Page 53 of Throne Off Course

When Eleanor had first met Prince James Philip, she thought she might actually be lucky.

She had always known this arrangement was coming—the duty, the obligation, the crown. She had been raised for it, trained for it, molded into the perfect future Queen.

But she had never let herself hope.

Not until she met him.

She had expected formality, stiffness, obligation. Instead, she found a man who was charming and kind, golden-haired and easy in his skin, with the kind of smile that disarmed people before they even realized what was happening.

The grand ballroom at the palace had been filled with nobles, advisors, and political figures who had ensured this marriage would happen.

But Eleanor only had eyes for him.

He had kissed her hand—gently, reverently, with a twinkle in his eye like they shared some private joke, one that only she could understand.

“You are lovelier than I imagined,” he had said, his voice warm, low, full of something that made her breath catch.

For the first time in her life, the crown didn’t feel like a cage.

She let herself believe—just for a moment—that perhaps this could be something real.

Perhaps she would not just be a Queen, but a wife. A partner.

Perhaps she would not be alone.

It was many weeks later, during one of their many carefully orchestrated meetings, that everything changed.

It was late, and the two of them had managed to slip away from the endless advisors and court officials. They sat in the dim glow of the study, where the fire flickered against the carved mahogany walls.

Eleanor had been laughing, telling him some dry remark about one of the ministers. The wine had warmed her blood, and the way he looked at her—attentive, appreciative—had emboldened her.

Their shoulders touched as they sat side by side on the leathersofa. In the firelight, he looked golden, perfect—and she thought, maybe, just maybe, she could have the fairy tale after all.

She leaned in, her heartbeat quickening as she moved to kiss him.

James Philip hesitated, then gently pulled back.

Eleanor froze, mortification washing over her like ice water.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice strained. “It’s not that I don’t—” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes conflicted. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Eleanor straightened, carefully setting down her wine glass. “What is it?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

James Philip shifted uncomfortably before meeting her gaze. “I want to be honest with you,” he said.

A strange weight settled in her chest. “About?”

He hesitated—then forced himself to continue.

“I was in love with someone else,” he admitted. “For years. We only just ended things recently, right before our engagement was announced.”

The words landed like a strike to the ribs.

Eleanor went very, very still. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.

She had heard stories like this before—royal men with lovers, with quiet mistresses tucked away in country estates, with secret hearts that belonged to someone other than their wives.

But she had not expected this.