Chapter 13 Congratulations! Lord Hawthorne Wants to Destroy You
Congratulations! Lord Hawthorne Wants to Destroy You
The museum’s grand atrium glittered with chandeliers and carefully vetted aristocrats.
It was their first official joint appearance since the engagement photos dropped—and the press couldn’t wait to get more royal couple coverage.
Camera lenses gleamed like predatory eyes along the designated press area, each photographer poised to capture the perfect shot.
Alexander and Emilia entered through the main doors, hand in hand. Conversation paused, then resumed with an undercurrent of electric fascination.
She wore deep emerald silk that hugged and floated in all the right places, the colour making her skin glow and her green eyes appear even more luminous under the chandelier light.
Her engagement ring caught the light as she gave a poised wave.
The royal stylists had done their work well; she looked polished but not manufactured, elegant but approachable.
Alexander looked like every magazine profile of him come to life. His tuxedo sharp, jaw sharper, and exuding the quiet confidence of a man who’d been professionally congratulated just for existing since birth.
“Ready for this?” Alexander asked.
“Well, as ready as I can be when everyone is watching for any sign of weakness.” Emilia replied.
“Just smile, nod, and if all else fails, fake a sudden allergy to old money.”
She snorted, the knot in her chest loosening just a touch. “And if I bolt?”
“Then I will chase you. Very romantically.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming.”
With that, they descended into the crowd like socialite gladiators, ready to collect moments, give quotes, and hopefully avoid any missteps.
“How’s the wedding planning?” trilled an ambassador’s wife with the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely lived for this sort of event.
“More challenging than expected,” Emilia said, all serene composure. “Apparently deciding on the exact shade of white for the invitations is a multi-month process.”
Alexander chimed in, perfectly deadpan, “The wrong ivory and we risk national collapse.”
Their audience laughed, disarmed, and just like that—another conversation navigated.
By the time they reached their third diplomat cluster, Emilia was easing into the rhythm of it—like muscle memory she didn’t know she had. She and Alexander moved as one, smiling here, dipping heads there, navigating the minefield of tradition with practiced ease and a touch of subversion.
Even Lady Aberdeen didn’t rattle her.
Eighty-five, vaguely terrifying, dressed like she’d robbed a historical exhibit of its crown jewels, and deeply skeptical of anything invented after 1956. Her voice, sharp and unnecessarily loud, cut through the room.
“Miss Carter,” she bellowed. “Do you speak Latin?”
Emilia blinked. “Not fluently. I read it, though.”
Lady Aberdeen sniffed, the diamonds at her neck giving a series of tiny, judgmental clinks.
“A proper education, then. None of that feminist nonsense they peddle nowadays.”
Alexander stiffened, no doubt preparing to respond with something cutting—
but Emilia beat him to it, all honeyed composure.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said lightly. “Which is why I wrote my dissertation on the gendered rhetoric used to discredit Queen Theodora of Byzantium. Very traditional.”
Lady Aberdeen nodded in satisfaction, blissfully unaware that she’d just been skewered with academic precision.
Alexander’s mouth twitched. Emilia kept smiling.
It was—against all odds—almost enjoyable.
Until, of course, it wasn’t. Because nothing good could last when you were a royal target at a public event.
They were making their way toward the exit—an early departure framed as a busy royal schedule but mostly a desire to escape before anyone mentioned floral arrangements—when a voice sliced cleanly through the hum of conversation.
“Your Majesty. Miss Carter.”
Smooth. Polished. And cold enough to refrigerate champagne.
Lord Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale, stood in their path. At first glance, Charles seemed the epitome of refinement—cultured, charming, handsome. But beneath that polished exterior lurked a man whose greatest delight was found in someone else’s complete destruction.
Alexander’s spine went rigid. Emilia felt it immediately.
“Charles,” Alexander said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely,” Charles replied, eyes sweeping over them, smug as ever. “Though one does notice the… evolution of palace standards.”
Emilia replied, her tone was sugar-laced cyanide. “Progress does tend to make traditionalists itchy.”
“Progress,” Hawthorne repeated, like it tasted bad. “Often just a fashionable excuse for pandering to the masses.”
Alexander’s hand settled at the small of her back. Not for show. For grounding.
“If you have policy concerns, Charles,” he said, cool and unbothered, “I suggest you file them through the appropriate channels.”
“Oh, I’m merely a concerned citizen,” Hawthorne said evenly. “Watching with interest how influence… changes hands.”
The implication hung there, poisonous and deliberate.
Emilia met his gaze squarely.
“I suppose that’s the difference between us,” she said, voice even. “You see influence as something you hoard. We see it as something you earn.”
Hawthorne smiled in reply.
“Careful, Miss Carter. Not all battles are fought in open fields.”
He inclined his head mockingly and melted back into the crowd, leaving his only the veiled threat hanging in the air.
The moment he was gone, Emilia exhaled sharply.
Alexander turned to her immediately. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, still feeling the phantom chill of his presence. “Fine. Infuriated, but fine.”
Alexander’s jaw was tight. “He won’t touch you.”
“I’m not worried about me,” Emilia said quietly. “I’m worried about what he’ll try to do to you.”
He caught her hand and squeezed it, anchoring them both in the moment.
“Let him try,” Alexander said. “We’re stronger than he is.”
And for the first time all night—maybe the first time since the engagement—Emilia believed it.
Because standing there with him, under the fading glimmer of chandeliers and behind the polished armor of titles and appearances, she realized that this wasn’t just about surviving the palace anymore.
It was about building something stronger, even if men like Hawthorne were already sharpening their knives.