Stop torturing yourself. That interlude was never meant to last.
The helicopter banked sharply, beginning its descent toward a rooftop landing pad. I gripped the armrest, bracing myself for what lay ahead.
When the skids touched down with a gentle bump, the blast of hot air hit me like a weight after the air-conditioned interior. I stepped onto the pad, squinting against the glare, and moved toward the waiting figure.
“Your Grace.” Sébastien bowed, his expression revealing nothing. “I trust your journey was comfortable?”
“As comfortable as expected,” I replied, clasping his shoulder briefly. “It’s good to see you, Seb.”
A flicker of warmth crossed his stoic features. “And you, sir.”
“How bad is it?” I asked as we headed into the building, skipping pleasantries that felt unnecessary.
“Complex,” he answered carefully. “His Highness will explain.”
That meant it was worse than I’d feared. Sébastien was nothing if not diplomatic.
We entered a private elevator, its brass doors gleaming in the artificial light. Sébastien pressed the call button, his movements efficient. “Remy is staying here?”
“The presidential suite,” he confirmed. “He arrived with a minimal security detail. The top floor is reserved for our needs.”
The elevator chimed as it arrived at the ninth floor. “And the press?” I inquired, watching our reflections multiply in the mirrors.
“Unaware of His Highness’s presence, for the moment.” His tone suggested this state of affairs might not last long. “Mr. Stone has been most helpful in ensuring discretion.”
I nodded, mentally noting to thank Vincent personally. The last thing Remy needed was a media circus.
We reached a set of double doors flanked by security personnel in dark suits. As they stepped aside, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and crossed the threshold.
The presidential suite was everything I expected—ostentatiously American, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Dallas skyline. My focus, however, was drawn to the figure by the glass, his back to me, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand.
Remy.
Even from behind, I recognized the tension in his shoulders, the uncharacteristic slope of defeat in his normally proud posture. His usually impeccable hair, the same honey-gold shade as our mother, was disheveled, as though he had repeatedly run his fingers through it in frustration. He turned at the sound of the door and I was struck by the changes in him—new lines around his eyes and a tightness in his mouth that spoke of exhaustion.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Then Remy’s familiar smile broke through, the charm that had won hearts and softened many a misstep. “Ricard,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “Dieu merci.”
“Remy,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light, but how could I ignore the gravity of his presence? “This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you were in Geneva for the climate summit.”
“Change of plans,” he gestured toward a seating area, the signet ring on his right hand, the crown prince's seal, catching the light. It seemedheavier on his finger somehow, as if the weight of the monarchy itself was physically pulling him down. “Viens, assieds-toi. I'm so happy to see you.”
I followed him to a pair of leather armchairs near the windows. Sébastien remained by the door, a silent sentinel. I sank into a chair, watching as Remy poured a second drink from a crystal decanter. “It’s a bit early for me,” I said as he offered it.
“Trust me,mon frère, you’ll want this for the conversation ahead.”
His statement did little to ease the anxiety knotting my stomach. I accepted the glass but set it on the small table between us. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Remy? You crossed an ocean to find me while I’m on holiday.”
Remy sighed, raking a hand through his unruly hair. “Direct as always, Ricard.Pas de temps for pleasantries.”
“Je pense que nous sommes au-delà des politesses.” I gestured toward the window, taking in the world beyond. “I’ve seen the headlines. Helene has left for her homeland with the children. Another affair, another child. The palace is in chaos, and the fortieth anniversary celebrations are less than a week away.” I leaned forward, meeting his gaze. “Forgive me if I skip small talk and ask: what the fuck is going on?”
A long moment passed; Remy looked away, shoulders slumping in a gesture of defeat I'd rarely seen from him. Since childhood, he had approached life with an unshakable confidence that had both impressed and infuriated me. Even when caught in wrongdoing, he maintained a certain poise, a belief that his charm would ultimately prevail.
Not now. “It's a mess, Ricard. A complete and utter mess.”
“Of your own making.” The sharpness in my voice surprised even me. It carried decades of resentment—for the times I'd covered forhim, cleaned up after him, shouldered responsibilities while he enjoyed freedoms I never dared claim for myself.
He flinched but didn’t argue. “Oui.”
