11. Alexei
The hours drag, measured in muffled voices behind closed doors and the steady tick of a clock that seems louder every time I glance at it.
Dad and I wait for my legal team to be allowed in so we can continue discussing my defense strategy and prove to my kingdom and my people that I haven’t done any of the things I’ve been accused of.
“What’s on your mind, son?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
Dad shakes his head. “I saw that look on your face many times when you were a child. I know it’s not nothing. If I had to guess, you’re wondering how this happened. How could you have missed this.”
“You taught me that missing even the smallest things—even hesitating for a single second—gets people killed.”
The words leave me before I can soften them. They land between us, sharp and unyielding.
Dad doesn’t flinch, but I catch the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, the subtle shift in his stance, as though he’s bracing for something heavier than an accusation.
“I taught you to assess before you act,” he replies calmly. “Not to assume every shadow is a threat.”
I release a quiet, humorless breath. “And yet here I am. Accused of treason because I saw a threat before anyone else did.”
“Or because you saw one where there wasn’t one,” he counters.
My jaw tightens. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His gaze sharpens. “Is it?”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I feel it building again—that pressure in my chest, that familiar, suffocating weight of everything I couldn’t stop.
Everything I should have stopped.
“You weren’t there,” I say finally, my voice lower now, rougher. “When they took her.”
He doesn’t ask who. He knows.
“I was,” he says quietly. “Just not close enough.”
“That’s the same thing.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Not close enough means you failed.”
His expression hardens. “Be careful, son.”
“No.” I shake my head, feeling something crack loose beneath the surface. “No, you don’t get to correct me on that. That’s the lesson, isn’t it? The one you drilled into me my entire life.”
“Preparedness is not the same as paranoia.”
“It is when the cost of being wrong is losing them.”
The words echo through the room, louder than I intended. I draw in a breath, but it does nothing to steady me.
“I wasn’t there when Mom died,” I continue, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “I wasn’t there when my wife needed me. Twice. I can’t even be there for her now.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out anyway. “So, forgive me if I don’t wait for certainty before I act.”
“You think I don’t carry that same weight?” he asks, his voice dropping.
“I think you taught me how to carry it,” I shoot back. “Every missed call. Every second, too late. Every moment you weren’t there, you made sure I understood exactly what that meant.”
His jaw sets. “I taught you to protect.”
“You taught me that failure is unacceptable.”
Dad pauses, then his voice is quieter, almost reluctant, as he says, “And what has that done to you?”
I don’t answer right away. Because I know the truth.
“It’s made me a king who doesn’t trust that peace will ever be attainable,” I admit. “A husband who sees threats in every room. A man who would rather be accused of treason than risk being too late again.”
The words settle heavily between us.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then Dad exhales, slower this time, some of the steel in him easing. “You can’t protect everyone from everything,” he says.
I meet his gaze, unwavering. “No. But I can make sure I’m not standing somewhere else when it happens.”
When the doors finally open and my legal team is allowed in, the air in the room shifts, less waiting, more damage control.
Reid spreads the documents across the table like a losing hand.
“These aren’t fake,” he says after a moment, his mouth set in a hard line. He flips a page, then another. “I recognize them.”
My stomach tightens. “Recognize how?”
“I helped draft some of these,” he tells us. “With you. And—” His fingers hesitate, then move again. “With Wendell, when Elena was taken.”
Abby exhales sharply. “So they didn’t need to forge anything.”
“No,” Reid confirms. “They had the originals.”
Dad leans forward, elbows on the table. “When Wendell stepped in as regent, he had unrestricted access. Seals. Archives. Security clearances.” His gaze lifts to mine. “No one would’ve stopped him.”
The silence that follows is heavy, full of everything no one wants to say out loud.
“So,” I murmur, staring at the crest stamped neatly at the top of the page. “He didn’t steal my signature.”
Reid shakes his head once. “He didn’t have to.”
A knock interrupts us.
Dad moves to the door. Agent Travis Danko steps inside, nodding briefly to me before leaning in to whisper something into Dad’s ear.
“Here? Now?” Dad murmurs.
Travis nods.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
Dad straightens. “Send him in.”
He turns back to me. “Prince Weston is here. He insists on speaking with you.”
My jaw tightens. Of course he does.
The door opens again.
