Chapter 25 When Eleanor Still Believed in Fairy Tales
When Eleanor Still Believed in Fairy Tales
After Alexander left her office, Eleanor remained at her desk, the newspapers still spread before her. His defiance lingered in the air like a challenge.
“Like father, like son,” she murmured, tracing the headline with her fingertip.
She looked at the accompanying photograph. Alexander looked almost exactly like his father, apart from his darker hair, which he got from her. Personality-wise though, she’d always thought her son took more after her.
Despite his occasional rebellious streak, he had always been dutiful, obedient—a prince who thrived on order and structure. Unlike his father, Alexander had seemed to understand the weight of the crown, the importance of duty over desire.
Or so she had thought.
When Eleanor had first met Prince James Philip, she thought she might actually be lucky.
She had always known this arrangement was coming—the duty, the obligation, the crown. She had been raised for it, trained for it, molded into the perfect future Queen.
But she had never let herself hope.
Not until she met him.
She had expected formality, stiffness, obligation. Instead, she found a man who was charming and kind, golden-haired and easy in his skin, with the kind of smile that disarmed people before they even realized what was happening.
The grand ballroom at the palace had been filled with nobles, advisors, and political figures who had ensured this marriage would happen.
But Eleanor only had eyes for him.
He had kissed her hand—gently, reverently, with a twinkle in his eye like they shared some private joke, one that only she could understand.
“You are lovelier than I imagined,” he had said, his voice warm, low, full of something that made her breath catch.
For the first time in her life, the crown didn’t feel like a cage.
She let herself believe—just for a moment—that perhaps this could be something real.
Perhaps she would not just be a Queen, but a wife. A partner.
Perhaps she would not be alone.
It was many weeks later, during one of their many carefully orchestrated meetings, that everything changed.
It was late, and the two of them had managed to slip away from the endless advisors and court officials. They sat in the dim glow of the study, where the fire flickered against the carved mahogany walls.
Eleanor had been laughing, telling him some dry remark about one of the ministers. The wine had warmed her blood, and the way he looked at her—attentive, appreciative—had emboldened her.
Their shoulders touched as they sat side by side on the leather sofa. In the firelight, he looked golden, perfect—and she thought, maybe, just maybe, she could have the fairy tale after all.
She leaned in, her heartbeat quickening as she moved to kiss him.
James Philip hesitated, then gently pulled back.
Eleanor froze, mortification washing over her like ice water.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice strained. “It’s not that I don’t—” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes conflicted. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Eleanor straightened, carefully setting down her wine glass. “What is it?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
James Philip shifted uncomfortably before meeting her gaze. “I want to be honest with you,” he said.
A strange weight settled in her chest. “About?”
He hesitated—then forced himself to continue.
“I was in love with someone else,” he admitted. “For years. We only just ended things recently, right before our engagement was announced.”
The words landed like a strike to the ribs.
Eleanor went very, very still. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.
She had heard stories like this before—royal men with lovers, with quiet mistresses tucked away in country estates, with secret hearts that belonged to someone other than their wives.
But she had not expected this.
Not from him.
“I understand if you’re angry,” he continued softly. “But I wanted you to know why I might seem… distant at times. It’s still fresh.”
“You—” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Are you saying you don’t want this marriage?”
His expression softened, his voice gentle, almost apologetic. “No. I know my duty. I know what’s expected of us.” He reached for her hand, covering it with his own. “And I want us to have a good marriage, Eleanor. I truly do. I just… need some time.”
As she studied his face, she could see it in his eyes—a shadow, a rawness that spoke of fresh wounds. He might have broken things off with this other woman, but his heart was still bleeding for her.
“How much time?” she asked quietly.
James Philip’s eyes showed regret. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” He squeezed her hand gently. “But I promise you, I will try. I want to be a good husband to you. I want to move forward.”
She should have pulled away. Should have been angry.
But he wasn’t rejecting her.
He was telling her the truth.
And wasn’t that better than a lie?
Still, something inside her ached.
“You don’t love me,” she whispered.
James Philip’s expression softened. “I could,” he said, his voice soft. “I want to.”
A bitter smile curled at her lips. “But not yet.”
He said nothing because they both knew the answer. His silence confirmed what she had already seen—for now, at least, he still belonged to someone else.
That night Eleanor had sat in front of her vanity, staring at herself in the mirror, her face pale beneath the soft lamplight.
She thought about what her mother had always told her—that love was for commoners. That power was the only thing that lasted.
She had wanted to believe that wasn’t true.
But James Philip had proved otherwise.
He needed time, he said. But Eleanor knew the truth. Time wouldn’t heal what was broken in him—not when he looked at her and saw only what he had lost.
And so—she had to make him love her another way.
She would not be weak. She would not be cast aside.
If she could not have his heart—then she would have his loyalty.
She would become a Queen he could never ignore.
She would shape their marriage into something unbreakable, something that history would respect, even if love had no place in it.
Eleanor had wiped away her tears.
Then she lifted her chin—and never let herself cry for him again.
Now, watching her son below, Eleanor’s reflection in the window showed the same resolute expression she had worn that night. Perhaps Alexander would hate her for this intervention with Genevieve. Perhaps, like his father, he would carry on loving someone unsuitable while performing his royal duty.
But the crown would endure. She had made certain of that, even when her heart had not.