16. Alexander

"You need to be ready by eight tonight. There's a gathering of all the heads of state invited for King Frederik's funeral," Hank informs me, handing over a clipboard as we navigate the corridors toward the main room. Despite our complicated past, Hank has become my adviser, and his guidance has been invaluable during this time.

His voice continues in the background, but the flood of responsibilities quickly becomes too much. "I need a minute," I interrupt, veering right to escape into what was once my father's office—no, it's mine now. The king's office.

As I close the door behind me, the atmosphere shifts. The air seems to thicken, suffocating me with a sudden grip of anxiety. My fingers fumble with the tie, pulling it loose, and I unbutton my shirt collar, craving the slightest breath of relief.

"King Frederik died of a heart incident," they had told me upon my return. He had been struggling for some time with plans for surgery that summer. I was oblivious, kept in the dark, but a nagging thought haunts me—could his death be partly my fault? If I had been here fulfilling my duties, would he have prioritized his health over waiting for me to take up my role?

The weight of unanswered questions, all the things I need to set right, forces me down until I'm sitting on the floor. Head leaning back against the door, I close my eyes, just for a moment, lost in the sea of obligations and regrets. And then there's Nessa.

The thought of her floods in, and with it, a pang of longing. Just having her here, to hold her close, would ease the burden. Her presence, the look of fierce confidence, would make everything more bearable.

The realization is scary, especially based on the distance between us, and I'm not only talking about the physical distance; that's actually an easy one to fix. No, I'm talking about the way I left things and the impossibility of returning, at least for a while, causing this betrayal to fester.

People always let her down—they've betrayed her and put her last on the priority list, and I know that as far as she's concerned, I probably did the exact same thing.

I reach into my jacket to look at the phone I used back in the US.

Nessa: No problem. Please accept my condolences on your recent loss. Wishing you and your family strength in this challenging period.

This message is polite but cold. Emotionless. Everything Nessa is not, and I would much rather get a flow of insults despite being in pain from my loss than such generic, empty, well-wishing.

I scroll down.

Me: Are you free? I'll call you.

*missed call*

*missed call*

Me: Nessa, talk to me. I'm sorry.

Me: I can't come back for a while, but I need to talk to you. Please just pick up.

*missed call*

*missed call*

*missed call*

Me: I'll be here when you're ready. Call me.

That was two days ago, and I still have not heard anything.

The guys are angry with me, but at least they talk to me. And though they assure me Nessa is okay, I know better. She's a master at concealing her true feelings, and I'm left worrying, caught between my duties here and the unresolved matters of the heart.

My fingers linger over her name on the screen, toying with the idea that maybe, just maybe, if I call in the dead of night, she might pick up. Even the thought of her immediately hanging up seems better than this silence; just hearing her voice would be a balm to the restlessness gnawing at me.

A soft knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts, halting the half-formed plan. "Alex?" The voice on the other side is unmistakable.

My mother. The one person whose intrusion I could never resent.

With a resigned sigh, I tuck the phone away and push myself off the floor. "Come in," I call out, more weary than welcoming.

She enters—a vision of somber elegance in her mourning attire, her natural pallor accentuated to an almost ethereal extent. Despite the stoic mask she wears for the world, the tightness around her eyes betrays her true feelings. Their marriage had been a love match, a rarity in our circles.

"Hank said I'd find you here," she murmurs, softly closing the door behind her, sealing us away from the rest of the world.

A bitter smile tugs at my lips. "Did he now? Come to lodge a complaint about the new king, has he?" I stuff my hands into my pockets, trying to find some comfort in the gesture. "Please, tell him I'm terribly sorry for not living up to his expectations."

"Alex," she sighs, the layers of royal decorum momentarily falling away as she takes a seat across the desk. I find myself leaning against it, the chair behind it still too much my father's to claim as my own.

"I'm trying, Mom," I say, the weight of my new role pressing down on me.

She nods, understanding yet concerned. "I hear you're altering the funeral plans. Son, you can't?—"

"They're not changes, per se, I've simply removed Sonya Bjornsen from the planning." My frown deepens at the mention of her name. The impropriety of her coming to my place. Announcing my father's death and then falsely claiming she was my fiancée, especially right after I pleasured my woman, was… I shake the thought away.

