Chapter 12 In Which the Royal Wedding Definitely Wasn’t Planned For Anyone Else #2
The Queen moved back toward the table. “It’s not quite so simple—”
“I didn’t grow up dreaming about tiaras,” Emilia said, setting the photo down and turning to face everyone. “I was more focused on getting published before thirty.”
“And you did,” Josephine said proudly, returning to her seat. “Now you’ll have a new platform for the arts, for education—”
“Or I could just love Alexander and figure out the rest later,” Emilia said softly, reaching for his hand as he moved back to her side.
The room went quiet except for the ticking of an antique clock.
Alexander’s thumb traced small circles on her palm, invisible to everyone else.
“How refreshingly direct,” Richard said finally, his professor persona melting into simple paternal pride.
“Much better than pretending this is all about duty and tradition,” Josephine added with a warm smile.
The Queen studied Emilia for a long moment, then slowly returned to her chair. “I suppose can work with that.”
It wasn’t approval, exactly. But it wasn’t opposition either.
Eleanor gathered her papers with deliberate precision. “We’ll continue this tomorrow. And Alexander—” Her gaze flicked to her son. “I’d like to speak with you and Sebastian. Soon.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
As the Queen moved toward the door, Richard rose from his chair. “Fascinating how institutions adapt to humanity, despite themselves.”
“She’s practically rewriting her understanding of the monarchy in real time,” Alexander murmured once his mother was out of earshot.
Josephine packed up her things with obvious satisfaction. “Good. It needed rewriting. All those beige colour schemes and that dreadful carpet…”
“Maman,” Emilia laughed, finally feeling like she could breathe again.
“What? I am an art historian, darling. I have professional standards.”
Emilia squeezed Alexander’s hand as they headed toward the door. “Worth it?”
The smile he gave her wasn’t the practiced royal one she’d seen in photographs. It was real, a little crooked, and just for her.
“Entirely.”
* * *
Queen Eleanor sat at the head of the table, pen tapping a rhythmic staccato against her notebook—the only sound, aside from the occasional flutter of paper, was her unimpressed exhale.
“He’s late,” she said coolly.
Alexander, seated to her right—impeccably dressed and visibly bracing himself—rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He’s always late. But he’ll come. He knows this matters.”
“Does he?” Eleanor’s pen stilled. “Or does he simply enjoy pretending he’s indispensable until it’s time to prove it?”
“I know he doesn’t make it easy,” Alexander said, quieter now. “But he’s part of this.”
“I’m aware,” she replied, eyes on her notes. “Which is precisely why I prefer to supervise.”
At that moment, the door swung open with all the flair of a man who’d never been on time a day in his life.
Sebastian strolled in like a chaotic breeze.
His sunglasses were pushed into his artfully tousled hair, a takeaway coffee cup dangled from one hand, and his blazer—a soft linen affair in a shade that whispered Mediterranean yacht wedding—seemed chosen more for the breeze in its lapels than royal formality.
“Oh good,” he said cheerfully, glancing around. “We’re starting with ominous silence. That’s always promising.”
“You’re nine minutes late,” Eleanor said, without looking up.
“Which,” Sebastian replied, grinning as he dropped into a chair, “for me, is practically early.”
Alexander gave a faint, strangled laugh. “Sit down before she banishes you to the children’s table.”
“Please,” Sebastian said, sprawling elegantly. “The children’s table would be more fun.”
Eleanor’s gaze swept over him, one finely arched brow lifting. “We are finalizing the groomsmen. We need five. Emilia’s bridesmaids are already confirmed. You will need to provide full names, titles, and any potential… complications.”
“Right,” Sebastian said, without missing a beat. “Well, Jules is both a bridesmaid and my ex-wife, so it would seem there’s some flexibility.”
Eleanor didn’t blink. “Yes. I was aware. There was some debate about whether to allow that particular tabloid headline into the wedding party, but she is also my goddaughter.”
Alexander stepped in before Sebastian could reply. “We’re keeping it simple. Aside from Sebastian, we’ll have Enzo, Tobias, Lukas, and Ethan.”
