Chapter Text
The variables were wrong.
Crown Princess Sophia of Verdenia sat at her desk in the Royal Wing, staring at the spreadsheet that Lara had printed out for her. It was a perfectly formatted document. It had color-coded columns, clear objectives, and a timeline that accounted for every minute of the day.
It was the "Reconciliation Strategy."
And it was failing. Catastrophically.
"I do not understand," Sophia said. Her voice was calm, but her hand was gripping her fountain pen so tightly that her knuckles were the color of bleached bone. "The data suggested that she appreciates acts of service and high-value cultural artifacts."
Lara, standing by the window with a tablet tucked under her arm, didn't turn around. "She isn't a trade delegation, Sophia. She’s your fiancée."
"She is a dignitary," Sophia corrected, looking at the rejected items on the side table. "And dignitaries respond to diplomacy."
The evidence suggested otherwise.
At 08:00, Sophia had authorized the delivery of a sapphire bracelet—Cerulian blue, to remind Manon of the ocean. Status: Returned at 08:15. Note attached: "I have enough jewelry. I do not have an apology."
At 10:00, Sophia had sent a first-edition volume of The History of Cerulian Naval Architecture. It was rare. It was expensive. It was thoughtful. Status: Returned at 10:12. Note attached: "I don't read naval history. My brother does. You would know that if you asked me instead of your briefing officer."
At 12:00, Sophia had tried the nuclear option. She had drafted a revised schedule for the upcoming month, blocking out three entire evenings for "Unstructured Leisure Time." Status: Returned at 12:05. It had been ripped in half.
Sophia looked at the torn paper on her desk. The jagged tear went right through the words Friday Night.
The palace was quiet. Usually, Sophia loved the silence. Silence was efficient. Silence meant that the machinery of the state was running smoothly, that no alarms were ringing, that no crises were demanding her attention.
But this silence was different. It wasn't the silence of peace. It was the silence of a vacuum. It was the sound of a room that was missing its heartbeat.
For six months, Manon Bannerman had been the noise in Sophia’s life. The hum of a hummed song in the hallway. The clack-clack-clack of boots that weren't regulation. The scent of jasmine that lingered in the air long after she left a room.
Now, Manon was staying in the Guest Wing. And the Royal Wing felt like a tomb.
"She is irrational," Sophia whispered. She set the pen down. It clicked against the mahogany. Click. "I am attempting to rectify the error. I am attempting to bridge the gap. Why is she refusing to engage with the solution?"
Lara finally turned around. She looked tired. Being the Chief of Staff was hard; being the Chief of Staff to a heartbreak victim who processed emotions like a malfunctioning computer was harder.
"Because you’re trying to solve a feeling with a spreadsheet, Sophia," Lara said gently. "You’re treating her like a budget deficit. You think if you just move enough assets into her column, she’ll balance out."
"That is how relationships work," Sophia argued. "Reciprocity. Stability. Order."
"That is how alliances work," Lara corrected. She walked over to the desk and placed a hand on the stack of rejected gifts. "Manon doesn't want an alliance. She wants you."
"She has me," Sophia snapped. "I am right here."
"No. She has the Crown Princess. She has the Heir. She has the woman who told her she was a distraction." Lara’s eyes were sharp, unyielding. "She wants the girl who ate chestnuts in the rain. Do you remember her?"
Sophia froze. The chestnuts. The sleet. The cold bench. The way Manon had laughed—a sound that had cracked something open in Sophia’s chest, something she hadn't known was there.
“You have to peel them while they’re hot, Your Highness. Otherwise, the skin sticks.”
Sophia looked at the digital clock on her wall. 14:45.
"I have the Budget Review at 15:00," Sophia said automatically. "The Minister of Finance is presenting the quarterly projections for the grain import tariffs."
It was an important meeting. Crucial. The tariffs affected the northern provinces. The stability of the realm depended on grain.
"Yes," Lara said. "You do. And after that, you have a briefing on the border security. And after that, a dinner with the Bishop."
Sophia looked at the schedule. The blocks of time were solid, impenetrable walls. They were her armor. If she stayed inside the schedule, she was safe. If she stayed inside the schedule, she didn't have to feel the phantom limb ache in her chest where Manon used to be.
