28. Elena
The conference room hums softly with screens and quiet voices, the kind of controlled order that usually steadies me.
Maps glow across the walls. Reports scroll past faster than I can read them.
Alexei sits at my side, one hand braced against the table, the other flicking through data with practiced ease.
Reid clears his throat. “Losing the trade with North Sosova,” he starts carefully, “will significantly impact our ability to move forward with new projects. Restoration efforts included.”
“How significant?” I ask.
He hesitates.
That pause tells me everything I already knew the moment I threw Prince Weston from the palace.
When he finally speaks, his voice is tight. “At least a year.”
The room tilts. Not dramatically, but enough that I have to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady. A year feels like a lifetime when people are already waiting for help. When promises have already been made.
All I ever wanted was to build something better. To fix what was broken. I can see it so clearly sometimes, schools rebuilt, homes standing again, people believing this crown means more than ceremony.
“Unless,” Reid adds quickly, “we can secure another deal?—”
“No.” Alexei’s voice cuts through the air, firm and immovable. “Absolutely not. They disrespected the queen. No deals.”
Reid nods, unsurprised. “Then I’ll begin reviewing additional allies and contracts. We’ll find a way to close the gap.”
I nod too, though my thoughts are already scattering like startled birds.
Alexei thanks him, then turns toward Abby. “Update us on the public response since the tournament?”
Abby takes a hurried bite of the pastry she’s been nursing, chews slowly, and washes it down with water. It’s understandable, considering Alexei and I convened the meeting on short notice, with little time to prepare following the fallout from my contentious discussion with Prince Weston.
She swallows, clears her throat, and grabs the remote. “Reporters spoke with several citizens,” she says, clicking the screen forward. “These were… the worst reactions, but unrest is growing.”
She pauses, coughs softly, then again, sharper this time.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
She smiles thinly, lifts her glass, and takes another sip.
Then the coughing comes hard.
It tears out of her, violent and sudden. The glass slips from her fingers, hits the table with a sharp crack, shattering. Water spills across the dark wood, soaking papers and pooling around broken shards as the rest of the room recoils, chairs scraping back in alarm.
“Abby!” I shout.
Alexei is already moving.
“Reid, security, now. Get the doctor,” he orders, calm slicing through chaos.
Abby’s hand flies to her throat.
“Are you choking?” I ask, stepping toward her.
She shakes her head violently, eyes wide with terror, fingers clawing at her neck.
Alexei turns her toward him, scanning her face, her breathing. “Allergic reaction,” he declares sharply.
My gaze snaps to the table. To the pastry.
“The cinnamon roll?” I say.
Abby has eaten these hundreds of times before, never having a reaction like the one she’s having now.
Reid reappears. “Doctor Nolan’s on his way.”
Lance and Braydon burst into the room. Alexei orders them to lower her gently to the floor. I drop beside her, the sickening sound of her wheezing filling my ears. Her breaths come shallow, desperate, like she’s drowning on dry land.
“Elena,” Alexei says, softer now but urgent. “Hold her hand. Keep her with us.”
I do. Her skin is hot, damp. Her fingers tremble in mine.
Alexei is already across the room, punching in a code. A panel slides open. He tears into the emergency kit, comes back with a small cylinder in his hand.
Her face is flushed, her throat swelling before my eyes, each breath barely slipping through.
Alexei doesn’t hesitate. He braces her leg, removes the cap, and injects the EpiPen into her thigh. Her body jerks, then convulses once more before slowly—mercifully—beginning to relax.
The coughing subsides into ragged breaths.
Doctor Nolan barrels in with a nurse and a gurney. Alexei relays what happened in clipped phrases as they check her vitals. Lance and Braydon help lift her carefully.
“What did she eat?” Doctor Nolan asks.
Alexei points to the ruined pastry, half-submerged in glass shards and water.
“Cinnamon roll?” Nolan asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
He uses a napkin to push aside the shards, lifts the pastry, and sniffs it. His expression hardens. “Have this tested,” he demands.
My heart stutters. “You think she was poisoned?”
“Cinnamon rolls don’t usually contain nuts,” he replies. “And Ms. Winslow has a peanut allergy.”
