Chapter 18 Flirter, C’est un Art #2
Alexander looked up, incredulous. “What does that even mean?”
Sebastian grinned, his expression brightening. “It means I’d get paid an absurd amount of money to tell people how to dress, where to vacation, and which champagne is actually worth drinking.”
Emilia laughed, the sound escaping before she could contain it. Alexander nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Actually, that does sound plausible.”
Sebastian turned back to Emilia, eyes twinkling with newfound mischief. “And what about our dear prince? What do you think Alexander would do if he weren’t being molded into a future king?”
Emilia pretended to think, tapping her finger against her chin. “Hmm. Something rigid. High standards. No work-life balance.”
Sebastian snapped his fingers, pointing at her in agreement. “Corporate lawyer.”
Alexander glared, straightening the papers in front of him with unnecessary precision. “Absolutely not.”
“No, actually that makes sense,” Emilia interjected, enjoying the rare opportunity to tease Alexander.
Sebastian beamed at her, raising his glass in salute. “Thank you. A woman of impeccable judgment.”
Alexander exhaled sharply, though the tension had left his shoulders. “I should have you both exiled.”
Sebastian lifted his drink, completely unfazed by the threat. “But then who would keep your ego in check?”
And just like that, the air in the room settled—lighter, easier, the weight of duty forgotten, if only for a little while.
Emilia found herself smiling despite her best efforts, caught up in their dynamic, the warm afternoon light filtering through the grand windows as laughter echoed in a palace that suddenly felt less like a museum and more like a place where people actually lived.
* * *
The moment Emilia stepped into the apartment, Harper was already on the attack.
“Alright, what happened?”
Emilia blinked, still unwinding her scarf. “What?”
Harper folded her arms, eyes gleaming with suspicion. “You’re doing the thing.”
Emilia shrugged. “What thing?”
“The thing where something ridiculous happens, and you pretend it didn’t. Your face gives you away.”
Emilia dropped onto the couch. “You’re exhausting.”
“But I’m still here. Now spill.”
Emilia hesitated, and Harper’s eyes narrowed like a predator catching the scent of something interesting.
“Oh my God. Was it Alexander?”
“No.” Emilia kicked off her boots. “Well, he was there, but—”
Harper couldn’t suppress a small sound of distaste. “Sebastian.”
A long pause. Then, Harper groaned like she had a migraine coming on. “Oh, for the love of—What did he do?”
Emilia groaned and muffled her face in a couch pillow. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I know he did something, and I need details immediately.” Harper plopped onto the couch beside her. “Did he flirt with you? He totally flirted with you, didn’t he?”
Emilia peeked out from behind the pillow, scowling. “It was hardly a diplomatic incident.”
Harper didn’t look convinced. “Was Alexander in the room?”
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 irritation spiked 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’s artistic 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.”