Page 33 of Throne Off Course

Emilia hesitated just a second too long. Harper pointed a finger at Emilia. “Oh. He was.”

Emilia groaned. “Harper—”

“And let me guess,” Harper mused, tapping her chin. “Sebastian turned the charm up to eleven, Alexander looked like he wanted to throw him off a balcony, and you, my dear friend, were caught in the middle of a completely unnecessary but highly entertaining power struggle.”

Emilia threw a cushion at her head. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”

Harper dodged easily, but her grin didn’t fade. “Emilia. You have to understand something. Sebastian doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes it.”

Emilia blinked. “What?”

Harper leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of someone about to deliver an essential truth. “Sebastian flirted with you specifically to get under Alexander’s skin. And judging by your face right now, it worked brilliantly, didn’t it?”

Emilia’s protest died on her lips as the realization crashed over her. She’d attributed Alexander’s tense jaw and clipped responses to Sebastian’s general tendency to provoke, but now—connecting the dots—it was painfully obvious his irritationspiked precisely when Sebastian’s attention turned to her.

Harper’s smile turned triumphant, a chess master witnessing a perfect checkmate. “Welcome to the game, Emilia.”

Emilia shook her head. “Ugh, this is ridiculous. I’m not some pawn in whatever aristocratic soap opera they’re starring in.”

“Speaking of drama,” Harper said, leaning forward with mischievous interest, “have you told your parents about this royal assignment yet?”

Emilia groaned and sank deeper into her chair. “God, no. Can you imagine? My father would launch into a three-hour philosophical dissection of monarchy as a concept. ‘But what does it mean, Emilia, to serve an institution that represents inherent inequality?’” she mimicked, capturing her father’s intense academic cadence perfectly.

“And your mother?” Harper prompted, clearly entertained.

“Maman?” Emilia laughed. “She’d be horrified that I’m associating with such a ‘bland architectural monstrosity’ as the palace. She’d probably start planning how to redecorate the royal archives.” She affected her mother’s French accent: “‘Darling, just because it is historical does not mean it must be hideous, non?’”

Harper snickered. “Your parents are the best.”

“They’re intense,” Emilia corrected. “Dad’s students are either terrified or obsessed with him. There’s no middle ground when you have a philosophy professor who shows up on the first day of class and asks, ‘How do you know you’re really here right now?’ And Mom…” She shook her head fondly. “She once made a museum director cry because he hung a painting ‘at an offensive angle to the light.’”

“And somehow they produced you,” Harper observed.

“Yes, somehow between Dad’s existential crises and Mom’sartistic perfectionism, they created…” Emilia gestured to herself, “whatever this is.”

“Academic rebellion with a side of devastating fashion sense,” Harper supplied.

Emilia rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “I should probably call them this weekend. Dad’s on sabbatical and Mom’s guest lecturing at the Sorbonne this semester. At least the international distance will soften the blow when I tell them I’m working for the monarchy.”

Harper raised her glass in a toast. “To your parents’ inevitable meltdown when they discover their revolutionary daughter is collaborating with the crown.”

“They’ll survive,” Emilia said dryly. “They survived my academic rebellion when I went into history instead of philosophy or art history. They’re nothing if not resilient.”

19

A Family History of Questionable Decisions

The palace archives were eerily quiet at night—just the soft rustling of paper, the scratch of a pen, the occasional creak of old leather bindings shifting under their own weight.

Emilia hadn’t expected anyone else to be here this late. Certainly not him, but there was Alexander, seated at the long wooden table, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty cup of tea beside him as he flipped through yet another document with that ever-present furrow of concentration. For a prince, he looked alarmingly normal like this. No guards, no advisors, no audience—just a man knee-deep in work he probably shouldn’t have to do himself.

“You know,” Emilia said, leaning against a nearby shelf, “for someone whose ancestors spent centuries convincing everyone they were chosen by divine right, you do a lot of paperwork.”

Alexander didn’t even glance up. “Yes, well, divine right doesn’t account for bureaucratic inefficiency.”

Emilia stepped closer, a hint of a amusement on her face. “Pity. If it did, you could just decree all this done and go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“And deprive you of my charming company?” He finally looked up, raising an eyebrow in mock offense. “I wouldn’t dare.”