Alexei thanks him. He promises answers.
They wheel her out, pale and exhausted, and the room feels emptier for it.
Alexei begins issuing orders to Lance and Braydon, security tightened, food protocols reviewed, but I barely hear him.
All I can see are the faces around the table. Pale. Tight. Watching me with the same unspoken question flickering in their eyes.
Who’s next?
And for the first time since the crown settled on my head, the weight of it feels truly dangerous.
The sun has shifted by the time Alexei ends the call.
Afternoon light slants through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily as if the world hasn’t tilted on its axis since morning.
I sit on the edge of the small sitting area sofa, hands clasped so tightly my fingers ache.
Fletcher stands near the window, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the glass.
“Okay,” Alexei says quietly as he slips his phone back into his pocket. “Thank you.”
He turns to us, his expression carefully neutral, but I know him too well not to see the tension pulling at the edges.
“Doctor Nolan confirmed it,” he tells us. “An allergic reaction to nuts. Abby is stable. Resting. They expect to release her in the morning.”
My chest loosens enough for breath to slip in. Not relief, that feels too generous, but something adjacent to it.
Fletcher’s voice cuts in, hard and sharp. “Then how did peanut dust end up on cinnamon rolls?”
Alexei’s jaw tightens. “Lance completed the investigation. Our head cook was out sick. The pastries were ordered in.”
My eyes widen. “You think one of our own businesses would do this?”
The silence that follows is answer enough.
Fletcher shakes his head. “The bakery has a flawless record. I know the owner personally. They would never?—”
He stops when Alexei turns toward him, then continues more carefully. “They were still investigated thoroughly.”
“Of course,” Fletcher confirms.
I press my lips together, the pieces clicking into place whether I want them to or not. “This was Oksana and Wendell.”
Both men look at me.
“We came to the same conclusion,” Fletcher agrees quietly.
“They came after Abby,” I say, the words tumbling out too fast now. “They knew she’s my friend. That she’d be close. Wendell knows she and Reid are key to keeping these attacks at bay. So, what do we do?” My voice cracks despite my effort to hold it steady. “What’s next?”
Fletcher exhales slowly. “We do what we’ve always done. We don’t show fear. We keep going.”
“Until the next thing falls,” I mutter, rubbing my temple.
“Can we have a minute?” Alexei asks his father.
Fletcher nods without hesitation. “Of course.” He gives me a long look before stepping out and closing the door softly behind him.
The room feels smaller without him.
“She came for Abby,” I repeat the moment we’re alone. “She knew it would hurt. That it would scare me.” My gaze snaps up to Alexei. “Who’s next? Reid? Your father?” My voice drops to a whisper. “You?”
Alexei is in front of me in an instant. His hands come to my arms, firm but grounding. “Breathe,” he commands. “Abby is going to be fine.”
I shake my head. “This is how she works. She wants us rattled. Emotional.”
“And she won’t get that,” he counters, voice steady. “Clara and Ruslan are already on it. They’ll find Oksana. They’ll find Wendell, and when we do, we will go on the offense as we discussed.”
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead briefly to his chest. “I won’t let my people suffer.”
“And you won’t give her what she wants either,” he replies.
“This is about me,” I protest. “About us. About what we did to Ivan.”
Alexei shakes his head. “No. This goes back further than that. Long before you. Ruslan’s records make that clear.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “I can’t take much more of this. Our people?—”
“I know,” he agrees, wrapping me fully into his arms now. He holds me there, solid and unyielding, like he’s anchoring me to the world. “I know.”
The knock comes seconds later.
I don’t pull away, only turn slightly as Alexei keeps one arm around me.
Fletcher steps back into the room. His face is pale, drawn tight.
“What is it?” Alexei asks.
Fletcher swallows. “There’s been a fire reported at the docks.”
My stomach drops. “How bad?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t have to. The weight of it presses into my chest even before he speaks.
“Severe,” he divulges at last. “Multiple warehouses were affected. Trade vessels.”
The room goes achingly still.
“Keep me updated on everything,” I command, my voice hollow even to my own ears.
Fletcher nods. “Already in motion.”