"Alex, the palace, the embassy—they couldn't reach you. Sonya, being a court member and in New York, it… it made sense at the time."

I shake my head, adamant. "Her presumed role at the funeral, her place at the table—it sends the wrong message."

"Alex," she starts, her tone a mix of caution and concern.

"I am not marrying Sonya Bjornsen," I state unequivocally.

Her expression shifts from sorrow to worry, and though a twinge of guilt pierces me, my resolve is unshaken. "Alex, I understand we're all grieving, but now isn't the time for rash decisions. Let's just give it time, let things settle, and?—"

"No, Mother," I interrupt firmly. "This isn't a decision made in grief. This arrangement with Sonya was concocted by Father and the council long before I could even understand such commitments. I kept silent because it never seemed to matter."

Until now.

How could I commit to a life preordained by others, knowing what it means to truly connect with someone? Knowing how the mere presence of the right person can breathe life into your very soul?

"Is this about that girl?" she probes, her voice full of curiosity and a hint of disapproval.

I stiffen at her question. "What girl?" My voice is a guarded echo, betraying nothing of the turmoil her mention stirs inside me.

She offers me a sad smile, the kind that knows too much of sacrifice and love. "There's always a girl, isn't there? I was that girl once. But Alex, even then, things were different for me. I was still of British nobility. I was… well, I was me."

I cut through her reflections with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Girl or no girl, it doesn't change anything. I won't marry Sonya. It's as simple as not wanting to, no other reason needed."

She rises slowly, the gravity of my words settling between us. "Very well. If that's your decision," she concedes, her voice carrying the weight of acceptance.

"It is," I affirm, my resolve unwavering. "I'll have Hank arrange a meeting with her and her father next week. We'll clarify things then."

Glancing at my watch, I add, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to catch up with Hank and his notoriously tight schedule."

Her parting words stop me in my tracks. "I love you, Alexander. You are my dearest treasure." Her eyes, misty with unshed tears, meet mine, conveying a depth of belief in me. "You will be a great king," she asserts, her touch gentle on my cheek.

"At least one of us is sure of that," I half joke, half confess, in this rare moment of vulnerability with her.

"Perhaps you should speak with Henrick and Astrid. They need your support," she advises softly.

I give a quiet nod. My attention has been elsewhere, not out of disinterest but overwhelmed by the weight of everything else. Yet the line between personal desires and kingly duties is clear. Duty, as it seems, always takes precedence.

Steering myself toward Hank's office rather than seeking the comfort of my siblings' presence, I feel a profound connection to my father for the first time. I'm beginning to grasp the difficult decisions he faced, the sacrifices he made. Walking this path, the weight of the crown feels real, and the legacy of leadership becomes not just an inheritance but a choice—a choice to prioritize the needs of many over the desires of one's own heart.

Hank pauses, looking up from his laptop perched on the console beside my desk. I've finally settled into the leather chair, a seat that remained untouched by me until today, two weeks after my father's funeral.

"The coronation scheduled for early June isn't going to work for me. I've got a friend's wedding to attend," I explain, trying to sound as casual about it as possible, but the thought of seeing Nessa again makes my heart race.

His eyebrows shoot up, clearly taken aback. "You're still intending to go?"

"Did I give you any impression I wouldn't?" I counter, a bit sharper than intended.

"But, Your Highness," Hank starts, his voice a mix of concern and incredulity, "as the king, you can't simply travel freely. The logistics involved are significant."

I dismiss his concerns with a wave of my hand. "I won't be attending as King Alexander the Third; I'm going as Liam. It'll be low-key."

Hank looks skeptical, and he starts to protest but quiets down under my stern look. "Traveling isn't as straightforward as before. The royal plane's movements are closely watched, and the media will jump on any hint of your whereabouts."

"Then don't use the royal plane. Send me to New York," I insist, my patience wearing thin.

"I can't just—" Hank begins, but he's cut off as I slam my hand down on the desk, a rare display of frustration. "I am going to the US, Hank. Make it happen."

He closes his laptop with a deliberate slowness, resignation in his eyes. "Very well, Your Majesty. I'll make the arrangements," he concedes.

After Hank's departure, I lean back in the chair, a heavy sigh escaping me as I rub my face wearily. The burden of the crown seems heavier today, its demands clashing more fiercely with my personal life than ever before. Glancing at a Post-it on my desk reminds me of the day's second challenge, my brother.

