Page 69 of Throne Off Course

And Emilia finally let herself break.

31

In This House We Believe in Wine, Spite & Revenge Outfits

Harper Sinclair did not believe in wallowing.

Actually, that was a lie—she absolutely believed in wallowing. But only for an appropriate amount of time, and only if one had a plan forwallowing recoveryafterward. And judging by the look on Emilia’s face as she sat curled up in Harper’s apartment, clutching a mug of tea like it contained the meaning of life,she had no recovery plan whatsoever.

Harper plopped down beside her on the couch, crossing her legs. “Alright. You did the responsible thing. You broke it off with the future king. Congratulations.” She clinked her wine glass against Emilia’s tea mug. “Now, time for distractions.”

Emilia made a quiet, miserable noise into her cup.

Harper sighed. “No, no. You don’t get to mope like a tragic Victorian heroine. Not in my house. We do three things when a man is a bad idea and we’re suffering for it: wine, spite, and revenge outfits.”

Emilia blinked. “Revenge outfits?”

“Yes.” Harper gestured broadly toward Emilia’s closet. “You’re going to wake up tomorrow, put on somethinglethal, and remind the world that you existed long before Alexander of Ill-Advised Office Romances decided to come along and ruin your life.”

Emilia huffed a laugh. “You think an outfit is going to fix this?”

“No, but looking hot while being miserable isour only optionat this point,” Harper said, matter-of-fact. “Besides, the real plan isspite—your best coping mechanism.”

“I don’t think I—”

Harper grabbed her by the shoulders, deadly serious. “Youare the most brilliant woman I know. Do you know how terrifying you are in an academic debate? You have been known to write entiredissertationsout of vengeance when someone underestimates you. And you are not about to let heartbreak be the one thing that takes you down.”

Emilia pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Harper—”

“No.” Harper shook her head. “I refuse to let you turn into one of those sad historical footnotes. ‘Once a promising scholar, then tragically ruined by her ill-fated affair with a king.’” She shuddered. “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.”

Emilia let out a strangled, unwilling laugh. “Oh my god.”

“That’s the spirit.” Harper clinked her glass against Emilia’s again. “Now. We’re going to finish this wine, make terrible decisions on the internet, and tomorrow, you’re going to go out there looking like agoddess of lost causeswhile Alexander stares at you like a man who hasmade the biggest mistake of his life.”

Emilia rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harper grinned. “And yet, somehow,I’m right.”

And for the first time that night, Emilia actually believed she might survive this.

32

Genevieve Makes Her Play

The palace was in full preparation mode. Florists carefully adjusted the arrangements in the grand foyer, staff moved with a quiet efficiency that suggested they had rehearsed this moment more than once, and a press statement had already been drafted, waiting for the perfect image to accompany it. Everything had been arranged to create a sense of seamless elegance, a carefully cultivated illusion of stability.

Genevieve Laurent did not need rehearsals. She stepped out of the sleek black car with the kind of effortless grace that made people look twice. Every movement was measured but never stiff, calculated without looking overthought. The cameras flashed, and she smiled—warm, composed, impeccable. She was perfectly suited for this world, and she knew it.

As she entered the palace, she noticed the shift immediately. The staff straightened. The advisors lowered their voices. No one would say it outright, but she wasn’t just a guest. She was the presumed future queen, the woman carefully placed at Alexander’s side for years, and even if no official proposal had been made, it was only a matter of time.

At least, that was what everyone believed—Genevieve included. But then she saw him.

Alexander stood just beyond the entrance, hands in his pockets, posture straight but too still. Like a man bracing for impact. She knew him too well. The angle of his shoulders, the tension lining his jaw, the way his gaze didn’t immediatelymeet hers—something was off.

She had seen him endure countless royal engagements, had watched him mask his irritation at ceremonies and diplomatic meetings. But this wasn’t quiet frustration. This wasn’t merely discomfort with royal protocol. This was different—and Genevieve Laurent did not like different.

She approached smoothly, every step deliberate. When she stopped in front of him, she gave him a knowing smile, the kind that always brought him back in line.