Harper was silent for a beat. Then, softly: “It sucks. But it’s the smart play.”
Emilia sat very still, watching her. Trying to decide if offering comfort would help or just make it worse. She opted for honesty.
“So what happens to the Hawthorne story?”
That hit a nerve. She saw it in the way Harper looked away.
“I handed my notes over to a colleague. David Geoffries. He’s solid.”
Emilia nodded slowly. That wasn’t the real answer. Not the full one.But she didn’t push. Not yet.
“So what are you going to do now? You, the brilliant, terrifying woman who lives for the fight?”
Harper smiled. For real this time. “Honestly? Maybe it’s a gift. Time to breathe. Maybe I’ll write that book. Or become the world’s most feared fintech reporter.”
“There are worse legacies.”
“I’ll take it,” Harper said. Then, with a flicker of mischief: “Besides, I believe I have Maid of Honor duties to attend to. And I have very strong opinions about bridesmaids dresses.”
Emilia laughed, and this time the sound felt like a release. The knot in her chest didn’t vanish, but it eased slightly.
She reached across the tea tray and squeezed Harper’s hand.
Her best friend wasn’t just enduring this new world. She was still choosing her, even when it cost her. And that, Emilia realized, wasn’t just loyalty.
It was love. Fierce. Quiet. Unshakable.
A kind of strength Queen Eleanor would never understand.
6
God Save the King (From His Own Lack of Stealth)
It was well past midnight when the knock came—barely more than a tap, then the door
creaked open without waiting for a response. The cottage was silent save for the occasional settling of old timber and the distant call of an owl somewhere in the palace gardens.
Emilia turned from the small desk in the corner of the sitting room, startled out of her late-night work haze. A stack of historical texts lay open before her, notes scattered across the surface like leaves. She was still in the soft cashmere jumper she’d changed into after dinner, its heather-gray fabric worn at the elbows from countless evenings of research. Her bare feet were tucked under her, toes curled against the slight chill that always seemed to linger in these old stone buildings,
no matter the season. Her hair was falling loose from its pins, wild tendrils framing her face, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup since the audience with the queen. The lamplight cast half her face in gentle shadow.
Alexander stood in the doorway, jacket gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms revealing the lean muscle beneath. His hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it all night, a habit she knew meant he’d been fighting diplomatic battles in his head long after the actualmeetings had ended. His eyes held something— exhaustion, hunger, maybe something heavier she couldn’t quite name.
He didn’t speak.
He just shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room, and crossed to her in four long strides, each footfall a declaration of intent.
The kiss hit her like a summer storm—sudden and consuming. No preamble. No pretense. Just need and heat and the day’s frustrations breaking against their shared shore.
His hands found her hips, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her jumper, pulling her against him. It felt like the whole day had conspired to bring him here, to this kiss, to her. She gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed in the way he kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in years, not hours. His cologne—mingled with the scent of coffee that seemed permanently infused in his skin.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin. “Alexander —”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said roughly, his thumb brushing along the curve of her jaw. “Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about you sitting here, alone, drinking cold tea and being told you weren’t enough.”
Her throat tightened, caught between tenderness and the still-fresh sting of the Queen’s assessment. “It wasn’t just that.”
“I know,” he said, kissing her again, slower this time, his lips coaxing rather than demanding. “It’s all of it. The pressure. The rules. The ridiculous expectations.” Each word punctuated with a brush of his lips against hers, her jaw, the sensitive spot below her ear.