Hours seemed to collapse into minutes as we moved through poses: standing against the rails of gowns and suits, perched elegantly on stools, laughing into one another's shoulders as though the world outside didn't exist.Marco coaxed every angle, every glance, pulling out a confidence I didn't know I possessed.
Finally, he lowered his camera and pressed a kiss to his fingertips, blowing it toward us with a theatrical sigh."Magnificent.The Americans will adore you.Now—rest.The journalist will want your souls next, and I cannot photograph exhaustion."
As assistants swarmed to reset lights and pack away clothing, I slipped back into the director's chair, adjusting the cuffs of the charcoal suit.Chris dropped beside me with a groan, running a hand through his newly tamed hair.
"You're ridiculous," he said, still breathless."How do you make that look effortless?I thought I was going to faint every time he shouted 'bellissimo!'"
"Practice," I teased, though inside I was oddly buoyant, as if the entire performance had lifted me above myself.
I leaned back and thought of Bryce.He should be in Sheffield now, his scissors cutting ribbon, smiling for the cameras.An ambassador doing his duty while I played the prince who dabbles in fashion for Esquire.
The thought should have made me proud, or at least satisfied.Instead, an ache curled low in my chest.Tonight, the bed would be cold.Tonight, there would be no quiet laugh in the dark, no rough kiss pressed to my throat, no hands or mouth teasing me into oblivion.
The makeup artist had barely set down her brushes when Laurence ushered in a man with polished brogues and a sharper jawline than any journalist had a right to.He carried a phone in one hand, a digital recorder in the other, and a smile that looked polished enough to cut glass.
"Your Royal Highness, Mr.Tennant," Laurence said hurriedly, "this is Mr.Fenton Danvers, here for the interview on behalf of Esquire."
He dipped his head in the faintest bow."Your Royal Highness," he said smoothly, before turning to Chris."Mr.Tennant.Thank you both for making time.I promise not to keep you long."
Laurence scuttled off again, leaving us perched in our chairs.Fenton settled opposite us, crossed his legs neatly, and tapped his phone into record mode."Shall we begin?"
"Of course," I said, smiling politely.
He began with a practiced chirp."How did you two meet?A royal and a designer—it has the makings of a Netflix special."
Chris chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck."The Royal College of Art, actually.That's where I trained, and that's where Arthur and I met.We were fast friends—somehow survived critiques together, which is saying something."
"And now partners in Clarence Atelier," Fenton said brightly."Quite the story."He glanced down at his notes."Some people might wonder, Your Royal Highness, whether you're the face of the brand more than the hands.Do you roll up your sleeves, or leave the heavy lifting to Chris?"
I felt my smile straining.The question was laced with just enough cheek to sting."I assure you I'm hardly a figurehead," I said, voice cool but controlled."Chris specializes in our gowns and formalwear—he's brilliant at structure, creating perfect lines.I focus more on the tailoring side—our suits, our outerwear.If you've seen our overcoats or evening jackets, those are mine.We work together on everything, of course, but I do get my hands dirty, as you put it."
Chris shot me a quick sidelong grin, as if to say,well handled.
Fenton hummed and scrolled on his phone screen with a manicured finger."And how does the royal family feel about Your Royal Highness's… unconventional career choice?A Windsor running a fashion label isn't exactly traditional."
The muscles in my jaw tightened.There it was—the pivot I'd been dreading.Not Clarence Atelier.Not our work.Me.Always me.
"My family is supportive," I said crisply."They want me to succeed, and Clarence Atelier is my passion.I'm grateful I've had the chance to build something meaningful."
"Mm," Fenton said, as though filing my answer into a drawer.Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial lilt."One last question, if I may.Are you seeing anyone special, sir?The Americans love a royal romance."
The words hit me like a slap.I felt my composure falter, heat pricking behind my eyes.
"That question," I said, sharper than I intended, "is wholly inappropriate.We are here to discuss Clarence Atelier, not my private life.If Esquire is more interested in gossip rather than garments, then perhaps we've wasted our time."
His brows shot up, and he sat back in his chair, lips pursed in mock innocence."I only meant—"
"Sir," I cut him off, my voice clipped."We're done here."
The silence that followed was heavy.Fenton fiddled with his phone, looking vaguely affronted, before gathering his things with exaggerated care.He rose, gave a shallow bow, and swept out the way he had come, his brogues clicking like punctuation marks.
Chris let out a low whistle once he was gone."Well," he murmured, "I think you singed his eyebrows with that one."
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself, and reached for the glass of water beside me.My pulse was still pounding, not from anger so much as from something deeper—the gnawing knowledge that if the world really knew who I was dating, no amount of royal poise could save us.
ChapterSeventeen
Bryce