Eleanor’s face remained composed, but her tone cooled by several degrees. “Ethan is not royal.”
“Well, technically he was prom king,” Sebastian said. “But aside from that, he is rich, well-mannered, and owns his own castle. I mean, close enough, right?”
“He’s part of the group,” Alexander said. “He’s been friends with us longer than most royals manage to keep a marriage.”
“He’s American,” she added, with the precise amount of distaste one might reserve for termites.
“You say that like it’s terminal,” Sebastian said, delighted.
“Because I expect decorum,” Eleanor said, steely. “Not whatever Silicon Valley circus he intends to bring.”
“You’ll be relieved to know he’s leaving the hoverboard at home,” Sebastian said.
“How comforting.”
She turned another page. “Now, regarding dates. No one is to bring a guest unless they are pre-approved. No socialites, no actresses, and absolutely no influencers.”
Sebastian perked up. “Define influencer.”
“Anyone with more followers than sense.”
Alexander rubbed his temple. “Sebastian, I swear—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll make sure no one invites a walking brand partnership. Even the American.”
“You will refer to him as Mr. Klein during formal proceedings,” Eleanor said sharply. “Not ‘the American.’ Not ‘Silicon Jesus.’ Not ‘your tech daddy.’”
“It’s like you’ve been reading my group chat,” Sebastian said, mildly impressed.
“Tobias and Lukas are sensible,” Eleanor went on. “Family. Reliable.”
“And by family, you mean your side,” Sebastian said.
“Yes. They reflect the crown appropriately. Lukas has been raised with the proper expectations. And Tobias may be foolish, but he knows where the line is.”
“That’s generous,” Alexander said, “considering the rooftop tequila incident.”
“He apologized,” Eleanor said. “In writing.”
“Enzo and Teresa, on the other hand,” Sebastian drawled, “are less tolerated because they’re from James Philip’s side.”
“I tolerate them,” Eleanor said, “because they are well-connected European nobles. Teresa, for all her dramatics, is unfailingly polite. Lorenzo… has potential. Though he squanders it by flirting with foreign ministers’ daughters. They both spend too much time on social media.”
Sebastian gave a long, theatrical sigh. “Well, we already know what you think of me.”
“My feelings toward you are irrelevant at this point, provided that you behave,” Eleanor said, returning to her papers.
“You will be responsible for organizing the groomsmen—their fittings, schedules, and conduct. I will not have Lorenzo arriving barefoot again. Nor will I tolerate another Capri incident. Whatever that was.”
“I neither confirm nor deny the existence of Capri,” Sebastian said solemnly.
“See that you don’t.”
Alexander watched the exchange in silence. His mother’s gaze was flinty; Sebastian’s, irreverent but steady. There was something like a truce between them—or at least a mutually agreed ceasefire. And Alexander knew: Eleanor hadn’t wanted to include Sebastian at all.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Eleanor didn’t look up. “I included him because you wouldn’t let me exclude him anyway.”
“I’m not trying to make trouble,” Sebastian said, with a rare flicker of sincerity.
“That,” Eleanor said dryly, “is a matter of opinion.”
He leaned forward slightly. “I’ll take care of it. The guys, the suits, the schedule. I’ll even make sure no one spikes the punch.”
“There is no punch.”
“See?” He smiled. “Already succeeding.”
Eleanor filed a note with a satisfied snap. “Now—dress code.”
She pulled a printed style guide from her folder like a general presenting battle orders.
“White tie for the ceremony. Morning dress for the rehearsal luncheon. Formal black tie for the reception. No exceptions.”
Sebastian leaned over to scan the page. “Shoes must be high-shine black leather. No suede, velvet, or patent. Are you targeting me specifically?”
“If the velvet shoe fits,” Eleanor said, with rare humor, eyeing his loafers.
“I wasn’t going to wear them to the wedding anyway.”
And just like that, another page turned—and the royal wedding crept one step closer to chaos.
Refined, well-dressed chaos.