Victoria had not meant to cry.
She had promised herself she would not — she was the Queen of the British Empire now, scarcely eighteen, but determined to behave with the composure expected of a sovereign. And yet, the moment Arthur pulled her into his arms, her restraint shattered like thin glass under a hammer.
His apology — warm, low, sincere — slid through her defenses as if it had been forged to fit the lock of her heart. The moment she felt his arms around her, everything inside her collapsed.
Her breath hitched.
Then she burst into tears.
Not soft, dignified tears, but deep, helpless sobs — the kind that tore their way out of a chest too tight with fear, disappointment, and exhaustion. She beat her small fists against Arthur's solid back, powerless and furious all at once.
"You… you bastard…!" she cried through hiccups, the words barely coherent. "How could you say that to me? I'm the Queen — not some… some rubber stamp!"
"Yes. Yes, you're right."
Arthur didn't defend himself. He simply held her closer, letting her tears soak through his nightshirt, stroking her back as if calming a frightened kitten.
He had known she was under pressure — but only now did he realize how much.
One day she had been a princess under strict supervision; the next, the weight of an entire empire rested on her slender shoulders. No one could remain unshaken by such a transformation. Not truly. And certainly not a girl so young, so earnest, so painfully eager to serve her people well.
She had trusted him — completely.
The moment she thought he was pulling away… the moment her first bold dream had been dismissed by the cold machinery of government… the disappointment had cut deeper than any blade.
Gradually, her sobs softened. Her breathing grew unsteady but calmer. She lifted her face from his chest, blue eyes swollen like a rain-washed sky. There was a fragility in them that stabbed Arthur straight through the ribs.
She noticed the faint mark on his cheek — the one she had left when the argument had boiled over.
Guilt surged through her.
Her cool fingertips brushed the reddened skin with trembling gentleness.
"Does… does it hurt?"
Her voice was hoarse, thick with tears.
Arthur shook his head and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips in a soft kiss.
"Not at all. Compared to how it felt watching you cry… that was nothing."
His smile was tender, edged with apology. "My heart hurt far worse than my cheek."
Her remaining anger melted entirely.
For all his arrogance, intensity, and maddening bluntness, she knew — she knew — this man's devotion to her was genuine to the bone.
They sat on the edge of the bed, the air between them warm with the quiet clarity that only follows a storm.
"I'm sorry, Arthur," Victoria whispered. "I was too impulsive. I should not have lost my temper with you… and I certainly should not have struck you."
"I'm the one who should apologize."
He took her hand more firmly this time, speaking with unvarnished sincerity.
"I shouldn't have shattered your hopes so harshly. And I never meant to imply I would withdraw from you or your plans. I was only trying to think of a smarter way — a better way — to achieve them."
"A smarter way?"
Victoria blinked, confusion and curiosity mixing in her eyes.
"Yes."
The spark returned — that unmistakable gleam of strategy and foresight. The one that had drawn her to him from the start.
Arthur began to explain, with the calm patience of a man who had spent the entire afternoon analyzing the battlefield of politics.
"My love, the greatest obstacle now isn't a man like Lord Conroy we can simply remove. It is an ancient structure — the entire state apparatus, with all its entrenched interests. We cannot charge at it head-on and expect it to yield like some military formation."
"Then what should we do?"
For once, the Queen spoke like a student willing to be taught.
"We go around it," Arthur said, lips curling into a familiar, brilliant smile.
"If the path of the 'Prince Consort who stays out of politics' is barricaded, we carve a new one. One entirely our own."
He leaned in, eyes bright.
"We won't beg Parliament to understand the telegraph. Instead, we will make them desperate for it. Begging us to expand it. Fighting among themselves to sponsor it."
"How?"
Her tone had shifted — eager, almost breathless.
"It's simple," Arthur said, though nothing about the plan was simple.
"We create a new society. Not governmental, but prestigious — under your direct royal patronage."
He pronounced the name with deliberate gravitas:
"The Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry of the British Empire."
Victoria's mouth opened slightly.
"It sounds… extraordinary."
"It will be," Arthur continued. "I'll invite the greatest minds in the empire — Faraday, Stephenson — as well as forward-thinking MPs and influential aristocrats. And of course, the Prime Minister."
"You will be its Honorary Patron. I will serve as Executive Chairman."
He squeezed her hand gently.
"No politics. No bills. Only innovation, salons, demonstrations, and breakthroughs. And when we unveil the first working — the same plans I showed you after our first night together as husband and wife.— they will see with their own eyes what the future looks like."
He stood, pacing with controlled excitement as he spoke.
"Bankers will see a chance to dominate the stock market. Industrialists will see faster cargo coordination. Admirals will see fleets controlled like extensions of a single hand. The Prime Minister will see instant communication with the colonies."
And then he turned back to her, eyes blazing.
"When that happens, Victoria… do you truly believe we will have to plead with Parliament?"
"No," she breathed, realization dawning radiant in her expression.
"They will race to propose the bill themselves — begging for government funding to build the network across the Empire."
"Exactly."
Victoria looked at him as if seeing him anew — not merely as her husband, but as the brilliant architect of a future she had scarcely dared to imagine.
Her earlier sorrow dissolved entirely, replaced by admiration… and something warmer, deeper.
"Arthur…"
She leaned in and kissed him.
Not a timid brush of lips, but a slow, deliberate kiss filled with apology, gratitude, and fierce, aching love. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer, returning the kiss with quiet intensity.
When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his.
"I should never have doubted you," she whispered.
His answering smile was dangerous and soft all at once.
"Well, then… In one smooth, fluid motion, Arthur lifted her and laid her back onto the bed again, with that warm, playful confidence that always made Victoria's breath falter.
"For such a grave offense as doubting your husband," he murmured with a smile that sent a tremor through her, "I believe a… much deeper conversation is required."
Victoria flushed, but her eyes never left his.
And as if understanding what was about to unfold, the moon slipped shyly behind a drifting cloud, letting the candles cast the room in a soft, intimate glow.
The distance that had separated them an hour before — made of tears, fear, wounded pride — melted completely as their bodies drew closer.
Words dissolved into warmth.
Whispers lowered into breathless sounds.
Hands found familiar paths; hearts fell back into a shared rhythm.
The political storm was replaced by another storm entirely — fierce, consuming, and undeniable — one that neither of them resisted.
Later — much later — the palace lay silent, the moon reemerging from behind the clouds like a discreet witness to what the night had taken and given back.
Victoria rested in Arthur's arms, her cheek against his chest, her voice barely a breath.
The exhaustion was sweet.
The warmth between them still alive.
Their reconciliation… complete in every sense.
In that spent embrace, with the night finally behind them, Victoria understood with crystalline certainty:
They were not merely husband and wife.
They were an alliance.
A single force.
A partnership capable — together — of pulling an entire empire toward the future.