Page 82 of Throne Off Course

She dipped into a small curtsy, the gesture somehow both proper and teasing. “The pleasure was mine, Your Highness.”

As they separated, Thomas approached, seamlessly placing himself between them and the approaching photographers.

“Your Highness, the Queen is expecting you,” he said, voice pitched for those nearby to hear. Then, turning to Emilia with practiced courtesy, “Miss Carter, I believe Lord Sebastian is waiting for you near the drinks. May I escort you?”

Emilia glanced between them, understanding the maneuver for what it was. “That would be most kind, Mr. Blackwood.”

Alexander watched as Thomas offered his arm to Emilia, guiding her away from the dance floor—and away from the impending confrontation with either the Queen or Genevieve. It was a small kindness, but in that moment, Alexander feltprofoundly grateful for it.

Their eyes met one last time across the room—a look that held everything they couldn’t say. Then she turned away, and he squared his shoulders, preparing to face the consequences of the one perfect dance they had allowed themselves.

From across the room, Sebastian raised his glass in a silent toast, his expression caught between amusement and concern. Beside him, several members of the press whispered among themselves, their gazes fixed on the prince who, for once, looked fully present—alive in a way they hadn’t seen in months.

As Alexander made his way toward his mother, he knew with absolute certainty that tomorrow’s headlines would be merciless. But for the first time in his royal life, the thought didn’t fill him with dread.

Because for three minutes—the length of a single dance—he had chosen what he wanted over what was expected.

And even knowing what would follow, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Genevieve intercepted him before he could reach the Queen, her movement so smooth it appeared coincidental to anyone watching.

“That was quite the display,” she said, her voice ice-cold despite her practiced smile.

Alexander met her gaze steadily. “It was a dance, Genevieve.”

“It was a public embarrassment.” Her smile never faltered, though her eyes hardened. “One that undermines our arrangement.”

He didn’t reply. Because they both knew what his dance with Emilia had been.

Where dancing with Emilia had felt natural—something instinctive, something he hadn’t even had to think about—standing here with Genevieve was like being encased in ice. Every gesture calculated, every word measured.

Genevieve lowered her voice. “Your mother spent years arranging this match. Generations of political alliances depend on our union.” Her gloved fingers tightened around her champagne flute. “And you jeopardize it all for a dance with a commoner?”

“She has a name,” Alexander said quietly.

“And you have obligations,” Genevieve countered swiftly. “Obligations that supersede whatever misguided infatuation you’ve developed.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t the time or place for this discussion.”

“No,” she agreed, her smile turning sharp. “The time for this discussion was before you made a spectacle of yourself on the dance floor.” She glanced toward where the Queen was waiting, her impatience becoming visible even from across the room. “Your mother wants a word. I imagine she’s as thrilled with your behavior as I am.”

Alexander followed her gaze, shoulders straightening instinctively. “What do you expect me to do now?”

“What you’ve always done. What you were raised to do.” Her voice was soft but firm. “You will go to your mother. You will apologize for the indiscretion. And tomorrow, you will issue a statement reaffirming our engagement.”

The words echoed what his mother had been demanding for years. What he had always eventually conceded to.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, the question hanging between them like a challenge.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then I would remind you that the agreement between our families extends beyond marriage. My father’s financial support of three royal foundations would be… reconsidered.”

The implied threat was clear. This wasn’t just about their marriage—it was about control, about power, about the institution itself.

“I see,” he said, his expression carefully neutral.

“I hope you do.” Genevieve adjusted her already perfect posture. “This little rebellion of yours needs to end, Alexander. The girl is a distraction you cannot afford.”

“Her name is Emilia,” he said again, more firmly this time.