Chris sat by the grand balcony overlooking the Blackwood Gardens, sipping dark coffee as the morning sun painted gold across the marble floors. The empire was quiet—too quiet—and that's exactly why his mind was loud.
Amara entered, dressed in her usual royal elegance—white silk gown, hair pinned like perfection, the crown faintly glimmering even under soft light.
"Chris," she said, gently. "You've been quiet all morning."
Chris turned, his expression unreadable. "Because I'm thinking about what the people think of us."
She raised a brow. "The people?"
"Yes," he said, setting the cup down. "There's a new wave of applications for positions at the National Air Bureau. Thousands are coming to the airport today for the final interview. I want to know what they say about the empire… about me."
Amara smirked. "You have BNN for that, love."
Chris chuckled, leaning closer. "BNN reports what I allow them to report. I want to hear the whispers—the fear, the loyalty, the doubts… raw and unfiltered."
Amara's eyes widened slightly. "You mean to send spies?"
"No." Chris smiled faintly. "I'm sending you."
"What?" She laughed, but Chris didn't. "Chris, you can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." He stood up, brushing his coat straight. "You'll go undercover. No crown. No guards. No name. Just another applicant among them."
Amara blinked, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. "You want the Queen of the Blackwood Empire to queue up for a job interview at the airport?"
"Yes," Chris said simply. "And you'll dress as one of them. You'll talk like them. You'll sit, wait, and listen. Find out what loyalty sounds like when they don't know the throne is listening."
Amara's lips curved slowly. "You want me to be… your spy?"
"I want you to be my ears," Chris said, touching her cheek gently. "Sometimes, power blinds us from truth. Go find it for me."
Amara smirked, her playful side returning. "Then I'll need a new identity."
Chris smiled. "You already have one—Amara Stone. Age twenty-eight. Recently laid off from the Ministry of Culture. You're applying for the post of Administrative Clerk."
Her brows shot up. "You already planned this?"
He leaned in, kissing her forehead. "Since last week."
Amara laughed softly. "You really don't trust anyone, do you?"
"I trust only one person," he whispered. "That's why you're the one going."
—Later that Morning—
Amara walked out of the palace gates, not as the Queen of Blackwood, but as Amara Stone. No jewelry, no royal convoy—just a simple gray dress, black heels, and a brown leather bag. Her hair tied in a ponytail.
She blended into the crowd perfectly.
The airport was alive with noise—hundreds gathered for the job interviews, some nervous, some hopeful, some frustrated. And there, in the middle of it all, the Queen stood unnoticed.
Somewhere far above, from his private surveillance room, Chris watched through the live feed, smiling faintly.
"Let's see," he murmured. "What the world thinks when it forgets who you are."
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