Chapter 5
Let’s Be Honest She Wasn’t Even On Queen Eleanor’s List
The drawing room was as austere as it was beautiful: high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings, gilded mirrors reflecting centuries of power, and a fireplace that had likely warmed the knees of a dozen monarchs.
The tea service gleamed on the low mahogany table, each piece precisely arranged with mathematical precision.
Not a cushion out of place. Not a clock ticking too loud.
The palace’s signature scent (beeswax polish and old money) hung in the air.
Emilia stood in the doorway, painfully aware of every scuffed heel and every heartbeat.
Her navy dress, chosen carefully that morning for its modest neckline and appropriate length, suddenly felt inadequate in this room built for royalty.
An aide had escorted her to the threshold and then vanished like a ghost, leaving her adrift in uncharted waters.
Queen Eleanor didn’t look up when Emilia entered.
She was already seated, gloved hands resting lightly on her lap, her spine as straight as her pearls.
Her dark brown hair was immaculately coiffed, not a strand daring to rebel against its assigned position.
Just like everything else in her world, Emilia thought.
“Miss Carter,” the Queen said, her tone perfectly even, neither welcoming nor dismissive. “Do sit.”
Emilia obeyed, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she perched on the edge of the settee. The silk upholstery was cool and slippery beneath her fingertips.
There was a pause. Tea was poured from a sterling silver pot, the amber liquid cascading in a perfect arc. One sugar cube was added into the Queen’s cup with a delicate plink.
“I trust your accommodations are suitable,” Eleanor said, at last meeting her gaze. Her eyes were the same shape as Alexander’s, but where his often danced with humor, hers revealed nothing: a masterclass in royal composure.
“They’re more than suitable, Your Majesty,” Emilia replied carefully. “Thank you.”
Another pause stretched between them like a chasm. Emilia resisted the urge to fill it with nervous chatter.
“I won’t pretend, Miss Carter,” the Queen said, setting her teacup down with a quiet clink that somehow seemed to echo in the vast room, “that you would have been my first choice for my son. Or my second.”
Emilia’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin up. Don’t flinch. Don’t you dare flinch. “I appreciate your honesty, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve always believed in clarity,” Eleanor replied, the sunlight catching on her diamond earrings as she tilted her head slightly. “It serves everyone in the long run, especially in this family.”
She studied Emilia then, cool and calculating. Not unkind, but wholly unsentimental, like a scientist observing a specimen.
“You are now the fiancée of the King. That places you within the institution. And whether or not I approve of your presence, I will expect you to be a credit to it.” The words were delivered with precision, each syllable perfectly weighted.
Emilia nodded slowly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to hide their slight tremor. “I intend to be.”
“Good.” Another sip of tea, a careful dab of the royal lips with a linen napkin.
“You’ll begin formal etiquette briefings tomorrow.
Protocol, state engagements, internal hierarchy, and media strategy.
You will be briefed on your obligations and expected behavior in public and in private.
You will be watched, judged, sometimes unfairly. ”
“I understand.” Emilia fought to keep her voice steady, wondering if Alexander had ever felt this small in his mother’s presence.
“No, you don’t,” Eleanor said crisply, setting her cup down again with surgical precision. “Not yet. But you will.”
She leaned back slightly, eyes sharp as a raptor’s. Outside, clouds passed over the sun, momentarily dimming the room.
“This family is bound not by affection, but by duty. That’s what sustains us through scandal and change and history’s fickle gaze. Alexander understands this. He has been raised in it. And now, so must you.” There was something almost like compassion in her tone, buried beneath layers of steel.
There was a long, brittle silence, broken only by the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway.
Then Eleanor asked, “Do you love him?” The question hung in the air, startling in its directness.
Emilia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Yes. Completely.” No hesitation there: perhaps the only thing she was certain of in this new life.
Queen Eleanor regarded her for a long moment, her gaze penetrating. “That will help. But it won’t be enough.”
Emilia met her gaze squarely, drawing on a reserve of courage she hadn’t known she possessed. “Then I’ll find the rest.”
