The sheets were still warm with him when I lay back down, dragging the blanket up to my chin.My hand slid absently beneath it, tracing along my stomach, then I reached between my legs, finding the places where I was sore from the night before.Bryce had been rough, almost feral, and I’d loved every moment.The memory stirred heat low in my belly.I pressed my eyes shut and exhaled, a little laugh bubbling out of me.God, if Eddie could see how thoroughly his flat was being "put to good use."
For a moment I let myself linger in it, the ghost of Bryce's touch still on my skin, the sound of his voice low in my ear replaying itself over and over.Then I sighed wistfully.If only life could be this—mornings tangled in bed, afternoons wasted in laughter, evenings spent discovering how many ways we could unravel each other.If only duty didn't always tap us on the shoulder.
The clock on the bedside table ticked accusingly.Work waited.Designs to sketch, fabrics to approve, meetings with clients who cared nothing for the fact that my heart was on its way to dreary Sheffield.
I threw back the blanket, shivering as cool air hit bare skin, and padded across the carpet toward the bathroom.Eddie's flat reflected his personality—scripts stacked haphazardly, bright pillows clashing on the sofa, a plant on the counter that was either thriving or dying; I could never tell the difference.It was imperfect and cozy and alive.So unlike the palace.
So unlike me.
And yet, I adored it.Adored what it gave me: the chance to just be.No titles, no headlines, no one watching.Just a man whose pulse still quickened at the memory of Bryce's smile.
At the bathroom sink, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.My hair was wild, lips swollen, eyes shining in a way that startled me.I didn't recognize this version of myself—softer, freer, almost glowing.
I touched my reflection, fingertips brushing the glass.Maybe it was only an affair.Maybe it couldn't last.But right now, in this borrowed flat, it felt like the beginning of something entirely new.
* * *
The storefront smelled faintly of fresh bouquets and pressed fabrics that clung to everything at Clarence Atelier.The doors were locked to customers for the day, the mannequins still in their windows but flanked now by heavy lighting rigs and tangled cords.Someone had draped blackout curtains across the glass, sealing us off from the world.
I sat in a tall director's chair, my legs crossed at the ankle, while a makeup artist worked quietly at my face.The brushes tickled against my cheekbones, cool powder settling like a veil.Beside me, Chris shifted restlessly in his own chair, unable to sit still long enough for the woman painting his face to do her job properly.
Our first shipment was being boxed up in the back, bound for Thorne & Whitmore in New York.The thought made my stomach flutter, though not with nerves exactly.Excitement, maybe.Anticipation.Or something more complicated—the knowledge that this moment could change everything.
Chris was practically vibrating beside me.
"Stop fidgeting, love," the makeup artist scolded gently, pressing her hand to his jaw to keep him still."You'll ruin my work."
He made a strangled sound, half laugh, half groan."I can't help it.The first collection is leaving for America today, and now bloody Esquire of all people—" He shook his head, then winced when she pinched his chin into place."It's too much.I'm going to be sick."
I let a smile tug at my mouth as the brush swept across my eyelids."You'll survive, Chris.If I can sit here without breaking into hives, so can you."
"Easy for you," he muttered."You're a Windsor.You were born for this circus.I'm just…me."
Before I could reply, the doors to the back flew open and Laurence barreled in, cheeks flushed, tie askew."They're here, Your Royal Highness," he announced breathlessly."Photographer and entourage.And a journalist for the feature.Once we're through the photos, he'll want to speak to both of you."
He pressed a hand to his chest like he'd run a marathon and then darted back the way he came, already barking instructions at someone about garment racks and lighting angles.
Chris swallowed hard."See?Utterly mad.How are you sitting there calm as anything?I'm a wreck."His voice dropped to a conspiratorial mutter."Is it because of your little fling with—"
"Shut it," I hissed under my breath, cutting him off before Bryce's name could escape.My pulse spiked at the thought of someone overhearing, though the makeup artist seemed blissfully focused on her brushes.I leaned closer to Chris, whispering, "That might have something to do with it.But you must remember—we have to be discreet.So keep it under your hat, Chris."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, lips twitching."Fine.Your secret is safe.For now."
Before I could glare at him properly, the front doors opened again and a gust of cool air swept in, along with a small army of people.At their center was the photographer himself, a man in his late thirties with sharp cheekbones and round black glasses that made him look faintly owl-like.His scarf was knotted artfully around his throat despite the mild weather, and he carried himself with the breezy authority of someone long accustomed to being obeyed.
"Darlings!"he exclaimed, sweeping into the room as if we were old friends."I am Marco de Luca, and today, you are my canvas.My art.My muse."He pressed his hands together as though in prayer, then clapped loudly, startling one of his assistants."Lights higher.Yes, yes, good.And bring the rails forward.I want the fabrics to breathe in the background."
He spun toward us, his gaze appraising in the way only photographers could manage—stripping you bare and redressing you in a single glance."Prince Arthur," he said with a little bow that somehow wasn't mocking."And Chris Tennant, the hand that conjures beauty.Bellissimo.You are both bloody handsome.The Americans will die for this."
"Let's hope not literally," Chris muttered.
Marco's assistant, a young woman with hair the color of tangerines, wheeled a rack of suits closer.Marco fluttered toward them, pulling one forward like a priest presenting an offering."This one—the charcoal wool with the slate silk lining.Your Royal Highness, you will wear it.It will drape like armour over your shoulders.Magnificent.And Chris, the midnight navy with the peak lapel detailing.Together, contrast and harmony.Yes, yes, I see it already."
We were ushered into garments with the practiced hands of assistants, the fine wool settling over my frame like a second skin.Marco circled us as though adjusting invisible strings."Shoulders back, chin high.Yes, your Royal Highness, exactly like that.You have a way of looking through the lens, not at it.Delicious.And Chris, darling, less grimacing, more smolder.Pretend you're seducing the entire readership."
Chris choked on a laugh, and I elbowed him gently."Behave," I murmured, though my lips curved with amusement.
The cameras began snapping, a chorus of clicks and flashes.Marco barked instructions with the fervor of a conductor: "Closer!Tilt your head.Yes, Your Highness, perfection.Chris, look at him as if he holds your future—because he does!Bellissimo!"