But the schedule was also a cage.
"Cancel it," Sophia said.
Lara blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"The Budget Review," Sophia said. She stood up. Her legs felt numb. "Cancel it."
"Sophia," Lara said, her voice dropping to a warning tone. "You haven't missed a Budget Review since you were nineteen. The Minister has flown in from the coast."
"Tell him the ceiling collapsed," Sophia said, grabbing her laptop. "Tell him I have the plague. Tell him I have been abducted by aliens. I do not care."
"He won't believe any of that."
"Then tell him the truth," Sophia said, walking toward the door. She stopped at the coat rack, where a brown paper bag—greasy, smelling of woodsmoke—was sitting. Megan had dropped it off an hour ago, smugly, without a word.
Sophia picked up the bag. It was warm.
"Tell him," Sophia said, opening the door, "that the Crown Princess is currently prioritizing an unscheduled variable."
The walk to the Guest Wing was a descent.
The Royal Wing was on the third floor—high, airy, full of light and guards. The Guest Wing was on the first floor, in the east corridor. It was where they put the people they needed to house but didn't necessarily want to see.
It was the Coventry of the Palace.
Sophia walked down the Grand Staircase. Her heels struck the marble with military precision. Click. Click. Click. Guards snapped to attention as she passed. Maids curtsied, pressing themselves against the walls, eyes wide. They whispered as she passed.
“Is she ill?” “Where is her security detail?” “Why is she carrying a paper bag?”
Sophia ignored them. She stared straight ahead. She was in "Crisis Mode." Her heart rate was elevated (110 bpm). Her palms were damp. Her mind was racing through potential outcomes.
Outcome A: Manon refuses to open the door. Probability: 40%. Outcome B: Manon opens the door and yells. Probability: 35%. Outcome C: Manon accepts the gesture. Probability: Unknown.
Sophia hated unknown probabilities.
She reached the East Corridor. It was quieter here. The carpets were thicker, dampening the sound of her steps. The air smelled of beeswax and old dust, not the fresh lilies of her own quarters.
She reached Suite 4B. The door was heavy oak, dark and imposing.
Sophia stopped. She raised her hand to knock.
Her hand hovered in the air. A trembling, uncertain thing. If I knock, I am demanding an answer, she thought. The Crown demands. The Crown summons.
If she knocked, Manon would have to answer. Protocol dictated it. One did not ignore a knock from the Heir. And because Manon had to answer, the answer would mean nothing.
Sophia lowered her hand. She looked at the floor.
It was a runner rug—Persian, red and gold, slightly frayed at the edges. Not the pristine silk of the upper floors.
Sophia took a breath. She smoothed the front of her blazer. She adjusted her cuffs. And then, she sat down.
She didn't sit gracefully. She wasn't wearing a gown; she was wearing tailored trousers that were not designed for floor-sitting. She folded her legs under her, wincing as her knees hit the hard floor beneath the rug. She leaned her back against the wall, right next to the doorframe.
She placed the bag of chestnuts on the floor in front of the door. She opened her laptop and balanced it on her knees.
Then, she reached into her pocket. She pulled out a piece of cream-colored stationery. The royal crest was embossed at the top in gold. She pulled out a pen.
Sophia could type 90 words per minute. She could dictate speeches in three languages. But she hadn't written a personal note by hand since she was a child writing thank-you cards to her grandmother.
Her hand shook. The tip of the pen hovered over the paper.
Dear Manon,
Too formal. Crossed out.
Lady Manon,
Too cold. Crossed out.
I am sorry.
Too simple. "Sorry" was a word people used when they stepped on a toe. It was not a word big enough for the way Sophia had systematically dismantled Manon’s confidence in the library.
Sophia closed her eyes. She thought about the silence in her office. She thought about the torn schedule. She thought about the way Manon had looked at her—like she was a stranger.
She wrote quickly, before she could overthink it. The handwriting was jagged. It spiked and slanted. It was the handwriting of someone who was screaming in a whisper.