Heading toward my sibling's quarters, my frustration is tempered by thoughts of Nessa. Her influence on me has been profound, teaching me patience and understanding, especially toward Henrick. There's a bit of Nessa in him—the hurt, the feeling of rejection—and I wonder if we've inadvertently made him feel sidelined. Seeing Nessa's struggles has inspired a shift in my approach.

You'd be proud, Nessa, I muse, knocking on Henrick's door, the thud of death metal vibrating through the wood.

With a roll of my eyes, I enter his weed-scented room to find him sprawled on the bed. I head straight for the sound system, pulling the plug.

"You mind!" he snaps, sitting up. His mock reverence as he stands makes him sway slightly. "What brings King Alexander to my humble abode?" he slurs, his sarcasm palpable.

Ignoring his theatrics and the offensive wallpaper on his computer, I take a seat. "St. Leopold called. You're on probation for your grades and behavior."

He collapses back onto the bed with a snort. "Who cares? I'm not going back."

"Okay," I agree, surprising even myself.

He looks at me, confusion overtaking his features. "Okay?"

"Yes," I confirm. "If you don't want to go back, you don't have to. Copenhagen has plenty of reputable schools where you can finish your senior year."

Suspicion replaces his initial hostility. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," I assure him.

His skepticism deepens. "And I don't have to join the military academy next year?"

Holding back a lecture on family legacy, I simply nod. "Okay."

His brow furrows. "What's going on, Alex?" The shift from his earlier, more sarcastic tone is notable. It's a small win.

"I've tasted freedom. I think it's only fair you get to experience the same," I admit, acknowledging the shift in our dynamic.

"Dad would shit bullets," he mutters, a touch of rebellion in his voice.

I cringe at his choice of words but resist the urge to chastise him. "Dad's not here, but I am. I never wanted you to be unhappy, Henrick. Neither did he. Taking on the weight of a nation is a burden he understood well. After just two weeks in his role, my perspective on his choices has changed dramatically." Approaching the door, I pause, wanting my next words to sink in. "Think about what you really want. Once you've figured it out, we'll make it happen. Okay?"

His gaze catches mine, a storm of emotions swirling. "We had a fight," he blurts out, shifting the conversation abruptly.

"We always fight," I respond, perplexed.

"Not you, him," he clarifies, his voice heavy. "Dad and I… the day he…" The words trail off, choked by emotion, and I suddenly understand the escalation of his rebellious acts. Guilt and self-loathing.

"He wanted me to return home. I refused," I share, leaning against the doorframe, a moment of vulnerability between us.

"You said no? But you're the perfect son," he challenges, disbelief coloring his tone.

I can't suppress a smile at the description. "Yes, I did. And I've wondered if my decision played a part in how things ended. But, Henrick, your argument didn't cause Dad's death, and my absence didn't either. He was a great king, prioritizing his nation above all else, a choice that's admirable from the outside but complicated from within."

Henrick sits up straighter, intrigued. "Are you questioning Dad's decisions?"

"Not questioning, just acknowledging that no one's perfect. Not you, not me, and not Dad. We shouldn't let guilt consume us. He knew we loved him as he loved us. I'll make mistakes, but I'm doing my best. That's all I ask of you too. Find your path and know I'll support you every step of the way."

"You've changed."

"I have." The transformation within me can largely be attributed to Vanessa Caldwell.

"I like this version of you."

A smile finds its way across my face. "Is that because I'm yielding to your wishes?"

He lets out a snort, his familiar, playful grin returning. "Partly, but mostly, it's because you're actually listening."

"I've learned from the best." I reflect, marveling at how Vanessa, living in a world without sound, has been my greatest teacher in listening.

"Thank her for me next time you see her," he suggests.

"And how did you figure out it's a her?" I probe, amused.

"I may be young and reckless, but I'm neither blind nor foolish," he quips with a dismissive shake of his head.

I laugh. "Fair enough, I'll tell her."

"What's her name?" He asks just as I grab the door handle.

"Vanessa." Just saying her name causes a crippling pain in her absence.

"It will cause havoc."

"I'm aware," I acknowledge.

"And does that bother you?"

I pause, offering him a contemplative smile. "I'm not quite sure."