Something shifted, barely, in the Queen’s expression. Not warmth. Not approval. But something like acknowledgment. A micromovement at the corner of her mouth that might, on another woman, have been the beginning of respect.
“You may call me ma’am in private,” she said, an unexpected concession. “In public, I remain Your Majesty.”
“Understood.” Emilia’s heart skipped: a small victory, perhaps.
Eleanor rose in one fluid motion, and Emilia followed suit, careful not to stumble.
“You’ll be fitted for the state dinner next week. You’ll be seated beside the Prime Minister’s wife. Try not to offend her.” The Queen smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.
“I’ll do my best, Ma’am,” Emilia said. She resisted adding that she had managed to teach unruly undergraduates for years without incident.
“I’m sure you will,” Eleanor said coolly, and for a moment, Emilia couldn’t tell if it was acceptance or an insult, but the Queen’s eyes revealed nothing.
Then the Queen turned and, with a swish of tailored silk, departed leaving behind only the impression of a woman who had never once doubted her place in the world.
Emilia remained standing for a long moment after the door clicked shut, the vast silence of the drawing room pressing in on her.
Her heart still hammered against her ribs.
She let out a slow, shaky breath, the Queen’s final words, her small concession, echoing around her.
Ma’am. It felt like a tiny island in a very large, very cold ocean.
The weight of it all, the mountain ahead, settled heavily on her shoulders.
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, before turning to leave.
* * *
The sunlight had mellowed into a warm gold, spilling across Emilia’s sitting room like honey: too soft, too peaceful for the thoughts circling her head.
The tea tray between them was barely touched.
Emilia’s own teacup had gone lukewarm; she’d been too keyed up to drink more than a few sips.
Harper had made a face after one taste that clearly said, palace blend, not for me, and gone back to whatever caffeine contraband she’d smuggled in from outside.
Emilia found herself staring into her cup now, absently swirling the dregs, as Harper’s voice cut into her spiral.
“So?” Harper prompted, legs tucked under her, mug in hand. “How was your appointment with the Ice Queen of Caledonia?”
Emilia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I think she looked into my soul and found it wanting.”
Harper gave her a look. “And?”
“I passed. Barely. Like a C-minus, with a note that I show potential.”
The joke landed, but just barely. The words tasted like tin in her mouth. Her smile was small, forced.
“Harper, what if I’m just not cut out for this?” she asked, the fear slipping out before she could cage it. “What if I can never be what she, what they, need me to be?”
She hated how vulnerable she sounded. Hated that she cared what Queen Eleanor thought.
But the truth was, that interview, or audience, or whatever it had been had left her rattled down to her bones.
It wasn’t just the scrutiny. It was the unspoken message: You don’t belong here, not really. But we’ll tolerate you. For now.
Harper set her mug down. The teasing faded from her eyes, replaced by something warmer. “Hey. You just faced down Queen Eleanor of Caledonia in her natural habitat and walked out upright. That’s more than some prime ministers manage. You’re tougher than you think.”
Then, more lightly: “Besides, a C-minus from her is practically a standing ovation and a ticker-tape parade.”
Emilia dropped her head into her hands, her fingers curling into her scalp. “It was like a job interview, a history exam, and a psychological evaluation all rolled into one, with antique teacups and absolutely no emotional cushioning.”
Harper tilted her head. “Did she smile?”
“No.”
“Did she blink?”
“…I’m not sure.”
“Right. Standard encounter.”
Emilia looked up again, eyes dry but itchy. “She told me, and I quote, that I would not have been her first choice for Alexander. Or her second.”
Harper blinked. “Oof. Brutal.”
“And then she said she expects me to be a credit to the institution. That I’ll be judged constantly. Probably unfairly.”
There was a bitter laugh rising in her throat, but she swallowed it. The Queen hadn’t said anything Emilia hadn’t already feared. She’d just said it with centuries of tradition behind her.
“Welcome to the job,” Harper said. “You’re no longer a person, you’re a national symbol. And the entire country is your performance review committee.”