She slid the note under the bag of chestnuts. She opened a spreadsheet on her laptop: Grain Import Analysis: Northern Province Q3.
And she waited.
15:45 Hours.
The hallway was uncomfortable. The floor was hard. Sophia’s left leg had gone to sleep ten minutes ago. Her back, accustomed to ergonomic lumbar support, was aching.
A maid walked by carrying a stack of towels. She stopped when she saw Sophia. Her jaw dropped.
"Your... Your Highness?" the maid squeaked. "Are you... have you fallen?"
Sophia didn't look up from her screen. She typed a formula into cell C4. "No, Martha. I am working."
"On... on the floor, Ma'am?"
"The Wi-Fi signal is better here," Sophia lied. It was a terrible lie. The Wi-Fi in the Guest Wing was notoriously spotty.
"Shall I... shall I fetch you a chair? Or a cushion?"
"No," Sophia said. "That will be all."
The maid scurried away, presumably to tell the entire kitchen staff that the Crown Princess had finally snapped.
Sophia kept typing. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound of her keys was rhythmic. It was a signal. A Morse code sent through the wood of the door. I am here. I am here. I am here.
16:30 Hours.
Inside Suite 4B, Manon Bannerman was losing her mind.
She had been angry for three days. A clean, hot, righteous anger. She had packed her bags. She had made plans to go to the airport. She was ready to leave the Ice Queen and her frozen kingdom behind.
But she hadn't left. She told herself it was because there were no flights to Cerulia until Friday. (There were flights every day. Megan had offered to fly the jet herself).
She was still here because, deep down, she was waiting. Waiting for Sophia to realize. Waiting for the robot to glitch.
And now, the robot was outside her door.
Manon had heard the footsteps hours ago. She had waited for the knock. She had rehearsed her speech. “Go away. You chose the timeline. Go marry the timeline.”
But the knock never came. Instead, there was a thump. And then, the typing.
Click-clack-click-clack.
It was relentless. It was steady. It was driving Manon insane.
"What is she doing?" Manon whispered to the empty room. She was pacing. She had eaten an entire packet of stale crackers from the minibar. She was still hungry.
She walked to the door. She pressed her ear against the wood. She could hear breathing. A soft sigh. The rustle of paper. And the typing.
"She’s working," Manon realized. "She came all the way down here, sat outside my door, and she’s working."
The anger flared up again. Typical. Even when she’s groveling, she’s multitasking.
But then, the smell hit her. It drifted under the gap in the door. It wasn't the smell of floor wax or lilies. It was smoky. Earthy. Rich.
It smelled like a street corner in December. It smelled like the only time they had ever been just two people on a bench.
Manon froze. She looked at the handle.
Don't open it, her pride said. Let her sit there. Let her rot. Open it, her stomach said. It smells delicious. Open it, her heart whispered. She never sits on the floor. Ever.
Manon groaned. She grabbed the handle. "I hate her," she muttered. "I hate her so much."
She threw the door open.
The sudden light made Sophia flinch. She looked up.
Manon stood in the doorway. She was wearing sweatpants—grey, baggy, definitely stolen from the gym—and a tank top. Her hair was a mess of curls tied up in a chaotic bun. She looked soft. She looked furious. She looked beautiful.
Sophia felt the air leave her lungs. She scrambled to close her laptop. In her haste, she almost knocked over the bag.
"Hi," Sophia said. Her voice cracked. The Crown Princess of Verdenia, who had addressed the United Nations without blinking, squeaked like a teenager.
Manon didn't speak. She looked down. She saw the Crown Princess sitting on a dusty rug. Her blazer was wrinkled at the elbows. Her hair, usually lacquered into submission, had a few strands escaping near her ears. She looked small.
Manon’s eyes moved to the bag. She saw the note sticking out from under it.
Manon bent down and picked up the paper. Sophia held her breath. This is it. The moment of truth
"Is this... is this English?" Manon asked, squinting at the note.
Sophia felt a flush of heat rise up her neck, a sensation entirely foreign to her. "My penmanship is... out of practice. I dictate. I do not scrawl."
"It looks like a seismograph of an earthquake," Manon observed. She leaned against the doorframe, her posture relaxing just a fraction. She read the jagged words aloud, her voice quiet in the empty hallway.