Prince Weston of North Sosova steps inside, impeccably dressed, every inch the visiting dignitary. His gaze sweeps the room, then falters when he realizes Elena isn’t here. The smile on his lips dims before he scrutinizes me.
Disappointment.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back. “Prince Weston. To what do we owe this visit?”
I don’t mention that the last time we stood in the same room was right before Wendell escaped custody.
I don’t mention that North Sosova’s delegation has been calling for meetings all week, urgent ones.
Trade revisions. “Better offers.” Or how curious it is that he arrives just as Parliament levels treason at my name.
“I was already in Petrova,” he says smoothly, as if reading the question behind my words.
“My brother is being pressed for discussions regarding revised trade routes and export tariffs from other offers. He thought it best I attend personally, given how…productive relations between North Sosova and Zurdonia have been.”
Dad’s expression doesn’t change. “Those discussions were scheduled for next week.”
Prince Weston smiles. “Events accelerate priorities.” His gaze returns to me. “And then I heard about the charges against you.”
I hold his stare. “You moved fast.”
“I value stability,” he replies lightly. “And Zurdonia’s stability has long mattered to my country.”
Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “While we appreciate the sentiment, Prince Weston, character assessments won’t be considered in the preliminary hearing. Correct, Reid?”
Reid nods. “That’s right. If the charges move to trial, then testimony like that could matter.”
Prince Weston chuckles softly. “Ah. I should’ve been clearer.”
He reaches into his breast pocket and produces a USB drive.
“I keep meticulous records of my business dealings and travel,” he continues.
“Given how recent these allegations are, proof that you were in North Sosova, with me, should establish that you couldn’t have sold state secrets during the period in question. ”
Reid steps closer, eyes sharp. “If that data is legitimate, it would be significant to your defense, King Alexei.”
Prince Weston extends the USB.
I hesitate before taking it. “That’s… very generous of you.”
His smile widens, just enough to show satisfaction. “I imagine Queen Elena is quite upset by all this.” His gaze drifts, lingering on the empty space beside me. “Where is our queen?”
I arch a brow. “Our?”
“As Director of Security to Her Majesty, she’s attending to an urgent matter,” Dad says, stepping forward, subtly placing himself between us.
Some of the light drains from Prince Weston’s eyes. When they meet mine again, that familiar restraint settles back into place. “It must be important,” he comments mildly, “to be absent at a time like this.”
“Prince—”
“I need the room,” I cut in.
Dad studies us both for a moment, debating whether that is a good option. Reid clears his throat. “I’ll start reviewing the data.”
“I’ll help,” Abby adds quickly. “And draft a rebuttal.”
They file out. Dad lingers, searching my face, then exhales and follows.
The door closes.
“No need to dismiss everyone just to thank me,” Prince Weston preens.
I step closer, hands in my pockets. He has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes.
“What’s your motive?” I ask.
Dad would skin me alive if he heard my tone, especially if this evidence does what Prince Weston claims.
This is the man Elena was once meant to marry. The choice she made before I ever found the courage to speak the truth I’d been swallowing for months.
She tells me she never cared for him that way. I believe her. I do.
But I’ve watched him work a room. Watched how easily his charm disarms people. How effortlessly he makes her laugh.
Laughter doesn’t come easily to me.
Ease doesn’t live in my bones. Gentleness had to be learned, earned. And Elena is the only one who ever taught me.
I hate this weakness. The jealousy I can’t excuse, no matter how much I trust her. I know she chose me. I know she loves me. And still the doubt claws, that I stand beside her because the law changed, not because I was born worthy of her crown.
Six months of marriage haven’t stopped his lingering looks. His half-smiles. His careful words.
I know the language of a man who still wants what he can’t have.
And if this is an attempt to gain leverage through me, he’s miscalculated.
Elena is my wife.
And I will not step aside.
“Motive?” he echoes.
“Don’t insult us both,” I say evenly. “You didn’t come out of conscience alone.”
The warmth fades from his eyes. “I care about maintaining favorable relations with Zurdonia,” he answers. “And yes, about Queen Elena’s happiness.”
“She is happy,” I growl.
That only amuses him. “Then I do wonder what could be more important than defending her husband.”
“None of your business,” I snap. “You still have feelings for her. So why help me?”
He inhales slowly. “Because when Elena learns I helped put this to rest,” he smiles, “it may earn me goodwill. And goodwill has value.”