Emilia slipped in quietly, balancing a stack of folders and a mug of tea precariously in one hand.
“You’re going to ruin your eyes squinting at constitutional law in the dark like some tragic Tudor king,” she teased, setting the tea down beside him.
Alexander barely glanced up. “I’m on a deadline.”
“You’re always on a deadline,” Emilia said, dropping the folders in front of him with a satisfying thwack. “Fortunately for you, you married a woman who finds dusty archives romantic.”
That made him look up, a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What have you brought me?”
“Proof you’re not the first royal to believe the public deserves to see where their money goes,” Emilia said, sinking into the armchair opposite him and tucking one leg beneath her. “Some historical precedents you can cite when you pitch your transparency reforms.”
Alexander leaned forward, intrigued. “Such as?”
“First, the public access initiative? Norland opened royal estates seasonally back in the 1980s. Massive goodwill boost. And they made a fortunein guided tours.” She tapped the first folder. “Second, the financial disclosures—I found a couple examples of monarchies that started releasing annual spending reports. It didn’t destroy the institution. It actually strengthened public trust.”
Alexander flipped open the top folder, scanning the highlighted notes. His brow furrowed, but in the good way—the thinking way.
“And,” Emilia added, pulling out another sheet, “for the charitable endowments you want to restructure—Prince Alastair did something similar during the Great Rebuilding after the Industrial Reforms. He turned several private holdings into community trusts. Hugely popular. And very on-brand for a constitutional monarchy trying to modernize without scaring the horses.”
Alexander looked up at her again, this time with a deeper smile. Not just amusement—admiration.
He looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You realize you’ve done more to prep this legislation than half the policy team?”
“I live to shame political professionals,” Emilia said sweetly. “Besides, I like being useful. And mildly subversive.”
He reached across the desk, curling his fingers around hers. “You’re brilliant.”
“I know,” she said breezily, but squeezed his hand back. “And now you’re armed with history. So go forth and rule.”
Alexander turned the pages slowly, thoughtfully. “You know, when you said you wanted to get back into research, I assumed it meant I’d see less of you.”
Emilia’s smile softened. “Surprise. You’re stuck with a research assistant who works for hugs and tea.”
He stood, pulling her up with him, and gathered her into his arms with a relieved, tired sigh. “You don’t know how much I needed this. After a day of dealing with the budget committee and my mother’s latest passive-aggressive memo… best bargain I’ve ever made,” he murmured against her hair.
“You’ll think that right up until I start editingyour speeches for passive voice,” she said, grinning into his chest.
He laughed, and for the first time that evening, the weight around his shoulders seemed to lift.
23
The Palace Strikes Back
The royal palace press room was designed for decorum—neutral walls, tasteful furniture, and a faint scent of lavender meant to evoke calm. It was currently failing on all counts.
A junior press aide rushed in, clutching a printed email like it contained classified nuclear codes.
“We’ve had a request for comment fromThe Gilded Mirror,” she announced, slightly breathless. “They’re running a piece accusing His Majesty of misusing public funds in 2023. Specifically—” she swallowed, “—they claim he hired a personal stylist under the title of ‘cultural engagement advisor.’”
Alexander looked up from his morning briefing, eyebrows arching into his hairline. “Excuse me?”
Sebastian, sprawled across a leather chair like he was auditioning for a royal scandal documentary, tilted his head. “That’s impressively specific. Do they have a source?”
“They claim it’s a leaked budget memo. Line item for protocol consultation ahead of the Pan-Eurasian Diplomatic Summit.”
Alexander set down his coffee with exaggerated care, the cup meeting the saucer with a controlled clink. “She wasn’t a stylist. She was a protocol consultant who prevented me from bowing incorrectly in Tokyo and accidentally proposing marriage in Seoul.”
Sebastian nodded sagely. “Yes, but did shealso tell you to burn those square-toed monstrosities you called shoes?”