"I am not good at variables I cannot control. You are the only variable I cannot control. Please eat. The budget meeting was boring anyway."
Manon lowered the paper. She looked at Sophia. The anger that had been fueling her for days—the clean, hot, righteous indignation—sputtered. It didn't die, but it changed shape. It softened into something that ached.
"You canceled the Budget Review?" Manon asked. "The one with the highlighters?"
"I was informed that the ceiling collapsed," Sophia said stiffly. "It was a tragic structural failure."
"Sophia," Manon sighed. It was a long, defeated exhale. "You are a terrible liar."
"I am an excellent liar. I lie to Parliament daily. You are simply... impervious to my techniques."
Manon looked at the bag of chestnuts. Then she looked at the woman sitting on the rug—the woman who held the nuclear codes and the fate of the economy in her hands, currently looking like a schoolgirl who had forgotten her homework.
"Move over," Manon said.
Sophia blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Move over. You're hogging the rug."
Manon slid down the doorframe until she was sitting on the floor next to Sophia. She was close enough that Sophia could smell the jasmine shampoo she used. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her arm.
Manon reached into the bag. She cracked a chestnut shell. The sound was loud in the quiet hallway. Crack.
"They're cold," Manon noted, popping the nut into her mouth.
"I have been sitting here for ninety minutes," Sophia admitted.
"Inefficient," Manon mumbled around the food.
Sophia offered a small, terrifyingly shy smile. It was a micro-expression, barely visible to the naked eye, but to Manon, it was a supernova. "Yes. It was."
Manon handed her a chestnut. "Eat. You look pale. If you pass out in front of my door, the optics will be terrible."
Sophia took the chestnut. Her fingers brushed Manon’s. A spark—electric, terrifying—jumped between them.
For a moment, there was peace. Just two women, a bag of cold nuts, and the silence of the Coventry wing.
Ding.
The elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
Sophia stiffened. Her head snapped toward the noise. "That elevator requires a clearance code. No one comes down here at this hour."
"Maybe it's the pizza guy," Manon said hopefully.
The doors slid open. It was not the pizza guy.
Three women stepped out. They moved in a V-formation, like a flock of very aggressive geese.
In the lead was Yoonchae, Sophia’s Head of Communications and old friend. She was wearing a headset, holding two tablets, and looked like she hadn't slept since the invention of the printing press.
Flanking her were Daniela Avanzini and Megan Skiendiel. They were not wearing their Royal Guard uniforms. They were wearing "civilian" clothes—leather jackets, combat boots, and sunglasses (indoors). They looked like they were here to rob a bank or start a riot.
"Target acquired," Daniela shouted, pointing a finger down the hall.
"Oh god," Sophia whispered. She tried to scramble to her feet, suddenly remembering that she was the Crown Princess and she was sitting on a dusty floor.
"Stay down," Manon hissed, grabbing Sophia’s wrist to anchor her. "It’s too late. They’ve seen us."
The trio marched down the hall. Their boots thudded heavily on the carpet.
"Your Highness!" Yoonchae called out, her voice pitching up an octave. "We have a Code Red! The Minister of Finance is weeping in the lobby! He thinks the palace is falling down! Why are you—"
Yoonchae stopped. She was ten feet away. She stared at Sophia. She stared at the floor. She stared at the chestnuts.
"Are you..." Yoonchae slowly lowered her tablet. "Are you having a picnic? During a fiscal crisis?"
"It is a strategic summit," Sophia said, regaining her composure even though she was still sitting cross-legged. "Yoonchae, what are they doing here?"
She gestured to Dani and Megan.
Daniela stepped forward. She loomed over Sophia, crossing her massive arms.
"We heard there was a hostage situation," Dani said gravely.
"There is no hostage situation," Sophia snapped.
"That's exactly what a hostage taker would say," Dani countered. She looked at Manon. "Asset, blink twice if you are being coerced. Blink three times if she’s boring you with trade law."
"I'm fine, Dani," Manon said, though she was hiding a smile behind her hand. "We're just... talking."
