Five minutes later, he ducked into the tiny, tucked-away kitchen usually reserved for late-night staff meals. The kitchen staff barely blinked when he appeared — just nodded and returned to their quiet bustle.
Alexander scanned the sideboard — metal trays gleaming under heat lamps — and found what he was looking for: a plate of still-warm pastries,flaky and golden. He snatched several and tossed them into a paper bag he found. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. Cradling the awkward bundle in one hand, he pushed back out into the evening.
As he approached the cottage—what the palace, with a straight face, called “the cottage” despite its fireplace in every room and priceless antiques—he could see warm light spilling from the windows. Through the sitting room window, he caught a glimpse of Emilia moving between her stacks of books, fingers trailing along their spines in that absent way she had when she was thinking. Two weeks in, and she’d already managed to make the space hers despite the palace’s best efforts at refined imprisonment. Crooked book towers, mismatched throw pillows, and what looked like more of her mother’s Parisian flea-market treasures scattered about with deliberate rebellion.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text:“Escaped five minutes early. Do you accept deliveries of exhausted monarchs?”
Instead of waiting for a response, he walked around to the back door and knocked. Not protocol. Definitely not advised. But then again, no one was going to tell King Alexander IV what doors he could or could not knock on.
Emilia opened it, and he could see something ease in her expression when she spotted him—like she’d been holding her breath without realizing it.
“I bring tribute,” he said solemnly, holding up the bag. “Croissants. And what might be a cinnamon bun, but I refuse to confirm or deny.”
“You know you’re supposed to be the dignified embodiment of the state,” Emilia said, stepping back to let him in. “Not a rogue sugar mule.”
“Needs must,” he said as he collapsed onto the sofa like a man avoiding a firing squad. The cushions smelled faintly like her shampoo—a detail he was absolutely not sentimental enough tonotice, except apparently he was.
“Besides, you’re the only person who doesn’t mind when I inhale carbs and complain about existential dread.” He watched her pause, studying him with that particular look she got when she was reading between his lines. His shoulders had deflated the second the door shut behind him. His whole body exhaled like it hadn’t been allowed to all day.
“You’re not a robot, Alex.”
“Debatable. Most days I don’t even have time for a proper lunch break.”
“You need a rebellion,” she said, sitting beside him. “A quiet one.”
He raised a brow. “Like a coup in the rose garden?”
“No, like this.” He watched her pinch a crumb off his lapel and pop it in her mouth. Something about the way she did it—casual, defiant—made his chest ache. No one else touched him like that. Like he wasn’t made of ceremony.
“Ten stolen minutes. One subversive pastry at a time. The little rebellions that keep you from becoming a marble bust.”
He tilted his head back, watching her like she was some rare celestial event. “Do you know what they call this cottage on the security logs?”
“Please say ‘Emilia’s Fortress of Feminist Rage.’”
“‘Secure Holding, Civilian Asset, Tier One.’”
She snorted. “Sexy.”
He smiled, the rare real one, not the public one that said I’m fine, thank you for asking, let’s never speak of emotions again. “You’re my emergency exit,” he said, almost too casually.
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe something deeper. “Well,” she said, and he caught the slight catch in her voice. “You’re mine too.” The words hit him sideways.
He turned to face her fully. “Are you—do you feel trapped?”
“No.” She laughed, but he could see the complexity behind it. “Just… slightly suffocated by tradition and the passive-aggressive comments from your mother’s staff.” She gestured around the cottage. “I’ve been gifted a royal Barbie Dreamhouse and a list of acceptable talking points to go with it.”
He reached for her hand, threaded their fingers together like it was second nature. Her skin was warm, real, anchoring him to something that wasn’t duty or expectation. “We’ll figure it out, Emi,” he promised, meaning it more than any oath he’d sworn during his coronation.
“You promise?” she asked, squeezing back. “I swear on this sacred cinnamon bun,” he said solemnly.
She laughed and this time it was the real one that made her eyes crinkle. She leaned against him and for a few seconds they just were—not titles, not obligations. Just two people hiding out with carbs and sarcasm.
And then, as all moments must in royal life, it ended. The back door creaked open. Thomas, immaculate as ever, appeared with the polite menace of a butler in a gothic novel. “Majesty,” he said, voice pitched to regretful but resolute. “We need to leave. Now.”
Alexander didn’t even flinch. Just sighed, stood, and grabbed the last croissant. He squeezed Emilia’s hand once, a silent “I’ll come back” buried in the gesture. And then he was gone—off to be King again. Alexander felt that familiar ache of longing as he walked away from the cottage. Through the windows, he could see Emilia watching him go, and he had to resist the urge to turn back.
Thomas and Alexander walked side by side through the grounds. Silent at first. Then, as if tossing a stone into a still pond, Thomas murmured, “For what it’s worth, sir… I’m glad.”