Page 48 of Royal Bargain

She clinks her glass gently against mine. “Well then. Here’s to bold choices. Just make sure you can survive them.”

She clinks her glass gently against mine. “Well then. Here’s to bold choices. Just make sure you can survive them.”

We both sip, and for a moment, the noise of the gala feels farther away—dulled behind the crystal and politics and everything I don’t say.

Miranda glances out across the ballroom, watching the clusters of guests shifting and mingling. “I have to say, Burns surprised me,” she murmurs, almost idly. “I wasn’t sure he had it in him to flip the Harborview District. That’s what turned the tide, you know.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” She hums thoughtfully. “It’s always the battleground neighborhoods that decide these things. The ones no one pays enough attention to—until they matter.”

She doesn’t look at me when she says it. She just smiles faintly, lifts her glass again, and turns to greet someone across the room. The moment passes, and I let it.

It’s not until much later—when my feet ache and the buzz of champagne has faded—that the name sticks in my head like a splinter.

Harborview.

That was the district Miranda asked me about.

Back when I thought she was just doing me a favor. What was it really about? Was there more to that comment or am I just reading into things?

I shake the thought off. This isn’t the time to spiral.

Movement catches my eye—someone slipping through the side entrance, not so much sneaking as strutting. A girl in a sparkly pink-and-silver minidress, hair wild around her shoulders, heels so high they look like weapons. She’s laughing before she even makes it to the bar, a whirlwind of glitter and lip gloss and zero inhibition.

I lean toward Miranda. “Who’s that?”

Miranda follows my gaze and lets out a quiet sigh. “Emilie Gunnerson. Ingrid’s little sister.”

My eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh.”

“She’s… spirited,” Miranda says delicately. “Somewhat allergic to rules. Ingrid does her best, but Emilie’s made a bit of a name for herself lately.”

I watch as Emilie tosses her hair and loops her arm around a much older man’s neck, whispering something in his ear that makes him flush and stammer. She swipes a drink off a passing tray and downs it like water before twirling onto the dance floor in a cloud of sequins and chaos.

“Wow,” I murmur. “She doesn’t hold back.”

Miranda doesn’t respond, but her silence says enough.

I sip my champagne and keep my expression smooth, but there’s a strange twist in my chest watching her—like a memory I didn’t ask to remember.

I was like that, once. Loud. Reckless. Always running from something. Always drinking too much, dressing too little, and pushing just far enough to get someone’s attention—anyone’s. It was my way of rebelling against my father, of claiming control over something, even if it was just my own self-destruction.

I’m lucky I had Aleksey back then.

He watched my back, kept me from going too far. Pulled me out of more than one mess before it exploded.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I just thought he was being overprotective.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I just thought he was being overprotective.

But now, standing here in this glittering ballroom full of smiling predators, I understand exactly what he was doing. Why he always watched the exits. Why he stepped in, even when I didn’t ask.

A sharp pang rises in my chest. I miss him.

Not the Aleksey who came to the loft a few days ago and asked me to walk willingly into Anatoly’s courtroom like some kind of puppet.

But the Aleksey who used to tuck my hair behind my ear when I cried. Who once drove me three hours across state lines because I’d fixated on seeing snow that year.