"Talking?" Megan spoke for the first time. She was leaning against the opposite wall, spinning a set of car keys around her finger. Her eyes were sharp, scanning Sophia like a barcode. "You don't talk, Your Highness. You brief."
"I am expanding my skill set," Sophia said coolly. "And you two were relieved of duty. You are trespassing."
"We were rehired," Dani said, grinning. "Freelance consultants. 'Emotional Support Security.' Paid for by the Cerulian Treasury."
"My aunt sent them," Manon explained to Sophia. "She didn't trust me to come back alone."
"Your aunt is a wise woman," Yoonchae muttered. She crouched down next to Sophia, ignoring the glare from Dani. "Ma'am, seriously. The press is asking why the Budget Review was canceled. The rumors range from 'Food Poisoning' to 'Abdication.' I need a statement."
"Tell them..." Sophia looked at Manon.
Manon was busy peeling another chestnut. She looked comfortable. She looked like she belonged there, on the floor, in the mess.
"Tell them the Crown Princess is conducting an emergency inspection of the Guest Wing floorboards," Manon suggested.
"Don't write that down," Sophia told Yoonchae.
"Too late, I'm tweeting it," Dani said, pulling out her phone.
"Daniela, give me that phone," Sophia ordered.
"Make me, Your Highness," Dani challenged. "Come and take it. Oh wait, you can't. You have no lumbar support. Your core strength is compromised."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. The competitive fire—the same fire that made her a terrifying diplomat—flared up.
"Yoonchae," Sophia said calmly. "Hold my blazer."
"Oh no," Yoonchae groaned. "Please, not a physical altercation. The insurance won't cover it."
"I got twenty bucks on the Princess," Megan said from the wall.
"You're on," Dani said.
But Sophia didn't fight. She didn't rise. Instead, she did something that shocked the entire hallway into silence.
She leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and let out a laugh. It wasn't a polite, royal chuckle. It was a short, exhausted, genuine laugh.
"I cannot fight you, Daniela," Sophia admitted, opening her eyes. "I am too tired. And my leg has gone to sleep."
The silence stretched. Dani lowered her phone. Megan stopped spinning her keys. Yoonchae looked at her boss with wide, worried eyes.
Sophia looked at Manon.
"I surrendered the schedule," Sophia said softy, ignoring the audience. "I surrendered the meeting. I am surrendering the floor. I do not know what the next step is. My data is insufficient."
It was the most honest thing she had ever said in front of staff.
Manon looked at her friends. She looked at Dani, who was ready to fight a dragon for her. She looked at Megan, who would drive the getaway car.
Then she looked at Sophia, who had dismantled her entire life just to sit in a hallway and eat cold nuts.
"The next step," Manon said, "is that you let Yoonchae handle the press."
"Done," Yoonchae said, already typing. "I'm spinning it as a 'Private Meditation Retreat.' Very trendy."
"And," Manon continued, pointing at Dani and Megan, "you let the peanut gallery in. Because if I'm staying, they're staying."
Sophia looked at the two guards. They were chaotic. They were loud. They were everything Verdenia was not. They were Manon’s world.
"Very well," Sophia said. "But Daniela is not allowed to carry live ammunition in the East Wing."
"Negotiable," Dani said.
"And Megan," Sophia added, looking at the silent driver. "If you speed in the driveway again, I will have your license revoked."
Megan smirked. "Catch me first."
Manon laughed. She reached out and took Sophia’s hand again—firmly this time, interlacing their fingers on the dusty rug.
"Okay," Manon said. "Meeting adjourned. Now, does anyone know how to order a pizza to a secure royal facility?"
"Way ahead of you," Yoonchae said, sitting down on the floor next to them with a heavy sigh. "I ordered five large pepperonis ten minutes ago. I figured this was going to be a long night."
"Way ahead of you," Yoonchae said, sitting down on the floor next to them with a heavy sigh. "I ordered five large pepperonis ten minutes ago. I figured this was going to be a long night."
"Five?" Sophia asked, her brow furrowing. "That seems excessive for five people."
"It’s not for five people," a cool, crisp voice cut through the air. "It’s for six. And I prefer mushrooms."
