18. Alexander

I'll be there. Those three words injected an unexpected thrill into the upcoming coronation, lightening the heavy cloak of duty that's been my constant companion since assuming the throne. The weight of responsibility—ruling a nation—has been mine for a couple of months now, but the idea of Nessa witnessing my formal coronation adds a layer of personal significance to the ceremony. Walking down the grand hall to the throne, under the scrutinizing gaze of government officials, global leaders, and my citizens, to then sit and wear the crown my father once wore— it all suddenly feels even more daunting, more real.

"Are they here yet?" The sudden intrusion of Henrick and Astrid into my office snaps me out of my reverie. They're a striking reminder of our father, sharing his dark curls, with Astrid looking almost like Henrick's twin despite their two-year age gap. And here I am, the outlier with my mother's light-brown hair and green eyes, yet the one burdened and blessed with the crown.

I feign annoyance, "I've told you, barging into the king's office isn't proper. I am the king, after all."

Henrick rolls his eyes, striding in with Astrid on his heels. "Chill, it's just us. No need for the royal act."

Their ease brings a smile to my face. "Just remember, unless you want another lecture from Hank on proper etiquette around royalty, you might want to knock next time."

Henrick visibly cringes at the reminder, and I can't help but chuckle. Our relationship has improved significantly since our heart-to-heart, and it feels like I've truly reconnected with my brother.

"So, are they here?" Astrid, ever the excited one, takes a seat, her curiosity barely contained.

"Who?" I play along.

"Your American friends!" she nearly bursts, anticipation lighting up her eyes.

My gaze flicks to Henrick, suspicious.

He raises his hands in defense. "I didn't say anything."

"He didn't. I don't know anything about Vanessa."

Caught, Henrick grimaces, and Astrid quickly apologizes with a sheepish grin.

"They're due to land in about an hour," I inform them, unable to suppress a smile at the mention of Vanessa. "You'll meet them all then."

Astrid's excitement visibly grows at the news, her romantic heart always on her sleeve, likely fueled by her endless consumption of K-dramas.

Since receiving that text, part of me braced for a follow-up message, one where she might reconsider her decision to attend the coronation. It's not that I doubt her willingness to support me—I do trust her. It's just that acknowledging the enormity of stepping into my world all at once is daunting even for me.

But then, today, as the plane took off, I found myself checking the flight manifest. Seeing her name among the passengers did more than confirm her arrival; it stirred a mix of excitement and apprehension within me. She's only known the side of me I chose to reveal, the version of me that existed outside the confines of my royal obligations. Now, she's about to be immersed in a world starkly different from anything she's known—a world I navigate daily, but one that's far removed from her reality. My biggest hope is that she won't be overwhelmed by it all because if she isn't, I'm clear about what I want next: to keep her in my life, somehow.

"What are you scheming over there?" Henrick's voice breaks into my thoughts.

Astrid, ever eager to lighten the mood, chimes in with a grin. "Looking for romantic pointers? Look no further; I'm your expert."

"I'll remember that," I reply, noting the genuine enthusiasm in Astrid's eyes, a rare sight since our father's passing. It's good to see her spirits lifted, and I'm keen to maintain this atmosphere.

Henrick scoffs teasingly. "Yeah, if you're aiming for bubble tea dates and hand-holding sessions."

Astrid's retort is quick, her cheeks blooming with embarrassment. "There's more to it than that, Henrick!"

"You seem quite informed on the subject, little brother," I observe, not missing the chance to turn the tables on Henrick, who now sports a blush of his own.

Right then, my computer pings—a reminder of my impending meeting with Hank and the prime minister. Reluctantly, I stand, acutely aware of the significance of this encounter. The prime minister hasn't exactly hidden his reservations about my youthful ascendancy to the throne. At twenty-two, I understand his concerns, but I'm determined to prove him, and any other doubters, wrong.

