Alexander nudged her knee. “Hey. You survived.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I nearly crashed into a boom mic.”
“That puts you ahead of me. I once walked straight into a decorative arch and nearly decapitated the foreign minister.”
She laughed and looked at him—really looked at him—and realized that for all his calm, polished exterior, there was a thread of tension around his eyes, too. He hated this part just as much. Maybe even more, because he knew there was no getting away from it.
“Well, today you were perfect,” she said softly.
He shrugged. “It’s easier when you’re there. You make it feel… less fake.”
That stopped her. Not because it was sweet—though it was—but because she recognized it for what it was: truth, unscripted.
She took his hand again. Steady this time. Intentional.
And just as another photographer appeared like a ghost from the shrubbery, Alexander leaned in and whispered, “Next time, I’m weaponizing the corgis.”
Emilia laughed. “Video, or it didn’t happen.”
He grinned. “You’ll get a full edit. With dramatic music.”
The shutter clicked.
This time, Emilia didn’t flinch.
She just smiled—because against all odds, they were making this circus their own. Together.
11
The Price of the Crown
The Queen’s private study smelled faintly of old paper, polished wood, and some discreet, expensive perfume. The room was a portrait of Eleanor herself: elegant, composed, and meticulously curated. Family photographs—rare, carefully chosen—sat framed between centuries-old tomes and diplomatic awards. A fading evening light stretched long shadows across the parquet floor.
Alexander stood in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, reading the terrain.
Eleanor didn’t look up from the papers she was marking.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
Alexander inclined his head. “There’s work to be done.”
“Work,” she echoed, almost amused. “That’s one word for it.” The comment landed somewhere between bitterness and weariness. She set the pen down, folding her hands over the parchment. Only then did she meet his gaze—sharp, assessing.
The air between them crackled—old grievances meeting fresh ambitions. Alexander crossed to the window, his silhouette cutting against the fading light. For a moment, neither spoke.
“I’ve been reviewing the latest briefings,” Eleanor said finally. “Your transparency initiative. Your meetings with reformists. Your very public distancing from Charles Hawthorne.”
“Necessary steps,” Alexander said calmly.
“Necessary,” she repeated, tasting the word. “You speak as if necessity is objective. It isn’t. It’s political.”
He turned toward her, arms loosely folded. “Hawthorne’s rot runs deep. You know that better than anyone.”
Her mouth tightened. “And yet he maintained stability. Kept vultures from the gates. Stability, Alexander. Not virtue.”
“I’m not blind to the cost,” he said. “But stability bought with corruption isn’t stability at all. It’s a slow rot.”
“And what will you replace it with?” she asked sharply. “Idealism? Youthful indignation? A public that demands blood today and your head tomorrow?”