5. Alexei
“Don’t you think I’ve been harassed enough?” Lady Camille hisses, gathering folds of her skirt before dropping into the couch as if the cushions offend her. She swipes at nonexistent dust, lifting her chin. “This… this interrogation feels as if I’m being treated like some criminal.”
We are in one of the palace’s receiving rooms, soft blue walls trimmed with gold filigree, antique vases displayed along the window line, fresh flowers perfuming the air. A room meant to soothe visitors. But with Lady Camille sitting here, her indignation drenches the space like humidity.
“No one is suggesting that you are a criminal,” Dad says calmly. He’s always had more patience for nobles and their theatrics. Years of diplomacy have made him resilient. Or numb.
Lady Camille’s keen eyes cut to me. “King Novak seems to think I am.”
I school my expression, giving her nothing.
She scoffs. “He’s never liked me.”
She isn’t wrong. I have never cared for the way she studies commoners as if they carry a plague.
She and Wendell have always shared that flaw.
Cut from the same rotten cloth. But my distaste sharpened into something far deeper the moment she aimed her venom at my wife.
I watched the way she tried to undercut Elena at every turn, little comments, little digs, all delivered with that sugary smile.
And that was just what I had witnessed. I could only imagine what she had said or done when I wasn’t around.
The fact that she had visited Wendell twice after learning of his treachery did not bode well. While it’s true that her behavior doesn’t prove guilt, it certainly doesn’t clear her name either.
Still, nothing so far linked her to his escape.
Mitchell had combed through her communications, her accounts, her entire digital life.
He’d found nothing. She isn’t clever enough to cover her tracks if she had done anything, and Lady Camille preferred drama over subtlety.
Ironically, that made me think that she wasn’t involved.
Helping Wendell would’ve required a level of cunning she doesn’t possess. Not yet, anyway.
“That simply is not true, Lady Camille. Is it, Your Majesty?” asks Dad.
Your Majesty.
Six months later, the words still feel heavy.
Too large. I never sought the crown; I never wanted the throne.
I wanted Elena. And if being king was part of the price of being at her side, then I will pay it willingly.
But giving up the part of me built for protection, built for battle, still scrapes at me.
Even so, Elena and I have grown into the role together.
We balance each other. She disarms with kindness what I handle with precision.
I watch her field difficulties, insults, and objections with calm diplomacy that humbles even seasoned politicians.
She has always been strong, but now our whole nation can finally see it.
And I no longer have to defend her from the shadows.
I let the silence settle between us. I let Lady Camille squirm. Power recognizes power, and she knows she holds none in this room.
“If this were an interrogation,” I say finally, my voice cool, “you would not be sitting in one of our most accommodating palace rooms. You would be somewhere far more unpleasant.”
She hesitates. “I haven’t done anything,” she says, flashing a displeased glance from Dad to me and back again.
“No one said you have,” Dad repeats, his fourth reassurance.
I get a sideways glance from him that says, I’m not helping this time. Fine. I didn’t need him to.
“We just need to ask you a few questions,” he says softly, as if he were talking to a trapped animal.
“Alright.” She shifts, straightening her posture. “Ask your questions.”
Dad begins, “When was the last time you saw Wendell Popova?”
Her eyes drift up and left, retrieving a memory. “A few months ago.”
Her heart remains steady. Truth.
“What did you talk about?” I ask.
She narrows her gaze. “It’s none of your business, Your Majesty.”
I arch a brow. “If you prefer to continue being uncooperative, we can relocate this discussion to a place where you will feel much more inclined to answer.”
She gasps, staring at Dad for rescue. He says nothing, though I see his shoulders stiffen; he trusts me, even when he doesn’t fully agree with my tone.
“I—it was just to check on him,” she stammers. “The place is awful, it smells terrible. It’s cold. Not inhabitable. Duke Wendell has always been my friend.”
“He is no longer a duke,” I remind her, folding my arms. Her eyes flicker to the movement, catching the tightening of my muscles. For a moment, unease seeps into her expression, puncturing the arrogance she’d entered with.
“Right,” she mutters.
“Has Wendell reached out to you?” Dad asks.
She shakes her head.
“Did Wendell, on any of your visits, speak ill of Queen Elena or King Alexei?”
“No.” Too quick. And her eyes dart to the right. Her pulse quickens.
A lie.
“He’s never said a cross word to you at all?” Dad presses.
I step forward, positioning myself right behind Dad so she can’t look anywhere without seeing at least one of us.
