He was dressed in his formal military tunic, the gold epaulets catching the dim light of the desk lamp.

His face was pale, his eyes dark with a mixture of anger and confusion.

“Emily,” he said, his voice tight. “Who are you speaking to?”

I kept the receiver to my ear for a fraction of a second.

“I have to go,” I said quietly into the phone, then lowered the receiver onto the cradle.

Alexander stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

The click of the latch sounded like a pistol shot in the quiet study.

“The King’s guards are searching the west wing,” Alexander said. “My father is convinced your family has brought shame to this house.”

He walked toward the desk, his eyes fixing on the black screen of my laptop and the external drive beside it.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It is the truth, Alexander,” I said.

He stopped a few feet from me, the scent of expensive cologne and damp wool clinging to him.

“I deserve to know,” he said. “I am supposed to marry her tomorrow. Yet my father is halting the rehearsal because of rumors about your mother.”