My jaw clenched.The man’s body isn’t even cold and you’re already being an ass.
Kirk leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.“But fate has a way of moving things along, doesn’t it?”
I wanted to tell him fate had nothing to do with cardiac arrest, but my tongue stayed pressed firmly behind my teeth.
Then he actually smiled.“Which brings us to you.”
The words fell like a lead weight in my stomach.“Me?”
“Yes.The President and I have agreed you’re the natural choice to step in.We’ll be announcing shortly that you’re being appointed Ambassador to the Court of St.James.”He said it like he was offering me season tickets to the Kennedy Center.
I swallowed hard, pulse drumming in my ears.
London.Ian Mitchell’s seat.Just like that.
For a moment I couldn’t speak.The ambassadorship to the U.K.wasn’t just a plum assignment—it wasthe assignment.Presidents handed it out like favors, thank-you notes for obscenely large checks written during the election campaign.It wasn’t given to career diplomats who had spent years grinding it out in foreign postings, like me.
My thoughts must have flickered across my face, because Kirk’s smile widened.“I know what you’re thinking.Why you?Well, let’s be clear.This isn’t about competence.It’s about optics.Your family name carries weight on both sides of the Atlantic.You’ll project the right image, and frankly, you can be counted on to take direction.Which,” he added with the smug satisfaction of a man who never doubted his own brilliance, “is exactly what the Department needs right now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it hurt.A cruel man, I thought.A cruel, arrogant man, and I am trapped on his chessboard.
Before I could muster a diplomatic response, Kirk glanced off-screen, clearly done with me.“We’ll be in touch with details.Pack your bags, Bryce.London awaits.”
And just like that, the screen went black.
I sat in silence, the aspirin bottle still clutched in my hand, the pounding in my skull now a full symphony.Ian Mitchell was gone, Kirk had all but danced on his grave, and I—God help me—was his replacement.
My finger hovered over the intercom button a beat too long before I finally pressed it.My voice came out strange, thin, not like mine at all.
“Caroline, come in here, please.”
Seconds later, the door opened and my assistant slipped inside—Caroline Wright, an unflappable twenty-eight-year-old with a talent for managing crises with color-coded spreadsheets.She had her ever-present notepad clutched to her chest like a shield.
I could feel the words sticking in my throat.“Ambassador Ian Mitchell is dead.The Secretary just informed me I’ll be replacing him in London.”
Her mouth fell open.A little gasp escaped, then she snapped it shut and straightened her spine.“Oh.Ambassador—congratulations.”
Something inside me snapped.“Congratulations?”My tone was sharper than I intended, a whipcrack across the room.“Ian is gone, Caroline.His widow just lost a husband.His children just lost a father.This is hardly a time to celebrate.”
Color flushed her cheeks, and she ducked her head.“Of course.I—I didn’t mean—”
I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed at my temples, the aspirin bottle still warm in my palm.“Cancel everything on my calendar.Appointments, receptions, ribbon cuttings—clear it all.Draft the appropriate condolences for the family.And for God’s sake, no statements until I approve them.”
“Yes, sir.”She scribbled furiously, then, subdued, slipped back out of my office.
As soon as the door closed, I sagged into my chair, guilt pressing down on me.Caroline didn’t deserve that.But what could I do?Kirk had yanked the ground out from beneath me and left me standing in the rubble.The words had come out before I could stop them.
I pushed myself up and began pacing the length of the office.Once, twice, five times.Each stride sharper, angrier, my shoes striking the carpet like punctuation marks.I hated myself for lashing out.I hated Kirk for smiling.I hated Ian for leaving us too soon, though I knew that was cruel and unfair.Mostly, I hated this pounding in my skull, the endless reminder that none of it could be undone.
Finally, I snatched up the phone and dialed my residence.
“Mrs.Ashcroft here,” came the warm, clipped voice of my house manager, a woman who had been with my family for nearly twenty years and had never once lost her composure.
“It’s Bryce.”My voice faltered.“The UK ambassador, Ian Mitchell, has died.Sudden cardiac event.”
A long pause.Then: “Oh, Ambassador.I’m so terribly sorry.He was a fine man.I remember when he visited for the Fourth of July—he insisted on carrying chairs into the garden himself, and said he didn’t want to sit around like dead weight while the staff did all the work.”
The knot in my throat tightened.Finally—finally—someone sounded like a decent human being.
