Amelia Hartley was certain she was about to be executed.
Not literally, of course. The Queen of England didn't behead people anymore. But if looks could kill, Amelia suspected her borrowed dress would be a funeral gown.
She stood outside the grand double doors of the Queen's private sitting room, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
"Relax, love," Nicholas murmured beside her. "She's not going to eat you."
"Easy for you to say," Amelia hissed. "You weren't summoned like a naughty schoolgirl."
Nicholas smirked. "Oh, I've been summoned plenty. Trust me, this is mild."
Mr. Alfred Kensington, the ever-dutiful head butler, cleared his throat. "Miss Hartley, His Highness—Her Majesty is waiting."
Nicholas patted her on the back, far too cheerfully. "Good luck, darling."
Amelia scowled at him before stepping inside.
---
The Queen's Private Sitting Room
The room was immaculate, decorated in soft blues and golds, with bookshelves lined with history Amelia could never afford.
And at the centre of it all sat Queen Eleanor, her back straight, a porcelain teacup balanced in her hand as if it had never once betrayed her.
Across from her, Duchess Rosalind Kensington sat stiffly, eyes colder than a January morning in London.
Amelia, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement, dipped into a carefully practiced curtsy.
"Your Majesty."
The Queen watched her.
Didn't motion for her to sit. Didn't return the greeting.
She simply… studied her.
Amelia fought the urge to squirm.
Finally, after an unbearably long silence, the Queen spoke.
"Sit."
Amelia obeyed, smoothing her dress as she perched on the edge of the most expensive-looking chair she had ever sat in.
The Queen set her teacup down without a sound.
"You must be quite pleased with yourself, Miss Hartley."
Amelia blinked. "I… beg your pardon?"
"Last night," the Queen continued, voice clipped and even, "you were the talk of the gala."
Amelia's stomach twisted. "I hope—for the right reasons."
Duchess Rosalind let out a quiet huff.
"That depends on what you consider 'right,'" the Queen mused. "The public seems to find you… entertaining."
Amelia frowned. "And you don't?"
The Queen's thin smile was somehow more terrifying than a glare. "Your little display may have amused the press, Miss Hartley, but let us be clear on one thing—I am not amused."
The air thickened.
Amelia forced herself to hold her ground, keeping her spine straight.
The Queen continued, measured and precise. "You are, I am sure, a… perfectly adequate young woman. But you are not suitable for my grandson."
Amelia expected that.
She had spent the entire night preparing for this conversation, running through every possible way to defend herself, to justify her presence, to prove she wasn't some social-climbing opportunist.
But now, sitting under the Queen's unrelenting gaze, she realised—
She didn't need to defend herself.
Because she wasn't actually dating Nicholas.
And that meant the Queen's opinion of her was, ultimately, irrelevant.
So instead of looking properly chastised, Amelia simply smiled.
"Thank you for your honesty, Your Majesty," she said, as politely as she could manage.
A beat of silence.
Rosalind's eyes narrowed.
The Queen tilted her head slightly. "You misunderstand me, Miss Hartley. I am not here to be honest with you. I am here to make sure you understand your place."
Ah.
There it was.
Amelia exhaled slowly, forcing herself to remain calm and measured.
"I do understand my place," she said softly. "I know exactly who I am, and I know exactly where I stand."
The Queen watched her carefully.
"Good," she said. "Then you also understand that whatever… arrangement you and Nicholas have—" her voice tightened slightly on the word "—it will not last."
Amelia didn't argue.
She didn't need to.
They both knew it was true.
Finally, the Queen sat back, her gaze flicking over Amelia one last time.
"That will be all."
Amelia stood, dipped into a much steadier curtsy, and turned for the door.
Just as she reached for the handle, the Queen's voice stopped her.
"Miss Hartley."
Amelia turned.
The Queen's expression was unreadable.
"Do mind your manners next time," she said. "We wouldn't want another hat incident."
Duchess Rosalind smirked.
Amelia bit back the urge to say it was an ugly hat anyway, and instead settled for:
"I'll do my best, Ma'am."
And with that, she stepped out.
---
Outside the Sitting Room
The second Amelia was out of earshot, she let out a long, controlled breath.
Well.
That had gone brilliantly.
"That bad, was it?"
Amelia jumped, spinning to see Nicholas leaning casually against the corridor wall.
"What—how—how long have you been standing there?"
Nicholas smirked. "Long enough."
Amelia groaned, rubbing her forehead. "You knew she was going to tear me apart, didn't you?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said. "And yet, you survived."
"Just barely."
Nicholas grinned, pushing off the wall. "You're still standing, aren't you? That's a win in my book."
Amelia glared. "I hate you."
"Impossible."
She sighed. "Well, your grandmother definitely hates me."
Nicholas smirked. "Oh, love. If she hated you, she wouldn't have invited you in at all."
Amelia paused.
Nicholas wiggled his eyebrows. "She's testing you."
"Oh, fantastic," Amelia muttered. "Can't wait for round two."
Nicholas slung an arm around her shoulders, grinning like an idiot.
"You did brilliantly, darling."
She elbowed him.
He laughed.
And just like that—
The weight of the Queen's disapproval didn't feel so heavy anymore.