The group froze. Even Dani, who had been midway through cracking her knuckles, stopped.
Standing at the end of the hallway, silhouetted by the light of the elevator, was Lara Raj.
Sophia’s Chief of Staff looked, as always, like she had just stepped out of a magazine spread for Power Suits Weekly. She was holding a red folder (Code Red) in one hand and a bottle of very expensive whiskey in the other. Her expression was unreadable. It was the face she wore when toppling governments or firing interns.
"Lara," Sophia said, straightening her spine against the wall. "I can explain. I am engaging in... interdepartmental bonding."
Lara walked toward them. Her heels didn't click; they glided. She was a shark in silk.
She stopped in front of the group sprawled on the rug. She looked at the chestnuts. She looked at the messy handwritten note. She looked at Daniela and Megan, who were currently eyeing her like she was a threat to national security.
"You canceled the Budget Review," Lara stated.
"I did," Sophia admitted.
"You told the Minister of Finance the ceiling had collapsed."
"A metaphor," Sophia tried. "The ceiling of my... patience."
Lara stared at her for a long, terrifying second. Then, she looked at Manon.
"Did it work?" Lara asked Manon directly.
Manon looked up. She was still holding Sophia’s hand. She squeezed it, just once. "Yeah," Manon said softly. "It worked."
Lara let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since 06:00 that morning. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. The shark swam away, leaving just a very tired woman.
"Good," Lara said. "Because I had to reschedule the Bishop, lie to the Prime Minister, and bribe the kitchen staff to let a pizza delivery scooter through the East Gate."
She held up the bottle of whiskey.
"I require compensation."
"Come join the party, Sunshine," Dani said, patting the empty spot of rug next to her. "We're discussing how to overthrow the monarchy. Or order dessert. Whichever comes first."
Lara looked at the spot next to Dani with deep suspicion. "I do not sit on floors, Agent Avanzini. It ruins the crease in the trousers."
"Oh, come on, Raj," Megan drawled from the wall. "Live a little. The dust adds character."
Lara hesitated. She looked at Sophia—her boss, her project, her friend—sitting cross-legged, hair messy, looking more alive than she had in six months.
Lara sighed. She pulled a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief from her pocket, placed it carefully on the rug to protect her pants, and sat down with perfect elegance.
"If anyone photographs this," Lara warned, pointing a manicured finger at Yoonchae, "I will have you reassigned to the Antarctic research station."
"Noted," Yoonchae said, grinning.
"So," Lara said, cracking the seal on the whiskey. "We have the Crown Princess, the Future Consort, the Press Secretary, and the... mercenaries." She nodded politely at Dani and Megan.
"Freelancers," Dani corrected, snatching the bottle.
"Freelancers," Lara amended. "We are effectively the Shadow Cabinet. Since we are all here, and since the actual Cabinet thinks the palace is falling down..."
Lara pulled two plastic cups out of her blazer pocket (she was always prepared) and poured a measure. She handed one to Sophia and one to Manon.
"To the Unscheduled Variable," Lara toasted, raising the bottle.
Sophia looked at the cup. Then she looked at the group around her. It was chaotic. It was noisy. Dani was already arguing with Yoonchae about Twitter engagement metrics. Megan was showing Lara a knife she had concealed in her boot (Lara looked mildly impressed). Manon was laughing at something Dani said, her head thrown back, the sound echoing off the walls.
It was the most inefficient meeting Sophia had ever attended. And it was perfect.
"To the Unscheduled Variable," Sophia whispered.
She drank. The whiskey burned, warm and grounding. Manon leaned her head on Sophia’s shoulder.
"You realize," Manon murmured, "that you still have to meet my parents properly. And my dad is going to grill you about your handwriting."
"I will practice," Sophia promised. "I will hire a tutor."
"No," Manon said, closing her eyes. "Don't. keep it messy, Soph. I like the mess."
Sophia rested her cheek against the top of Manon’s hair. "Okay," she said. "I'll keep the mess."
And for the first time in the history of the Verdenian Monarchy, the Crown Princess sat on the floor, surrounded by pizza boxes and laughter, and didn't check the time once.