As they begin discussing logistics and containment, I stare past them, past the walls, past the palace itself, out toward the kingdom that trusts me.
This isn’t a warning anymore.
It’s a declaration.
Alexei argues the entire drive.
Not loudly, never that, but with that tight restraint that means he’s already lost the argument and hates it. His knee bounces. His hand never leaves mine. Every few minutes, he glances at the window, then at me, like the kingdom itself might lunge at the car.
“I need to see it,” I press again, staring straight ahead. “I can’t command this from behind a wall.”
“It’s active,” he counters. “Unstable. We don’t know how far it will reach.”
“Exactly.”
The car slows, then stops.
Heat slams into us the moment the doors open.
The night air is thick with smoke, sweat, salt from the water, something acrid that clings to the back of my throat.
Floodlights carve the darkness into harsh shapes, painting everything in yellows and reds.
Flames climb the warehouses like living things, licking at steel and wood with greedy persistence.
“Your Majesties,” the fire chief says, bowing quickly as we approach the barricade.
I barely notice the title. My eyes are locked on the blaze. “How bad?”
He follows my gaze, jaw tightening. “High flames. Fast spread. We’re throwing everything we have at it. It’ll be hours before we get full control.”
Alexei steps closer to me. “Is this… normal?”
The chief looks at us both, then, with a grave expression. “Not this big. Not this fast.”
Fletcher doesn’t soften it. “Deliberate.”
“I won’t know for certain until we can investigate,” the chief says, already turning back toward the fire. “But if I had to bet my life? An accelerant was used.”
Alexei nods once. “Thank you.”
The chief is gone before I can say anything else, shouting orders as he disappears past the barriers.
“It isn’t safe to stay,” Fletcher cautions quietly. “Even this far out, the smoke without proper protection can be dangerous.”
“I’m not leaving,” I reply, firmly.
Fletcher studies me for a moment, then exhales at Alexei. “Then we wait in the car.”
The hours bleed together.
We sat in the backseat, the windows cracked enough to let air circulate.
Sirens rise and fall. Firelight flickers across the glass.
At some point, exhaustion drags me under, even though my dreams are jagged and breathless, smoke-filled corridors, choking heat, the sound of something collapsing out of reach.
Alexei’s voice pulls me back. His shoulder shifts beneath my cheek.
I blink, rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
Six hours.
I look out the window. The fire is smaller now, beaten back into smoldering ruins. Smoke blankets the sky, swallowing the stars completely.
“Did the chief—” My voice cracks from sleep. “Did he say anything?”
Alexei nods. “Accelerant confirmed.”
I sit up slowly, pushing my hair back. “So, she wasn’t speaking figuratively.”
He doesn’t ask who.
“She’s trying to burn Zurdonia to the ground,” I whisper. “And succeeding,” I add.
The silence stretches in the confines of our vehicle.
When I turn to Alexei, I see it immediately, the thing he’s been holding back. His jaw is tight. His hand disappears into his pocket.
“What is it?” I ask.
He exhales, pulls out a gold chain, and opens his palm.
Cold crawls up my spine before I even look.
A rose rests against his skin.
“It was found in plain sight,” he informs evenly. “Placed so it wouldn’t burn.”
My hand rises instinctively to my chest, fingers closing around the familiar weight beneath my blouse. The metal feels heavier than it ever has. I let it fall back against my skin.
“Exactly like yours,” Alexei says softly. “The one your mother left you.”
I nod. “There was no note. No explanation. I always thought it was… a family heirloom.” Tears sting the backs of my eyes. “She’s not hiding anymore. She’s playing with us.”
Alexei’s fingers lace through mine, grounding, steady. “We’ll end it.”
“How?” I ask. “What do we do now?”
A sharp tap against the window cuts through the moment.
Fletcher stands outside, face lit harshly by floodlights. The door opens before he bothers with ceremony.
“The fire was a diversion.”
My heart stutters. “A diversion to what?”
“The tournament field,” he answers. “The agents stationed there picked up movement at the exact moment the fire escalated. They held their position. Watched.”
I lean forward. “Who?”
Fletcher doesn’t hesitate. “Wendell.”
The name lands like a match striking stone.
The night feels far from over.