“Thank you, Mrs.Ashcroft,” I whispered.“I need you to start packing up my things.Yours, too.I’ll be leaving for London soon.I’ll be… replacing him.”
There was the faintest sigh on the line.Not judgment, not pity—simply recognition of the absurd cruelty of it all.“Of course, Ambassador.I’ll see to it at once.”
When I hung up, the silence in my office pressed heavy against me.The screen where Kirk’s face had been now sat black and blank, reflecting only my own pale outline.
I pressed my fingers into the cool wood of my desk, steadying myself against the tide of dread rising inside me.
Was I walking into the honor of my career… or the greatest political trap of my life?
ChapterOne
Bryce
The seatbelt sign blinked on, accompanied by the familiar chime.My stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with turbulence.Heathrow was sprawling beneath us somewhere, and in a few minutes the wheels would slam onto the runway, and with that jolt my life would change forever.
Across the aisle, Special Agent Daniel Brooks of the Diplomatic Security Service sat ramrod straight, arms crossed, expression carved out of granite.Brooks had been assigned to escort me over from DC, and I suspected the man could sit through a ten-hour flight without blinking.He’d barely spoken to me since Washington—just a monotone “No, sir” when I asked if he wanted coffee.Stoic didn’t begin to cover it.He was a wall in a cheap suit, his tie knotted so precisely it could have been measured with calipers.
I envied him, in a way.He didn’t have to worry about what it meant to be stepping off this plane as the next United States Ambassador to the Court of St.James’s.He didn’t have to hear the ghosts of every predecessor whispering about centuries of history and impossible expectations.He just had to make sure I didn’t get shot.
The landing gear groaned down, and my palms grew damp.This is it, Bryce.No turning back now.The top post.The prize every career diplomat pretends not to care about but secretly dreams of.
The tires shrieked against the tarmac, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.
When the aircraft finally taxied to a halt, the purser appeared, deference softening her otherwise practiced smile.“Ambassador Lewis, if you’ll follow me, please.They’re waiting.”
“They always are,” I muttered, tugging my suit jacket into place.
At the aircraft door, two figures waited—one from the British Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office, a youngish man in a gray suit who introduced himself as Oliver Bates, “Protocol Directorate.”His vowels were so polished you could’ve eaten off them.Beside him, a woman from the U.S.Embassy—Paula Brooks, Deputy Chief of Mission.Perfect posture, perfect blowout, perfect handshake.
“Ambassador, welcome to London,” Paula said, as though I were an old friend rather than the understudy awkwardly stepping into Ian Mitchell’s still-warm shoes.
Brooks hovered behind me like a shadow as I was ushered down the jet bridge into the warren of Heathrow.No queues, no questions, no rummaging through bags.A private channel for dignitaries—how terribly convenient for the people least in need of convenience.A customs officer glanced at my diplomatic passport, gave a stiff nod, and waved us through.If only entering a country’s confidence were always so simple.
“Press are waiting outside,” Oliver murmured with the solemnity of a priest delivering bad news.
Of course they were.
The doors opened onto the gray tarmac, where a small knot of photographers and reporters had gathered behind a rope line.Flashes popped as if I were some Hollywood leading man rather than a jet-lagged civil servant with a pit in his stomach.
I stretched my lips into a smile I didn’t feel, the kind that made my jaw ache after five seconds.I silently thanked Mrs.Ashcroft for insisting I ditch my jeans and sneakers for a charcoal suit and polished oxfords.“First impressions matter, sir,” she’d said in that clipped tone that brooked no argument.Damn it, she was right.At least I looked like I belonged here, even if I didn’t feel it.
“Ambassador, a word for the press?”someone shouted.
I kept my voice steady, though my chest felt tight.“Former Ambassador Mitchell’s family are very much in my thoughts today.I hope I can, in some small way, fill his shoes.”
No elaboration.No opening myself up to their traps.Let them spin those two sentences however they liked.
I was mercifully guided away, Brooks flanking me as though I might sprint away for freedom.A sleek black Jaguar waited at the curb, diplomatic plates gleaming, the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes fluttering together from little stanchions.Oliver Bates gestured toward it as if unveiling the Crown Jewels.
The leather seat swallowed me whole as I sank into it, grateful for the brief reprieve from scrutiny.Paula slid in beside me, Brooks up front.The door shut with the finality of a vault sealing.
As the car pulled away, my stomach fluttered again, nerves tumbling over each other like schoolchildren jostling in line.Outside the tinted glass, London blurred past, gray skies pressing low, the city vast and unfamiliar.
You’re not here as a tourist, Bryce.You’re here to represent your country.You’re here to take Ian’s place.You’re here to prove you belong.
I pressed my hands together in my lap to still the trembling.This was the ultimate job.And I couldn’t decide if it felt more like an honor—or a sentence.
* * *