"I've got to meet with the prime minister, but listen," I say, my tone turning serious as I address Henrick and then Astrid, "if my friends arrive before I'm back, be on your best behavior. Don't scare them—or her—away." My mind whispers Vanessa's name, the unspoken focal point of my request. "And please, no antics that might tip off Mom. I need this time."

With that, I leave them, my steps heavy with the weight of leadership yet lightened by the prospect of seeing Vanessa again, hopeful for what her presence at the coronation might bring.

"Excuse me for the delay," I announce as I enter the room, the two men rising in acknowledgement.

Hank gives me a look that could cut through steel, his disapproval evident without a word being spoken. I can almost hear him lecturing in my head, A king is never late. A king doesn't apologize. But as our gazes lock, my resolve hardens. Well, this one does, I counter silently, holding his stare with a quiet defiance.

The prime minister, perhaps sensing the tension, quickly extends his hand, breaking the moment. "Thank you for keeping our weekly meeting, especially so close to the coronation, Your Majesty."

"It's essential," I respond, shaking his hand before taking my seat. "The nation doesn't pause for ceremonies, and honestly, my part is simple enough—walk and sit." I try to inject a bit of lightness into the situation, gesturing for him to sit as well.

His laughter is a bit forced, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Hank's disapproving glance. Choosing to ignore it, I lean forward, eager to shift the focus to matters at hand. "So, what's on the agenda?"

The meeting drags on, but the topic of environmental conservation is too close to my heart to excuse myself early. It's a cause my father championed, one I'm determined to carry forward. By the time we wrap up, my friends have already arrived. I stand, leaving the conference room behind with a sense of urgency, my steps quickening as I head toward the salon, where I expect to find everyone gathered.

However, upon entering, it's clear that only half the party is present. The boys and Henrick are lounging around, but there's no sign of the girls—most notably, Nessa and Astrid are missing.

"King Alexander," Cole greets me with an exaggerated bow, prompting a snicker from Henrick.

"I like him," Henrick declares, amusement evident in his tone.

"You're the only one," I retort, unable to suppress a scowl.

"Your brother obviously has far better taste than you," Cole fires back, rolling his eyes at my disdain.

I glance at Ethan, seeking an ally, only to receive a noncommittal shrug—his subtle revenge for the white lie about my true identity.

With a sigh, I decide to cut to the chase. "Where are the girls?" I ask, bypassing their banter.

"The girls or Nessa?" Cole probes, a glint of mischief in his eye—clearly, this is his form of payback.

"Oh, you know about Vanessa?" Henrick jumps in, curiosity piqued.

Cole drapes an arm around Henrick's shoulders. "Oh yes, totally. I'll tell you everything you want to?—"

I cut him off, attempting to assert my authority. "Are you forgetting I'm the king of this country?"

Cole pauses, only to burst into laughter. "Ah, good one! Dude, I couldn't care less. Once you share a shower with someone?—"

"We absolutely didn't!" I interject hastily. "We shared showers—plural—in the locker room, nothing more."

"Tomato, tomahto," Cole dismisses with a nonchalant shrug.

Frustration mounting and patience wearing thin, I'm about to press further when Ethan, perhaps sensing my growing irritation, decides to intervene.

"Your sister took them to the panoramic view about ten minutes ago," Ethan reveals, offering me a lifeline.

"Ah, come on, traitor! You said you were in to torture the kingling," Cole complains, his plot foiled.

Ethan waves off the accusation. "We have four days for that. Cut the man a break."

I shoot Ethan a grateful look before casting a stern glance at the two instigators. Without another word, I head toward the south stairs, my steps quickening as I make my way to the palace roof, hopeful yet anxious about what—or whom—I'll find there.

Reaching the rooftop, the presence of two royal guards by the door is the first thing I notice, but my attention quickly shifts to the group of women, their backs to me, engaged in observing something toward the north. My sister is animatedly pointing out a feature in the landscape.

"Please leave us," I direct the guards, not taking my eyes off the women. They comply, exiting discreetly, leaving me with a moment of anticipation.

