Page 8 of Throne Off Course

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.” Hestraightened 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 wasunmistakable. 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.

5

The Loathing is Mutual

Prince Alexander was many things: a future king, a dutiful son, a man trained to handle political crises. But a man who made awkward apologies? Absolutely not.

He had already privately acknowledged that he had misjudged Emilia Carter. She wasn’t some opportunistic academic eager to catch his eye or engineer casual “accidental” meetings. Yet simply because she wasn’t angling for his personal attention or plotting ways to become the next royal romance, did that mean he was going to apologize? No. She had snuck up on them. That was hardly his fault. Besides, they had work to do.

So, as Emilia strode into the archives, her chin high, her shoulders tense with barely concealed irritation, Alexander simply gestured to a long wooden table covered in documents and said, “Shall we begin?”

As if their uncomfortable introduction hadn’t happened at all.

Emilia took a slow, deep breath. Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it. He was just going to pretend nothing had happened. How utterly predictable. It wasn’t as if she had expected a heartfelt apology, but she had expected some acknowledgment of his arrogance—perhaps even mild embarrassment. Instead? Nothing. Just Prince Perfect, standing there, cool and composed, ready to dictate historical accuracy from his golden throne.

She met his stare evenly. She realized, momentarily, thatunfortunately he was even better-looking up close—which only intensified her annoyance.

She dropped her bag on the chair beside her and folded her arms. “Yes, let’s.”

Alexander gestured to the documents before them. “As you know, the royal family has commissioned this exhibition to highlight our country’s long and noble history. We want to showcase the traditions, achievements, and values that have—”