Chapter 11 An Uneasy Truce
An Uneasy Truce
Prince Alexander could navigate a diplomatic crisis, command a room full of dignitaries, and defuse international tensions with a well-placed remark.
But apologizing to a woman he had—admittedly—acted like a complete idiot toward?
That was uncharted territory for someone raised in a world where royals rarely admitted fault.
Yet here he was, walking into the archives with Emilia Carter, the scent of old books and polished wood enveloping him, his steps measured, his thoughts decidedly unsettled. He wanted this project to work. Which meant unnecessary tension had to go. Which meant…
He exhaled. Here goes nothing.
“Miss Carter,” he started as she set down her leather messenger bag.
“Your Highness,” she replied without looking up, her tone perfectly polite, perfectly indifferent, with just a whisper of oh god, what fresh hell is this.
Alexander cleared his throat, fingers brushing unconsciously against his cufflinks. “About the other day—”
Emilia stilled, then turned, one eyebrow arched in expectation. “Oh?”
He tilted his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she was going to make him say it.
“We didn’t start off on the right foot,” he admitted. “That was my fault. I made assumptions about you, and I spoke carelessly. I should have apologized then, so—” He met her gaze, steady now. “I’m sorry.”
Emilia blinked. Okay. She had expected a lot of things—a continued battle of stubborn silences, maybe a cutting remark disguised as royal civility. Not that. Her gaze narrowed slightly as she studied his face for signs of insincerity.
“Is this some sort of elaborate ploy to lull me into complacency so you can steamroll the entire historical narrative?”
Alexander sighed looking at her with growing exasperation. “Yes, Miss Carter, I woke up this morning and thought, You know what would really throw her off? Basic human decency.”
She snorted before she could stop herself, the sound of her own unexpected amusement catching her by surprise. Damn it.
“Well,” she said, still watching him like he was a particularly elegant predator she wasn’t sure she trusted, “as long as we both know where we stand.”
Alexander gave her a look. “Do you always assume people are plotting against you?”
“Only when they wear crowns,” she replied, straightening a stack of research materials.
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned against the massive oak table.
“Look,” he said, his tone lighter now, “I do care about this project. More than you probably think. And we’ll get nowhere if we turn every conversation into a competition.”
Emilia folded her arms across her chest, her posture softening slightly despite herself.
“You’re saying you’d rather we get along?”
Alexander hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’m saying I’d rather not spend the next few months wanting to throttle you.”
She looked at him with a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. “Ah. The foundation of every great working relationship.”
He didn’t laugh, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Nope,” she replied without hesitation.
“Of course not.”
Emilia tapped her fingers on the table, considering him with new interest. “Alright, Your Highness.” She extended a hand. “Ceasefire?”
Alexander eyed her hand, then met her gaze. “For now.”
He took it. A firm, steady shake. His palm warm against hers, neither increasing pressure nor yielding ground. Neither let go first.
Emilia arched a brow. “Are you trying to prove something?”
“Are you?” he countered, his expression unreadable.
She huffed a laugh, releasing him. “You know, for a prince, you’re surprisingly petty.”
Alexander smiled very slightly. “And for a historian, you’re surprisingly difficult to impress.”
“Trust me,” she said, gathering her notes with renewed purpose, “I’m even worse when I do like someone.”
Alexander watched her for a beat before shaking his head, an unexpected warmth settling in his chest. God help him. This was going to be interesting.