Page 63 of Throne Off Course

The evening breeze caught at her hair as she considered his offer. “What kind of secrets are we talking about?”

“The real kind.” Alexander took a slow sip of his wine. “Things no one else knows.”

Emilia felt a flutter of something in her chest—apprehension, excitement, she wasn’t sure. “Why?”

Alexander’s expression softened. “Because I trust you. And I’d like to know if you might trust me too.”

She looked away, back to the sprawling city, buying herself a moment. “Okay, you go first,” she finally said.

Alexander nodded, gathering his thoughts. “When I was eleven,” he began, his voice quieter now, “the night before my father’s funeral, I snuck into his study and took his favoritefountain pen.”

Emilia turned to look at him, surprised by the personal nature of his opening.

“It was this ridiculous antique thing that leaked constantly. He loved it anyway.” Alexander’s expression held a distant sadness. “My mother started packing most of his personal items, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it being locked in some archive.”

“Where is it now?” Emilia asked softly.

“I still have it.” A small smile touched his lips. “I keep it in my desk drawer. Sometimes I take it out before important meetings—signatures, proclamations. No one else knows I’m using it.”

“You don’t think your mother would notice?”

Alexander shook his head. “She never liked it. Said it was impractical, unprofessional.” His voice was gentle. “She wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point.”

“What was the point?” Emilia asked.

He met her eyes. “That not everything has to be perfect to be valuable.”

The admission hung between them, simple yet revealing.

“Your turn,” Alexander said quietly.

Emilia took a steadying breath, the wine warm in her throat. “When I was in graduate school, I discovered a collection of letters that contradicted a major historical narrative about the civil wars,” she began. “It was potentially groundbreaking material that could have made my early career.”

“But?” Alexander prompted.

“But the letters belonged to this elderly woman whose familyhad preserved them for generations. She let me see them on the condition that I wouldn’t publish anything until after her death.” Emilia’s fingers traced the rim of her glass. “She was protective of her family’s legacy, worried about how people would perceive her ancestors.”

“That must have been frustrating,” Alexander observed.

“Incredibly. I sat on that research for almost three years while other historians published their work using the same sanitized sources everyone had always used.” A rueful smile crossed her face. “I watched as people built their careers on narratives I knew were incomplete, if not entirely wrong.”

“Why keep your promise?” Alexander asked. “Most academics I know would have found a way around it.”

Emilia met his eyes. “Because she trusted me with her family’s story. And in the end, that mattered more than being first or making a name for myself.” She shook her head. “The secret isn’t that I kept my word—it’s that sometimes I still resent making that choice, even though I know it was right. Three years of watching others get recognition for work that wasn’t as thorough as what I could have done…”

“But you eventually published it?”

“I did, after she passed away. By then, the academic conversation had moved on to other topics.” She shrugged. “My work was noted, but it wasn’t the splash it could have been.”

“Do you regret it?” Alexander asked quietly.

“No,” she said firmly, then paused. “But I’m not as noble as that answer makes me sound. There are still days when I think about those three years and feel bitter about what they cost me. That’s the part of myself I don’t like to admit—that doing the right thing didn’t always feel satisfying.”

They fell silent, the admission settling between them like ashared weight. The city lights grew brighter as darkness crept across the sky.

“Your turn again,” she said eventually.

Alexander smiled, the tension easing. “I hate mint chocolate.”