He should be reciting talking points about tariffs and trade balances. He should be doing a hundred things — none of them anything to do with the person he missed most.
Instead, he found himself moving — fast, almost reckless — through the private wing. Nodding once at the security desk, he slipped past without inviting questions. The palace corridors gave way to older stone and thicker shadows. The air outside bit cold against his skin, sharp with the promise of rain.
Halfway across the courtyard, he hesitated. He couldn’t show up empty-handed. Not after he hadn’t even messaged her today.