Chapter 2 History, Hot Takes, and Highly Questionable Career Decisions
History, Hot Takes, and Highly Questionable Career Decisions
Emilia Carter strode into the café wearing a faded Clash t-shirt under an impeccably tailored navy blazer, dark skinny jeans that had seen better days, and pristine white sneakers.
An ensemble that somehow managed to look both effortlessly cool and deliberately curated.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands framing her face as she set down her battered leather messenger bag and spotted Harper waving from their usual corner table.
The contradictions in her style were no accident.
They were the living embodiment of her upbringing, caught somewhere between her French mother’s artistic sensibilities and her father’s philosophical intensity.
Dr. Josephine Beaumont-Carter, a renowned art historian whose accent remained defiantly French despite nearly thirty years in Caledonia, had taught her daughter to see beyond surface appearances, to recognize beauty in unexpected places.
Meanwhile, Professor Richard Carter had instilled in her a relentless questioning of established narratives, frequently reminding her that “comfort is the enemy of truth.”
She was the kind of lecturer who made department heads nervous and students rearrange their entire schedules just to take her class, all at just twenty-six.
Her history podcast, The Past Imperfect, had been steadily climbing the charts, lauded for its in-depth interviews and fearless excavations of forgotten or deliberately buried histories.
The same unflinching curiosity that electrified her lectures fueled Emilia’s talent for uncovering untold stories, the inconvenient truths that had been smoothed over by time and rewritten by those who had emerged victorious.
“You’re overthinking it,” Harper announced immediately as Emilia slid into the seat across from her, blonde hair catching the afternoon light, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
Emilia sighed, accepting the tea Harper had already ordered for her. “It’s a big decision.”
“You’re right. I give it a week.” Harper took a thoughtful sip of her latte. “No—three days. That’s how long you’ll last before you offend the future king of Caledonia.”
Emilia barely glanced up from her tea, stirring it with deliberate patience. “I am a professional, Harper.”
“You are a menace,” Harper corrected smoothly, one eyebrow arching upward.
As a rising journalist specializing in political scandals, Harper thrived in the world of public spectacle and cultivated chaos.
Unlike Emilia, who preferred to battle over dusty archives, Harper had built her reputation on cutting through public facades with ruthless precision.
Drama wasn’t just her profession; it was her oxygen.
“There is an entire online forum dedicated to your unfiltered takes on historical revisionism,” Harper reminded her, sipping her latte. “The monarchy is built on revisionism. You are a powder keg about to walk into a match factory.”
Emilia scoffed, tucking a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Harper, I am perfectly capable of keeping my opinions to myself.”
Harper snorted. “Really? Because last month, you got into a public debate with a visiting professor over the historical inaccuracies in his latest book.”
“He called Anne Boleyn a glorified mistress!” Emilia shot back, scandalized.
“And you told him he was right at the top of the bell curve,” Harper replied, raising an eyebrow. “Calling someone perfectly average in academia is practically a declaration of war.”
Emilia took a sip of her tea, entirely unrepentant. “It was worth it, just to wipe the smirk off his face.”
Harper’s eyes gleamed. “You’re telling me you won’t do the same when Prince Alexander inevitably suggests that the monarchy has always been a beacon of unshakable virtue?”
Emilia hesitated, drumming her fingers against her teacup. “I will… attempt restraint.”
Harper smiled, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “Mm-hmm. And does your attempt at restraint include telling him that one of his ancestors was, in fact, a two-faced usurper with a god complex?”
Emilia muttered into her tea. “Well, he was.”
Harper leaned back in her chair, looking downright gleeful. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Emilia groaned. “This is serious, Harper.”
“You love history, Emmy,” Harper continued, softer this time. “You love the stories, the artifacts, the tangled mess of it all. And now, you’re stepping into the actual royal archives, their history, untouched and unpublished. Don’t pretend that it doesn’t thrill you.”
Emilia exhaled. “It does.”
“But…?”
Emilia hesitated before setting down her teacup. “But I don’t want to be impressed by any of them.”
Harper grinned, but there was understanding beneath it.
“Tough luck, darling. You’re about to spend weeks locked in a room with a prince whose face has been declared a ‘national treasure’ by multiple tabloids.
If you survive without falling at least a little in love with the drama of it all, I’ll be forced to assume you’re a robot. ”
Emilia shook her head, but she laughed despite herself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Harper’s look turned sly. “Speaking of which… have you actually researched the prince himself? I mean, beyond the history of his bloodline?”
Emilia arched a brow. “You’re the journalist with all the palace connections. What do you actually know about him?”
Harper tilted her head as if considering it, then replied. “He’s cold. Emotionally repressed. Devastatingly handsome and his best friend is pretty much a perpetual scandal machine.”
Emilia blinked. “That’s it?”
“Well, I could write a think piece about his mother’s iron grip on the throne or his dutifully boring reputation, but honestly?
That’s all anyone really knows. He plays his cards close, Emmy.
Even I can’t tell if there’s an actual person under all that royal polish or just a well-trained political robot.
” Harper took another sip of her latte. “Although, based on the way he glowers at people, I suspect he’s at least seventy percent repressed feelings and simmering existential dread. ”
Emilia considered that. “That’s a little sad.”
“That’s monarchy, babe.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but Harper steamrolled right over her.
“Anyway, far more important, let’s talk aesthetics.
Have you seen his GQ spread? Because Emmy, I am begging you, before you march into the palace and start calling his ancestors tyrannical war criminals to his face, at least appreciate the jawline. ”
Emilia groaned. “Absolutely not.”
Harper grinned knowingly as she pulled out her phone. “Famous last words, Emmy.”
* * *
An hour later, Emilia sat in the grand, austere offices of the Royal Historical Institute, her earlier levity replaced by professional tension. Dr. Langley, a silver-haired academic with sharp eyes, didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“You already know why we want you,” he said, sliding a folder across the table. “We need someone working with the royal family on this exhibition who can make history come alive, someone who can connect it to the public in a way that actually matters.”
Emilia picked up the folder, flipping through the pages with growing astonishment. This wasn’t just any project, it was a full-scale historical exhibition on the House of Caledonia, one of the most powerful monarchies in Europe. The scope alone was staggering.
And then, at the bottom of the page, came an even more startling detail.
She looked up, pulse quickening. “This says I’d be overseeing the entire thing.”
Langley nodded. “Pending the end of the semester, yes. The position would begin officially in June.”
Her mouth went dry. This was the kind of career-making opportunity people waited decades for. But there was a problem. A very specific, very royal problem.
Her eyes flicked to the next line. Direct Palace Liaison: Prince Alexander James Edward of Caledonia. The future king.
She closed the folder, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Harper was right. She was going to be in big trouble.