Page 107 of Throne Off Course

Alexander stepped closer, his tone quieter but firmer. “Tell me the truth. Were you punishing me for his mistakes?”

The Queen’s face remained composed, but her silence stretched a moment too long—a tell, a crack in her armor.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, but something beneath it wasn’t.

“You are not your father.”

Alexander studied her, searching her face. “No,” he agreed. “I’m not. But you thought I was. And that scared you.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Your father was a man who made his decisions with his heart instead of his head.” She inhaled sharply. “And it nearly destroyed him.”

There it was.

For all her talk of control, of power, of ruling with logic instead of emotion—she had been afraid. Afraid that Alexander would follow the same path, that he would let his heart lead him to where his father had fallen.

Alexander moved to the window, looking out at the gardens where he’d paced just weeks ago, trying to find the courage to stand his ground. When he turned back to face her, his expression had softened.

“I know there was distance between you and Father,” he said quietly. “I saw it growing up—how he could charm everyone in a room except you.”

Something flickered in the Queen’s expression—avulnerability she rarely showed.

“Your father…” she began, then paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. “He was honest with me from the beginning.” Her voice took on a brittle quality. “Before we married, he told me there was someone else. That he loved her, not me.”

Alexander stared at her, genuinely shocked. He’d known that his father was already in love with Madeline before he’d married Eleanor but he hadn’t realized that he’d tried to be honest about it.

“But we married anyway,” she continued, her tone measured once more. “Because that was our duty. Because that was what was expected.”

He took a step toward her desk. “I didn’t know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw something flicker in her eyes—surprise at being seen, at having someone acknowledge a wound she’d buried so deep.

The Queen’s lips thinned. “He thought honesty was a kindness. It wasn’t.”

She rose from her chair and walked to the window, looking out at the grounds where she had once walked with her husband. For a moment, the composed facade slipped.

“He tried, Alexander. I’ll give him that much.” Her voice was softer now, tinged with an old regret. “He wanted to make our marriage work. Asked for time to get over her. Said he could learn to love me.”

“What happened?” Alexander asked, though part of him already knew.

The Queen turned back to face him, her profile sharp against the light. “I couldn’t bear it. The way he’d look at me, always searching for something—someone—else.” Her hands claspedtightly together. “So I pushed him away. Built walls so high he couldn’t possibly scale them. I was young and proud and refused to be anyone’s consolation prize.”

Alexander waited, sensing there was more.

“Eventually, he stopped trying.” Her voice hardened again, protective layers reforming. “And when I discovered he had returned to her—this woman he had supposedly left behind—I wasn’t even surprised.”

“Now I understand why you’ve been so determined to control everything—why when you look at me with Emilia, all you can see is history repeating itself.” Alexander said, genuinely moved by this revelation.

He paused, studying her carefully. The pieces were finally coming together—the coldness toward his father, her rigid insistence on duty above all, and her inexplicable hostility toward…

“That’s why you’ve always hated Sebastian, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. “Not just because he exists, but because of who his mother was.”

The Queen’s posture stiffened, her expression hardening at the connection Alexander had made.

“Sebastian Hawthorne is not a topic for discussion.”

“He’s my friend, Mother,” Alexander insisted. “He’s been one of my only true friends. And no matter how much you’ve tried to keep us apart—”

“He is the living embodiment of your father’s betrayal,” she cut in, her voice like ice. “Your father’s bastard. The son of the woman he truly loved.”