Page 57 of Throne Off Course

“Oh.” Emilia’s voice was small. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be delighted to see the monarchy functioning exactly as you’ve always criticized—cold, calculated, putting politics before people.”

“That’s not fair,” she said quietly.

“Isn’t it?” His frustration was building now, fueled by sleepless nights and his mother’s ultimatums. “Do you think it’s easy? Having every part of your life decided for you?”

Emilia’s sympathy hardened into something else. “No, I don’t. But forgive me if I don’t weep for the man with a golden crown and all its privileges.”

Alexander exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. “You think I don’t understand struggle? That I don’t know what it’s like to have no real choices?”

Emilia let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “No, I think you don’t understand what it’s like to have no safety net. You get to call your duty a sacrifice. For people like me, it’s survival.”

His jaw tightened. “And you think that makes you better than me? That because I was born into privilege, I don’t get to be miserable about it?”

“Miserable?” She scoffed. “Alexander, you have palaces, security, people catering to your every whim. Forgive me if I don’t shed tears for the poor little prince who’s sad that he doesn’t get to have everything go his way.”

“Oh, right. Because my life is so easy,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Because having every move scrutinized, every mistake amplified, every moment of my life dictated by others is just so convenient.”

“At least you don’t have to wonder if you’ll still have a job tomorrow,” she countered. “Or if one mistake will ruin you. At least you’re not disposable.”

Alexander’s expression darkened. “You really think that, don’t you?” His voice dropped lower, something sharper cutting through the heat of their argument. “That I’m untouchable? That I don’t know what it’s like to feel like you could lose everything?”

She folded her arms. “Tell me, Alexander, when was the last time you worried about rent? About how you were going to afford next month? About the wrong person taking issue with you and deciding your career is over?”

“I don’t have to worry about rent, no,” he admitted, eyes flashing. “But I do have to worry about what happens if I fail. If I make the wrong call, if I let the wrong person in, if I say one thing I shouldn’t. My failures don’t just cost me. They cost my family. My country. There is no off-ramp for me, Emilia. No way out.”

Her expression flickered—just for a second—but then she squared her shoulders. “And yet you still want my sympathy?”

“I don’t want your sympathy,” he snapped. “I want you to stop pretending that my life is so perfect just because it looks like it from the outside.”

“And I want you to stop acting like you’re the only one who’s trapped,” she shot back.

Silence crackled between them, thick and heavy.

Alexander let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “You make it sound so simple. Like I can just—what? Walk away? Do whatever I want, damn the consequences?”

Emilia’s chin lifted defiantly. “Maybe not. But you could stop standing here pretending your life is some unbearable tragedy when the rest of us are actually struggling to survive.”

“And you could stop acting like you’re the only one who knows what struggle is.” His voice was low now, rough around the edges. “Like you have the right to judge me from the outside, as if you’d last a day in my world.”

Her breath caught. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t want your world.”

“Then stop pretending you understand it,” he shot back, stepping closer. “Stop acting like you have me all figured out, you have no idea.”

She held her ground, jaw tight. “And if I don’t?”

His eyes burned into hers. “Just stop.”

Her pulse pounded, heat rising to her cheeks. She knew she was being childish but she couldn’t help herself. “Make me.”

It happened in an instant.

One second, they were standing there, glaring at each other, breath short, hearts pounding—and then his hands were on her face, warm against her skin, and his mouth crashed into hers.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It was desperate, reckless, years of restraint shattering like glass. Like drowning for toolong and finally finding air. Like pretending not to want this and finally stopping the lie.

And the worst part?