Chapter 35 Genevieve, Meet Alexander’s Backbone
Genevieve, Meet Alexander’s Backbone
The ride back to the palace was steeped in silence, the kind that wasn’t peaceful but weaponized.
After a full day of carefully choreographed public appearances—the hospital visit, the charity luncheon, and finally the evening gala—they were both exhausted, though only one of them showed it.
City lights flickered through the tinted windows, casting fleeting shadows across Alexander’s face as he stared out, unreadable and immovable.
Genevieve sat beside him, poised as ever despite the twelve hours of smiling for cameras.
Her evening gown—a dark royal blue that set off her coloring perfectly—shimmered subtly as she deliberately twisted a bracelet on her wrist. The gala had gone as expected—the cameras had flashed, the press had taken their photos, wealthy donors had written checks, and the world had seen exactly what they were supposed to see: a poised, composed, and perfectly matched future king and queen.
Except, of course, that wasn’t the truth.
Genevieve smiled knowingly, shifting closer to him until their thighs touched. The subtle scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker—filled the space between them as she placed her hand on his arm.
“You were convincing today,” she murmured, her voice low and silken as her fingertips traced a path up his sleeve. “The papers will love those photos of us dancing beneath the chandeliers, your hand on my waist. Quite the royal fairytale.”
Alexander’s jaw clenched beneath her touch but didn’t pull away immediately. She took the opportunity to lean in, her lips hovering near his ear. “We could give them something else to talk about,” she suggested, her hand sliding to his thigh.
He caught her wrist, firmly but not roughly, and moved her hand away. “Don’t.”
Genevieve’s smile remained fixed, though her eyes cooled to glacial blue. She leaned back slightly, assessing the wall of resistance he’d become since they’d entered the privacy of the car.
“You could at least pretend you’re finding some value in our arrangement,” she said smoothly, her words precise as cut crystal.
Alexander didn’t turn his head. “Why?”
She let out a sharp breath, her posture stiffening. “Because that’s what people expect. We’re supposed to be a partnership, Alexander. We’ve spent all day giving them something to believe in. Why stop now?”
Finally, he turned to face her, his expression unreadable but his voice cold and deliberate. “They don’t need to believe anything. Parliament will approve the match regardless. My mother will see to that.”
Genevieve studied him for a long moment, her gaze unwavering. “So that’s it?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “You’re just going to sulk your way through this? Marry me out of obligation and spend the rest of your life acting like I personally signed the order for your execution?”
He looked annoyed, but when he spoke, his tone remained calm—too calm. “You know as well as I do that I don’t have a choice.”
“No, but you do have a choice in how you handle it,” she countered, voice still smooth but razor-edged.
“You could at least recognize the political advantages we both stand to gain.” She adjusted the neckline of her dress, drawing his attention momentarily to the curve of her collarbone.
“Or is there something—someone—distracting you?”
A flicker of something passed across Alexander’s face—something dark, something bitter. He let out a quiet, humorless breath, shaking his head slightly before finally meeting her gaze with a cold amusement that sent a chill through her.
“They can force my hand,” he said quietly, his words deliberate, cutting.
“They can make me marry you.”
He leaned slightly closer. “But I don’t have to pretend I want to.”
Genevieve felt the words like a physical blow to her sternum, stealing her breath for a moment. She had expected resistance—Alexander had never been someone who yielded easily. But something about the sheer finality in his tone, the certainty of his rejection, made her stomach twist.
She smoothed an invisible crease on her dress, keeping her expression carefully neutral.
“You act like I want to be trapped in this any more than you do,” she said coolly.
“You think I don’t know what this is? This was never about love, Alexander, but I did expect some level of—” she paused, her lips thinning slightly before finishing, “cooperation.”
He looked at her evenly. “There’s no need to play the ingenue, Genevieve. I was never under the illusion that you needed anything more than the crown.”
Genevieve smiled then, slow and knowing, but not warm. “And here I was, hoping you’d at least pretend to fall in line.”
“I never pretended to be something I’m not,” Alexander said simply.
Her gaze swept over him, assessing, calculating. “No,” she murmured, tapping a manicured nail against the door handle. “I suppose you didn’t.”
The car slowed as they neared the palace gates, the weight of reality pressing against the silence between them. For the first time, something uneasy settled in Genevieve’s chest. She had known Alexander her entire life, had spent years standing beside him, always knowing exactly how to steer him.
This was different. Something—or someone—had changed him, and for once, Genevieve couldn’t see the path to regaining control.