11. Alexei #2
I lean closer. “She will never be yours. She is my wife.”
His smile tightens. “She was never meant to be yours,” he retorts sharply. “If you had stayed in your place, we would be married. And when this danger passes, she’ll see you for what you are.” His gaze hardens. “A blade.” His mouth twists. “And blades dull.”
The door opens.
Dad’s head appears. “Reid reviewed the data. It should clear you of the treason charges and cast serious doubt on the theft allegations.”
The prince steps back, pleased. “Always happy to help Zurdonia.” His gaze flicks to me. “It’s what a good nobleman does.”
Dad studies us. “Reid has a few follow-up questions for you, Prince Weston.”
“Of course.”
He leaves without another glance.
“What was that?” Dad asks once we’re alone.
I rub a hand over my face. “Nothing. Just ensuring we’re aligned.”
“About his feelings for Elena?”
My eyes snap up.
Dad snorts. “I’m Director of Security, son. I notice things.”
The truth stings because it echoes my own fears. I was never groomed for this life. I wasn’t born for a crown. Elena wears hers like she was made for it.
I’m the muscle.
“Don’t let him put doubt where there isn’t any,” Dad reminds firmly.
I straighten. “He won’t.” I lie.
Dad nods. “Good. Then let’s clear your name and bring our queen home.”
Parliament’s chamber is colder than I remember. The last time a member of the monarch had been summoned was when Wendell challenged Elena’s birthright to remain king-regent. He lost then. He will lose now, too.
The semicircle of seats rises before me, tiered and shadowed, each occupied by men and women who have known me for years as the royal head of security. As their gazes fall on me, they aren’t looking at me as the king, but as a stranger who could be capable of treason and theft.
A liability to Zurdonia.
I stand alone at the center, hands clasped behind my back, posture rigid. No crown. No gun. Just the weight of accusation pressing between my shoulder blades.
“King Alexei,” starts Chester, the leader of Parliament, “you understand the severity of the charges brought before this body.”
“I do,” I answer evenly.
“Treason. Theft of crown funds. The unauthorized dissemination of classified state intelligence.”
Each word lands with deliberate care. None of them true.
“Are you denying these allegations?”
“I deny all of them.”
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
Chester raises a hand to command quiet. “Let us proceed.”
The first hours are methodical, almost boring in their precision. Dates. Travel logs. Correspondence. Financial records. Prince Weston’s documents mirror my own, adding further proof to my innocence. I answer everything cleanly, truthfully, my voice steady even as my pulse thrums in my ears.
They present documents I recognize immediately.
“These files,” says one of the members of the council, holding up a digital slate, “contain classified strategies discussed during Queen Elena’s absence. Do you recognize them?”
“Yes,” I continue. “They were drafted by then Regent Wendell, later amended by Queen Elena after their transition. Wendell once again reviewed these documents when Queen Elena had been kidnapped by the very enemy Wendell had aligned himself with.”
“You also reviewed them once you became king. And the embedded crest?” Allan asks.
I hesitate. “It’s legitimate.”
That provokes another ripple of murmurs.
“And the authorization code?” another voice presses.
“Valid.”
“So, you admit these are official documents.”
“I admit they are real,” I correct. “Not that I stole or distributed them.”
They exchange looks. The questions continue, sharp but controlled. Designed to wear me down, not trap me outright. But they forget who in this room has the most experience when it comes to interrogating and wearing someone down.
Then something shifts.
A woman seated two rows up leans forward. “King Alexei,” she begins, voice smooth, almost gentle. “Can you explain why the authorization marker appears twice on the final draft?”
I frown. “Twice?”
She taps her slate. Enlarges the file. And there it is.
Not duplicated.
Embedded.
My breath stills.
The marker isn’t a crest, not exactly. It’s a stylized flourish I’ve seen before, though I couldn’t have named it then. A curved stem. A spiral turn. Decorative enough to be dismissed as aesthetic.
Except it isn’t decorative.
It’s deliberate.
“When was the last time you personally reviewed this file?” Allan asks.
My eyes remain locked on the projection. “Right after I became king.”
“And did you notice the duplication then?”
“No.”
“Curious,” someone mutters.
It isn’t duplication.
It’s a signature.
Not Wendell’s. Not mine. Not Parliament’s.
It’s older.
The realization unfurls slowly, like something stretching awake inside my mind.
They move on, questions about timing, about my whereabouts in North Sosova. Reid’s evidence is submitted. Travel confirmations. Witness corroboration. The chamber shifts again, less predatory now, more… cautious.
But I barely hear them.
Because once I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.
The symbol is exactly like the charm on the necklace that Elena wears. The same symbol with a curved stem is to be seen in another file. It is all she has left from her parents before she was given up.
I turn my head over my shoulder, reaching out to Dad. His eyes are fixed on the paper in his hands, his eyes squint in concentration as if he himself is trying to figure out how he knows that symbol.
Another document appears on the screen, jerking my attention back to the front. And again, this time more subtly, encoded in the syntax, the punctuation, the rhythm of the blacked-out text.
Always where decisions intersect.
Not evidence.
A mark.
I answer when spoken to. I stand when told. I comply.
All the while, a single thought pounds through me: Elena.
The rose.
My breath stills.
No. It can't be.
The gold pendant she’s worn since before she had a crown. Since before she had a country. Elena has worn that pendant for as long as I’ve known her—long before she discovered who she truly was.
This wasn’t chance.
It never was.
It’s no coincidence that this symbol appears inside these documents. There is only one logical explanation, it must have something to do with her mother.
Ivan.
He’s dead. I killed him myself. Point-blank. Direct hit to the heart. Unlike his accuracy with Elena, I didn’t miss. His empire was dealt a crushing blow when his death was verified. He had to have passed on some kind of info to Wendell in case something went sour.
That theory nags at me. Ivan Vasiliev was arrogant and didn’t believe he could lose. He also didn’t strike me as someone so stupid as to leave everything in the hands of Wendell. No. It’s the person pulling the strings behind Wendell’s escape. They’re the true mastermind.
And they might be more dangerous than Ivan ever was.
Fear clamps down hard. I’m countries away, useless to Elena.
Cold spreads through me, slow and unforgiving.
Ivan was brute force, loud and obvious. This is something else entirely.
Careful. Methodical. A predator who enjoys the wait.
And now it’s clear: I was never the target. I was the distraction.
Chester clears his throat. “King Alexei, final question.”
I look up.
“Is there any individual you believe capable of orchestrating this deception?”
I think of Wendell. Of ambition and resentment and clever hands.
But the truth presses harder.
“Yes,” I answer carefully. “But not in the way you think.” I pause until all their eyes are on me. “I believe these documents were not stolen to sell secrets,” I continue. “They were marked. Altered subtly. A message.”
“For what purpose?” Allan asks.
I meet his gaze.
“For me.”
The silence stretches within the room.
The chamber adjourns soon after, no verdict yet, but something has shifted. Doubt, yes. But also unease.
As I’m escorted from the room, my mind races ahead of my body.
Whoever is after Elena and me has been laying a trail. Quietly. Patiently. Across years, not months.
And Elena’s rose…
It isn’t a symbol of love.
It’s a key.
Whatever this is, it predates Wendell. He’s a pawn to them, too.
As the doors close behind me, one certainty settles deep in my bones: Elena is closer to the center of this than either of us ever realized.
And someone, somewhere, is watching to see which of us figures it out first.