His smile deepened as if I’d given him precisely the cue he’d been waiting for.“Not at all, Mr.Ambassador.Only a slight curiosity.”
The lilt in his tone wasn’t threatening exactly.If my ears were to be believed, he sounded amused.
“I wondered how you found your outing with Prince Arthur,” he said lightly.“Horseback riding in the countryside, wasn’t it?A refreshing break before being yanked back by our Russian friends.”
My spine went rigid.Of all the questions in the world, he chose that one.Not payloads, not reconnaissance patterns, not NATO policy.Arthur.
“Yes,” I drawled.“We went riding.As you noted, I returned sooner than expected.”
Nigel’s eyes sparkled with a catlike gleam.“Everyone knows the young prince is spirited.One wonders what impression he makes in such close company.”
The compliment had sharp edges.He made it sound as though spending time with him was dangerous, reckless, scandalous.My chest tightened, but I kept my expression carefully neutral.
“He was gracious,” I replied, choosing each word with surgical precision.“And an excellent rider.The outing was quite pleasant.”
“Ah.”He nodded, with a single curt dip of the chin.“Pleasant.That’s good to know.”
He rose in one fluid motion, collecting his folio as though we’d been discussing nothing more consequential than the weather.At the door, he paused, casting me a glance over his shoulder.
“Do keep me informed,” he said, voice smooth as glass.“About the drones, of course.Though any other… developments are always welcome.”
And with that, he glided out, leaving behind the faintest trace of expensive cologne and the unmistakable tang of a warning.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat frozen, pulse drumming in my ears.Nigel’s words echoed in the silence, vague yet barbed.Why in God’s name was he interested in Arthur?He wasn’t an heir or high on the royal totem pole.Hell, he didn’t matter to the government beyond being occasional tabloid fodder.
And yet Nigel asked as though he were a chess piece already moving across the board.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palms flat against the table.The polished wood was cool beneath my skin, steadying.But the unease Nigel left behind clung like smoke, seeping into the cracks of the room.
Damn it.Am I hopelessly out of my depth?
I’d never been the ambassador to a country that mattered this much, not in the way the UK mattered.In other postings I’d been a glorified trader with a nice title—boosting exports, opening doors for American companies, ribbon-cutting with a practised smile.Belize had been my first rodeo.The worst thing that happened there was a sunburned twenty-three-year-old from Ohio who’d picked a fight with a bartender and woke up in jail thinking he’d started an international incident.
I remembered the scrape of the chair against concrete, and the way his bravado crumbled when I said I was the ambassador.“Like, the ambassador-ambassador?”he’d slurred.
Those were simpler times.
Belize had mosquitoes that hunted in squadrons; Russia had drones.The generals this morning had been clear in the way men are clear when they think they’re being reassuring.NATO and the U.S.would handle it, they said.Air corridors, rules of engagement, quiet phone calls that shifted continents by a degree.I just needed to “stay apprised.”As if “apprised” were a temperature and I could set myself to it.
I’m a hands-on diplomat.It still surprised people—especially the men who mistook my Southern manners for softness.I flipped open my notebook to a clean page and wrote in small, neat letters:What can I do that only I can do?
The pen hovered, and I rubbed the ache between my eyes with my thumb and forefinger until sparks danced against the lids.
God, I needed a drink.
The decanter in the corner cabinet wasn’t strictly for show.I imagined the warm bite of the liquid going down my throat, the way my shoulders would drop a quarter inch like pulling a pin from a grenade.Three seconds of fantasy and I shut the cabinet with my mind.Not now.Not with Nigel’s aftertaste still in the room and Moscow scratching at the door like a stray cat.
My pen came down again.I wroteCall Paulaand underlined it twice.If anyone could tell me where the fault lines ran on this side of the Atlantic, it was my deputy.But she wasn’t who I really wanted to speak to.
The thought of Arthur unravelled me.
It happened the way memories do when you don’t invite them.Oak leaves shifting overhead, a patch of sun on his cheek, the horse’s breath pluming in the cool air.We’d leaned in without thinking, the way two magnets pull at each other even when you swear you’re holding them apart.
I sat back and let the chair cradle me.It would feel good to unwind with him.Not as an ambassador confiding in a royal—God, no—but as a man who needed a friendly ear.Arthur could make even silence feel like a conversation.He listened with his entire face, that quicksilver smile pursing as if he knew a secret and you were about to be let in on it.
My phone lay face down on the blotter.I flipped it over.No new messages.
