Chapter 4
Your Highness, Meet Your Worst Nightmare
Emilia had seen grand buildings before, but nothing quite prepared her for the sheer scale of the Palace of Caledonia.
The history here felt tangible, woven into the towering marble columns, the intricate gold moldings, the tapestries that had witnessed centuries of power struggles and whispered secrets.
She should have been thrilled, but she was already irritated. Her meeting was scheduled for noon. It was now half past noon, and no one had collected her. She adjusted her bag, sighing in frustration. Typical monarchy inefficiency.
Then, as she made her way toward the grand double doors leading to the palace archives, voices drifted toward her. One of them, she realized, must be Prince Alexander.
She had never heard him speak in person before, but his voice was exactly as she expected: smooth, clipped, and just a little too controlled.
What she hadn’t expected? The words coming out of his mouth.
* * *
Prince Alexander did not have time for this.
The meeting with his mother, the Queen, had been particularly tense that morning.
Two hours of being lectured about “appropriate royal conduct” and “the responsibilities of the crown” while she dismissed his proposals for modernizing the palace’s approach to public engagement.
“The monarchy has survived for centuries without your innovations, Alexander,” she had said with that particular chill in her voice.
“Perhaps focus on meeting our existing standards before attempting to reinvent them.”
He had barely stepped out of that suffocating meeting room before being cornered by a senior palace aide, Lord Davenport, who had that particular look of a man about to give him more obligations he didn’t want.
Alexander took a measured sip of his water, bracing himself.
“Your Highness,” Davenport announced, holding a leather-bound portfolio. “Before you meet the historian for the exhibition project, I wanted to brief you on her credentials.”
Alexander sighed. “Oh yes, by all means, let’s waste more of my time.” Davenport didn’t blink at the sarcasm. No, he was used to it.
“Her name is Emilia Carter,” the aide continued, flipping through the portfolio. “Native Caledonian. University lecturer, specializes in royal history. She’s known for being… outspoken.”
Alexander stilled slightly. That word always meant “difficult.”
“And what exactly does ‘outspoken’ mean in this particular case?” he asked, swirling the water in his glass.
Davenport hesitated. “She has a reputation for questioning royal narratives. Believes in uncovering what was omitted from official histories.”
Alexander let out a humorless laugh. “A historian with revolutionary aspirations. How predictable.” He took another sip of water. “Let me guess… she fancies herself the one to expose all our family’s centuries of supposed secrets and scandals?”
He glanced at the portfolio Davenport held. “She’s only 26? Why would someone with such limited experience even apply for this position?” He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of the morning’s frustrations compounding.
“I imagine she saw that ridiculous GQ spread the PR team forced me into and decided applying to work at the palace might get her close to royalty. Ever since that magazine hit the stands, I can’t walk through the administrative wing without a cluster of interns finding some excuse to be in the same corridor.
Just yesterday, one of them ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on me just to have an excuse to talk.
It’s exhausting trying to be taken seriously when half the palace staff treats me like some sort of celebrity bachelor. ”
Davenport cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Her credentials are actually quite—”
“Spare me,” Alexander cut him off, taking another sip of water. “What could she possibly know about interpreting centuries of royal history? Beyond what fits her agenda, that is.”
Davenport offered a small, tight smile. “She does come highly recommended by several notable institutions, sir.”
“Of course she does. Academia loves their young radicals,” Alexander said, massaging his temple briefly.
“I know exactly how this will go. She’ll arrive with grand theories about ‘historical truth’ and ‘dismantling royal narratives,’ act completely unimpressed by the palace, then find increasingly creative reasons to schedule meetings directly with me.
” He set his glass down on a nearby table with finality.
“Within a month, she’ll be casually mentioning how her friends can’t believe she works with actual royalty.
Probably already has a secret Pinterest board full of royal wedding ideas.
” He straightened his jacket with a resigned sigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
And then, a sharp throat-clearing.
Alexander turned and immediately regretted everything he had just said because standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, green eyes blazing with utter disdain was Miss Emilia Carter.
She wasn’t at all what he had expected.
No nervous scholar clutching a stack of notes. No starstruck academic studying him like a museum specimen. And most definitely not one of the lovesick palace interns.
She stood there, utterly composed, head tilted just slightly.
It was the kind of tilt that suggested she was already unimpressed.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back just enough to highlight the delicate contours of her features.
But it was her eyes that caught him. Keen, assessing, entirely unfazed by the fact that she was standing before the heir to the throne.
Alexander blinked. Emilia inclined her head, smiling coolly.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” she remarked, voice deceptively polite.
“I’ll try my best not to faint in your presence.
And just to clear up any confusion, I was approached for this position by the Royal Historical Society.
I declined twice before accepting.” Her smile tightened.
“But I understand why the concept of being selected based on merit might be… foreign to you.”
Davenport paled. Alexander acknowledged her diplomatically.
“Miss Carter,” he replied smoothly, masking his regret behind the perfect royal composure. “I see you’ve arrived.”
“Indeed,” Emilia countered. “Right on time. Though it seems my reputation, and your assumptions, arrived before me.”
Her voice was pleasant, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. Alexander, who had been trained since birth never to let his expression betray him, felt an uncharacteristic stab of unease. This woman was not starstruck. She was furious and, truth be told, she was right to be.
There was a long, charged pause. Then, Emilia smiled wider, cocking an eyebrow.
“But please, Your Highness,” she added, her tone all saccharine sweetness, “don’t let me interrupt.
You were just telling Lord Davenport how much you’re looking forward to working with me.
Though I must say, your concerns about my ‘limited experience’ are quite rich coming from someone who’s what—a whole year older than me? ”
Alexander’s muscles tensed. Poor Davenport looked ready to flee. Oh, this was going to be a nightmare.