Red flushes over her cheeks. “Well… he insisted the evidence was fabricated… by… well?—”
“By Queen Elena and me,” I finish.
She swallows. “Yes.”
“Has he spoken of revenge?” Dad asks.
“No.” Her pulse steadies again. The truth. She raises her head, voice gaining strength. “Why are you asking me all this? What is this about?”
Dad and I discussed strategy earlier. Wendell’s escape wouldn’t remain a secret. Elena and I had made a vow to our people, no secrets, no lies. But we wanted Lady Camille to be questioned before the public announcement. Hence her abrupt summoning.
Dad delivers the blow. “Wendell escaped from prison yesterday.”
Her eyes widen like saucers. “He… what?” She glowers as she shifts her attention between us, panic flooding her expression. “You… you think I had something to do with it?”
“You were his only visitor,” I tell her sharply. Her lips part, but I don’t give her a chance. “You undermined my wife at every turn. You made your opinion very clear that she was unfit to lead. You supported Wendell during the challenge with parliament.”
Her lower lip quivers. Her face turns a blotchy red. Her heart is racing, fear and guilt and indignation all tangled together.
“You can see why we’re having this conversation,” I point out.
She sucks in her lip and turns to my father. “I would never,” she whispers, her voice cracking. She risks a glance at me. “I may not have agreed with Queen Elena… but I would never commit treason.”
That, I almost believe. Not because she lacks malice—she has plenty—but because she values her title, wealth, and status far too much to gamble on it. Treason destroys privilege. Lady Camille could never stomach being a nobody.
I am not going to make things easy for her.
I let out a humorless breath. “No, you only associate with someone who has.”
She sags into the cushions, deflated. Dad shoots me a glance that says, ease up. I step back defiantly.
“Do you know anyone who would help Wendell?” Dad asks.
She shakes her head, fighting back tears. “His family cut ties. He told me they refused his calls.”
Another fact, corroborated by Mitchell’s reports.
“Do you think he would reach out to you?” Dad continues.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe.”
“If he were to contact you?—”
“I would call you right away,” she interjects, desperate.
I’m not convinced. Not entirely.
“And how far,” I ask, “are you willing to go to prove your loyalty to the crown?”
She furrows her brows as she stares at me. The offended noblewoman resurfaces. “Why is he asking that?” she demands of Dad.
“His Majesty,” Dad corrects, “Suspects Wendell may reach out to you. We want to be prepared.”
“You want to bug my phone?” she snaps. “Absolutely not.”
I fight a smile since it’s so predictable. She doesn’t know we are already monitoring her communications. Dad’s small sigh tells me he is disappointed; he hoped this meeting would clear her for good.
“Interesting,” I comment simply.
She shoots me a glare. “Valuing my privacy doesn’t make me guilty.”
“It doesn’t make you innocent either,” I reply.
She huffs, standing suddenly. “This conversation is over until I have legal counsel.”
Dad groans under his breath. I have to stifle a laugh. She doesn’t really understand Zurdonia law and customs.
“Lady Camille,” Dad says in exasperation, “there is no Zurdonia law granting you the right to counsel during a royal inquiry. And the monarch is separate from the judicial process.”
She pales. “Oh.”
“Let her go,” I say, now bored. “We have everything we need.”
Her eyes flicker up, momentarily unsure whether my words are a promise or a threat.
“I’ll show you out,” says Dad, rising.
As she passes, she attempts a bow far too shallow and far too late. Dad opens the door and summons Travis to escort her. Then he closes the door behind her and turns to face me, questions of his own in his eyes.
I exhale, the weight of the situation pressing against my chest like a storm rolling in.
“You still believe her to be completely innocent?” I ask when the door clicks shut.
Dad’s lips flatten into a firm line. “She’s clearly not bright,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
“But… you scared her enough that she’ll think twice.
I think it’s likely that if Wendell were to call her and she could get away with it, without us knowing, she would.
” He sighs. “She’s not loyal. She’s opportunistic. ”
I drop my arms to my sides. “I agree.”
“You were a tad harsh with her, son.”
My expression hardens. “I only offered her the same courtesy she extended to Elena.”
Dad mutters under his breath. “Speaking of Elena?—”
“Not again,” I cut him off before he can finish.
“You still haven’t told her,” he observes. It isn’t a question. The silence between us confirms everything he already knows. He exhales slowly. “You’re my son… but she is also my daughter now.”
“She is my wife,” I bite out, sharper than intended.