“And you did,” Josephine said proudly, returning to her seat. “Now you’ll have a new platform for the arts, for education—”
“Or I could just love Alexander and figure out the rest later,” Emilia said softly, reaching for his hand as he moved back to her side.
The room went quiet except for the ticking of an antique clock.
Alexander’s thumb traced small circles on her palm, invisible to everyone else.
“How refreshingly direct,” Richard said finally, his professor persona melting into simplepaternal pride.
“Much better than pretending this is all about duty and tradition,” Josephine added with a warm smile.
The Queen studied Emilia for a long moment, then slowly returned to her chair. “I suppose can work with that.”
It wasn’t approval, exactly. But it wasn’t opposition either.
Eleanor gathered her papers with deliberate precision. “We’ll continue this tomorrow. And Alexander—” Her gaze flicked to her son. “I’d like to speak with you and Sebastian. Soon.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
As the Queen moved toward the door, Richard rose from his chair. “Fascinating how institutions adapt to humanity, despite themselves.”
“She’s practically rewriting her understanding of the monarchy in real time,” Alexander murmured once his mother was out of earshot.
Josephine packed up her things with obvious satisfaction. “Good. It needed rewriting. All those beige colour schemes and that dreadful carpet…”
“Maman,” Emilia laughed, finally feeling like she could breathe again.
“What? I am an art historian, darling. I have professional standards.”
Emilia squeezed Alexander’s hand as they headed toward the door. “Worth it?”
The smile he gave her wasn’t the practiced royal one she’d seen in photographs. It was real, a little crooked, and just for her.
“Entirely.”
* * *
Queen Eleanor sat at the head of the table, pen tapping a rhythmic staccato against her notebook—the only sound, aside from the occasional flutter of paper, was her unimpressed exhale.
“He’s late,” she said coolly.
Alexander, seated to her right—impeccably dressed and visibly bracing himself—rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He’s always late. But he’ll come. Heknows this matters.”
“Does he?” Eleanor’s pen stilled. “Or does he simply enjoy pretending he’s indispensable until it’s time to prove it?”
“I know he doesn’t make it easy,” Alexander said, quieter now. “But he’s part of this.”
“I’m aware,” she replied, eyes on her notes. “Which is precisely why I prefer to supervise.”
At that moment, the door swung open with all the flair of a man who’d never been on time a day in his life.
Sebastian strolled in like a chaotic breeze. His sunglasses were pushed into his artfully tousled hair, a takeaway coffee cup dangled from one hand, and his blazer—a soft linen affair in a shade that whispered Mediterranean yacht wedding—seemed chosen more for the breeze in its lapels than royal formality.
“Oh good,” he said cheerfully, glancing around. “We’re starting with ominous silence. That’s always promising.”
“You’re nine minutes late,” Eleanor said, without looking up.
“Which,” Sebastian replied, grinning as he dropped into a chair, “for me, is practically early.”