Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty
Alexander

The palace was a different place that morning.

Brighter. Louder. Full of movement, energy, and press flashes coming from windows that hadn’t been cleaned that thoroughly in years.

Every corridor hummed with activity—staff rushing, foreign dignitaries being greeted, velvet hangings being adjusted by frantic decorators who whispered to each other like they were painting the Sistine Chapel.

And at the center of it all stood me.

Soon-to-be King of Sweden.

Still brushing lint off my trousers and trying not to throw up.

The air outside was cold, but inside, I was burning.

My mother found me in the wardrobe chamber, staring blankly at my reflection while three royal tailors swarmed around me, adjusting the ceremonial regalia.

She didn’t say anything at first.

She just stepped behind me, reached up, and gently smoothed my collar like she used to do when I was a teenager on the way to a school assembly.

“You’ll be wonderful,” she whispered.

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure I believed her.

But I let her rest her hand on my shoulder a moment longer than necessary.

Karl showed up precisely when expected, as always.

He entered the room without knocking, with the soft but thunderous energy of a man who had seen a thousand battles and dressed half the army himself.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He moved straight to the table where my sash had been folded, picked it up, and handed it to me.

Then the gloves.

Then the medallion.

Then the tie.

I stood still while he worked, fingers steady, movements precise—just like he’d done every formal event since I was fifteen. Just like he always had.

For a long time, neither of us said a word.

And then I did.

“You know,” I said quietly, “when I was little, I used to imagine this moment.”

He paused but kept tying.

“I always thought… my father would be here. Helping me prepare. Giving me some royal piece of advice I’d hate but follow anyway. Looking at me with love and pride. Telling me it was time.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“I was a fool to expect that from a man who’s never known pride, or love, or anything that looked like encouragement.”

He opened his mouth, eyes dark with sorrow, but I cut him off gently.

“But it was the wrong man… My wish came true, Karl.”

He blinked.

“My father is here. Helping me with my tie. Just like he always has. Supporting me. Loving me. Guiding me.”

The knot tightened softly under my throat. He stepped back.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

And then—so softly it almost broke me—he placed a hand on my shoulder.

“And I’m so, so very proud of you, my son. My king.”

I closed my eyes.

Let the words settle into the cracks of every wound I’d carried from the man down the hall.



Later, just before we made our way to the grand staircase, I sat for a final quiet moment alone in the dressing chamber.

The door creaked open—and then he walked in.

Leo looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of a luxury magazine and into a dream I wasn’t allowed to touch.

A tailored midnight-blue suit hugged his frame like sin. The fabric shimmered faintly under the lights, sharp at the shoulders, tapered at the waist, a hint of satin trim that caught the gold in his eyes. His shirt was crisp, collar open just enough to whisper danger. His dark hair was perfectly tousled—like he’d spent the morning getting styled and then ruined it on purpose. And the shoes? Shined to the point of obsession.

I stared.

He smirked.

“You ready, Your Majesty?” he asked, like I wasn’t seconds from fainting.

“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He kissed my cheek. “I look very hot today. That should help.”

I laughed.

Oh, yeah, you do…

He pointed to the mirror. “Come on. Let me see the whole thing.”

I stood.

He gasped. “Oh no. It’s over.”

“What?”

“I have a coronation kink now. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Leo—”

“I’m just saying, this is very unfair. The cape? The buttons? The gloves? Sir.”

I shook my head, but I was smiling.

And then he got quiet. Just for a second. “You’ve got this, Alex,” he said softly. 

I swallowed hard.

A knock came at the door.

Karl’s voice on the other side: “It’s time.”

I took Leo’s hand for one last moment.

Then stood.

And stepped out into history.



The hall was filled with guards, courtiers, foreign dignitaries, press…. And the people—my people—outside, lining the streets and gardens, watching it all unfold on screens as history was being written.

My footsteps echoed.

Everything felt too quiet. Too loud. Too fast.

And then I reached the grand staircase.

My mother was waiting at the bottom, regal and still. Karl stood to the side, a step behind her, as always. And at the end of the hall, the gilded doors stood open, the throne room just beyond.

A hush swept through the corridor.

The Master of Ceremonies raised his staff.

“Presenting His Royal Highness Crown Prince Alexander—soon to be King of Sweden.”

The orchestra inside began to play.

And I stepped forward, and that walk felt eternal—my breath locked somewhere between reverence and terror.

Inside, the throne room was radiant.

Golden arches. Flags overhead. The throne—a towering seat of carved wood and history—waiting at the top of a small dais. Beside it, the crown resting on crimson velvet.

Leo was already seated among the distinguished guests, just off to the side. He caught my eye as I passed, and for a second, I could’ve sworn time paused.

He winked.

I breathed.

The ceremony began.

A moment of silence for my father’s reign, observed with the kind of stillness only royalty could master.

Then came the vows—swearing to protect, to serve, to uphold the constitution and dignity of the nation. The crowd responded with “we trust him,” their voices strong and sure.

And then the Archbishop stepped forward, carrying the crown.

I stepped forward and stood before the throne.

The Archbishop moved behind me.

But before he could raise the crown, there was one final figure who had to step into place.

King Edvard.

The man I used to call father.

He stood just to the side of the dais. Still in full regalia, still unbowed, still staring at me with the same unreadable gaze he had worn all my life.

For a moment, I thought he might say nothing.

And then, quietly—so only I could hear—he spoke.

“I once hoped you’d become like me,” he said.

His voice was low. Cold, but steady.

“And I spent years trying to erase everything in you that wasn't.”

The air around us thickened.

“But it wasn’t weakness that made you different from me. It was strength. The kind I never had.”

My breath caught.

His eyes didn’t soften. Not really. But something flickered behind them—regret, maybe. Bitterness. Or truth.

“You were never meant to be a version of me, Alexander. You were always meant to be better.”

He stepped back.

Then, with the briefest of nods to the Archbishop, he allowed the ceremony to continue.

I knelt.

My knees hit the platform, and suddenly I was a child again, kneeling in church beside a father who never looked at me.

Only this time, I wasn’t being ignored.

I was being seen.

The Archbishop raised the crown.

“By the will of the people, and in the spirit of sovereign continuity, we now crown you—Alexander, son of Sweden—as King.”

The weight of it settled on my head.

Heavy. Final. Real.

I rose slowly.

And the room erupted.

Applause thundered through the chamber. Outside, the bells began to ring. The cannons fired from the palace hill.

But all I could see was Leo.

He stood with everyone else, applauding wildly, his eyes glassy, mouth open in a grin that was half disbelief and half love.

I stepped forward.

I raised my hand.

And I bowed my head to the people.