“Thanks, I feel a lot better now,” Emilia muttered. But the sarcasm was automatic. Inside, the words echoed. Not a person. A symbol. She was losing herself one expectation at a time.
“Sorry,” Harper added. “I could write some nice puff pieces about you if you’d like.”
That earned a real laugh, small, but honest. Emilia clung to it like a lifeline.
“So, did she at least respect you for not melting down? Even a little?” Harper asked.
“I think she acknowledged my existence as a sentient being,” Emilia said dryly. “Which might be more than most people get.”
“With Eleanor? It absolutely is.” Harper studied her for a beat longer than usual, then set down her mug again, more carefully this time. “It means that you’re going to survive this.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“Based on the fact that you just went toe-to-toe with Queen Eleanor and walked out with your dignity intact. That’s genuinely impressive.”
Emilia shrugged faintly and finally took another sip of her tea. It was still lukewarm.
But before she could settle into that fleeting comfort, she noticed Harper’s posture shift: subtle, but telling. The way she toyed with her mug. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Speaking of survival,” Harper began, voice a little too casual, “we probably need to talk about something.”
And just like that, the calm shattered.
Emilia set her cup down. “What’s wrong?”
Harper fidgeted, fidgeted, which she never did. “It’s not ‘wrong,’ exactly. It’s just… a thing. A professional thing.” She exhaled. “I’m switching desks at the paper. I’m moving off the political beat.”
It took a second to register.
Emilia blinked. “What? But politics is your life. You’re the best they have. Why?”
“I went to Craig this morning. To discuss… you know.” She gestured vaguely, as if her hand could summarize a whirlwind of crowns, headlines, and engagement rings.
“My byline on anything political is a massive conflict of interest now. It’s not fair to you, to Alexander, or to the paper’s credibility. ”
The guilt landed like a sucker punch.
Emilia felt the air leave her lungs. This is because of me. Because her life had suddenly become a constitutional flashpoint.
“Oh, Harper,” she whispered. “This is because of me, isn’t it?”
“No,” Harper said, firm now. “Don’t do that. This is the reality. It was always going to happen.”
But Emilia wasn’t convinced. She knew her friend: knew that every inch Harper had climbed in her career had been hard-won. And now she was stepping aside. Quietly. With grace.
Emilia’s eyes stung.
“What will you do?”
Harper shrugged like it didn’t matter, but Emilia could see the edges fraying. “Craig is moving me to the business and tech desk. I’ll cover IPOs and fintech bros with too much money and not enough ethics. It’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you dare pretend like it’s not a big deal.” Emilia’s voice was quiet but sure. “Your byline is your life. Political reporting is what you do.”
Harper was silent for a beat. Then, softly: “It sucks. But it’s the smart play.”
Emilia sat very still, watching her. Trying to decide if offering comfort would help or just make it worse. She opted for honesty.
“So what happens to the Hawthorne story?”
That hit a nerve. She saw it in the way Harper looked away.
“I handed my notes over to a colleague. David Geoffries. He’s solid.”
Emilia nodded slowly. That wasn’t the real answer. Not the full one. But she didn’t push. Not yet.
“So what are you going to do now? You, the brilliant, terrifying woman who lives for the fight?”
Harper smiled. For real this time. “Honestly? Maybe it’s a gift. Time to breathe. Maybe I’ll write that book. Or become the world’s most feared fintech reporter.”
“There are worse legacies.”
“I’ll take it,” Harper said. Then, with a flicker of mischief: “Besides, I believe I have Maid of Honor duties to attend to. And I have very strong opinions about bridesmaids dresses.”
Emilia laughed, and this time the sound felt like a release. The knot in her chest didn’t vanish, but it eased slightly.
She reached across the tea tray and squeezed Harper’s hand.
Her best friend wasn’t just enduring this new world. She was still choosing her, even when it cost her. And that, Emilia realized, wasn’t just loyalty.
It was love. Fierce. Quiet. Unshakable.
A kind of strength Queen Eleanor would never understand.