As the group turns to face me, my heart momentarily leaps. My gaze locks with Nessa's, and for a second, everything else blurs. But then, confusion sets in. She looks different—her hair, normally a vibrant mix of silver and purple, is now a natural brown, and her usual goth attire is replaced with blue jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt. It's Nessa, but it feels like I'm seeing her through a new lens.

"Did you have a nice trip?" I address them, though my question is really for Nessa.

She nods, a simple gesture that sends a flurry of emotions through me.

Thankfully, Eva intervenes. "Astrid, could you show us our room?" Her timing couldn't be more perfect, and I'm silently sending her a thousand thanks.

"I'd like a moment with Vanessa, if that's okay," I say, my words hanging in the air with hope and apprehension.

Astrid, sensing the gravity of the moment, doesn't argue. She ushers the other girls back inside, leaving Nessa and me alone under the vast sky.

I take a moment, then step closer to her, every fiber of my being wanting to bridge the gap with an embrace. Yet, I hold back, unsure of the welcome my touch might receive.

"What's up with the hair?" I find myself blurting out, curiosity getting the better of me.

She reflexively touches the wig, a slight frown forming. "Oh! It's a wig. I didn't want to stand out too much."

I gently catch a lock of the wig between my fingers, feeling its unfamiliar texture. "I want you to stand out, Nessa. I need you to be the real you here," I express, hoping she understands the depth of my words.

Her gaze drifts to the designer suit I'm wearing. "Is that the real you?" she challenges, her voice filled with curiosity and skepticism.

I respond by taking her hand and guiding us both to sit down. "This suit? It's just one part of me," I admit. "Living in the US for three years, away from my royal duties, I discovered a sense of peace in being seen for who I am, not for my title or the expectations that come with it. It was freeing, being appreciated for me and not my status."

She squeezes my hand, and I lift it to kiss the back gently, an acknowledgment of the connection we share.

"I knew I'd have to return to this life, but then I met you, and everything changed," I continue, a smile breaking through. "You showed me a side of life I'd forgotten and made me embrace chaos and genuine living. I lied about who I was because I was afraid of losing that recognition from you, the real me, not the king or the facade I present. I never meant to hurt you. I would never do that because you matter far too much to me. Far more than I could have anticipated, and this is why I needed you here because no matter what you believe, you know me, probably better than anyone else."

She seems to ponder my words, then challenges softly, "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Are you, though? This isn't you," I press, gesturing to her attire. "Tomorrow, when I step into my role officially, I want the Nessa I know in the room—the wild rose who sees me for who I truly am."

In response, she removes the wig, revealing her natural self. "I'm right here."

Content, I whisper, "Perfect," and kiss her hand once more. "I have to show you to your room now. With all the dignitaries around, I can't stay with you tonight. But before you leave, we need to talk."

She observes me, always trying to read the unspoken truths in my expressions. "Yes, we should."

Reluctantly, I release her hand, conscious of the rumors our closeness might spark. Not for my sake—I'm indifferent to the gossip about my feelings—but for hers, to shield her from the harsh scrutiny of the press before she's ready.

Descending to the royal quarter in silence, the weight of the moment rests heavily between us. I had toyed with the idea of having her stay closer, in the royal wing itself, but the potential for gossip held me back. Instead, I arranged for all my friends, including her, to be housed here, a compromise that still keeps her close.

We pause at the door to her assigned room, and I point down the hall. "My room is at the end of the corridor," I inform her, hinting at the proximity, at the thin barrier of space and duty that separates us. "I'll see you later," I add, hoping the words carry more promise than a simple farewell.

As I start to walk away, I can feel her gaze fixed on me, a tangible connection that halts my retreat. Turning back, our eyes lock, and a flood of emotions held back by dams of duty and fear breaks free. Without a second thought, my hands move, almost of their own accord, conveying the words my voice cannot carry. I love you. It's a silent confession, but in this quiet space between us, it rings louder than any spoken declaration.

Then, with a heart both heavy and light, I turn and walk away, the echo of my confession lingering in the air, a bridge across the distance I've just placed between us.