“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”I asked after a while.
“I want you to be sorry for the mess,” she said.“Never for loving someone worthy of you.”
The words hit like a key turned in an inner door I’d been rattling for years.I closed my eyes and breathed because it was either that or cry.When I opened them, she was watching me with that old, fierce tenderness she hid from the world because it was notthe brand.
“Will you speak to him?”I asked.I meant the King, but I didn’t say his name because somehow that made it both grander and smaller.
“If I must,” she said.“I’ll tell Father there’s nothing to be gained from treating you like part of the royal apparatus when you are not.And I’ll remind him that whatever else we are, we’re a family before we are a firm.”
I nodded, throat thick.“Thank you.”
She rose.I did too, because the choreography is in my bones.For a second we faced each other in the dim light, and I thought she might hug me, and I realised I wanted her to with an ache that startled me.She didn’t.Mummy reached out and squeezed my shoulder instead, which was her version of the same thing.
“I love you,” she said.“That is not conditional, but my approval is.Don’t confuse them.”
“I won’t,” I said, even though I already had and probably would again.
She released my shoulder and glanced toward the door.Duty called, even when it was only the duty to keep breathing.“One more thing,” she said, hand on the knob.“Whatever you decide, decide it on purpose.Don’t drift into a life and then call it fate.That’s cowardice dressed as romance.”
The door shut.I sank to the floor, my knees unable to hold me up, and a question began to swirl through my head.
What am I going to do?
ChapterTwenty-One
Bryce
The backseat of the SUV felt like a padded cell.
It was all dark windows and stale leather, with the faint, clinical tang of my own cologne clinging to the collar of my jacket like a reminder of the man I was supposed to be.I’d spent the better part of the day being paraded in and out of meetings at Whitehall, lectured by men who had perfected the art of scolding as if I were a reckless political appointee instead of a man who had dedicated twenty years of his life to the diplomatic service.My head throbbed.
Winfield House rose into view as we cleared the gates, lit like a massive, tiered wedding cake at the edge of Regent’s Park.Usually, I found comfort in the sight of it—gracious, sprawling, and almost absurd in its stateliness.It was a piece of America anchored in London soil.Tonight, however, it looked like a fortress I hadn’t asked for.A gilded cage.
I pulled my phone from my bag, my thumbs feeling heavy and clumsy on the glass.My message to Arthur was intentionally brief.
Not coming to the gallery tonight.Staying at the Residence.I’m drained and would only be horrible company.
The words looked harsher than I meant them to be once they were sent.They weren’t the truth, either.The truth was that I wanted nothing more than to be with Arthur, feeling his laughter muffled against my neck.I wanted his reckless, stubborn belief that the world couldn’t keep us apart.But I was wrung out, brittle as parchment.I was terrified that if I went to him now, the sharpness of my mood would cut him, too.
The car rolled to a silent halt.The protection officer opened my door with a low, “Sir.”Cameras hadn’t followed us through the gates—thank God for small mercies—but I still ducked my head as if lenses were waiting in the shrubbery.
The air smelled of damp grass and old stone as I stepped out into the chill.Winfield’s long, elegant windows glowed against the rain-dark sky.Inside, Mrs.Ashcroft was waiting in the foyer.She was as unflappable as ever in her navy cardigan and pearls, but the way she smoothed her hands over her skirt betrayed her.
“Mr.Ambassador, how are you holding up?”she asked, her voice soft.“We’ve all seen the headlines.I was… well, we were all worried, sir.”
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.“I’m fine, Mrs.Ashcroft.Just tired.It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Would you like anything?A light supper, perhaps?The chef kept some of the trout warm.”She hesitated, the tiniest crack appearing in her professional reserve.“Or… a hot bath.To relax and forget the day entirely.”
The suggestion made something tight in my chest finally loosen.“A bath sounds perfect, Mrs.Ashcroft.Thank you.”
She nodded and vanished with quiet, ghostly efficiency, leaving me alone in the high-ceilinged hall.I didn't go upstairs immediately.Instead, I wandered toward the library, my favorite room in the house.It was a sea of floor-to-ceiling shelves, Persian rugs, and the faint, noble smell of beeswax polish and old paper.It was a space designed to impress visiting dignitaries, but to me, it always felt like the lobby of the fanciest hotel in the world.Winfield House never felt like a home; it felt like part of the costume I was required to wear.
I went to the crystal decanter on the sideboard, pulled out the stopper, and poured a double of the smoothest bourbon we had.My hand shook as I raised the cut-glass tumbler.I stared at it for a long beat, smelling the oak and the smoke, then set it down untouched.I wanted my mind clear tonight, not fogged.I poured a glass of ice water instead.
I sank into a deep leather wingback chair and pressed my palms to my eyes until I saw stars.Never in my life had I felt so utterly split in two.
On one side:Arthur.The first person who had ever made me feel like Bryce instead ofThe Honorable Bryce Fielding Lewis.He lit up corners of my soul I hadn’t even known were dark.On the other side: the unrelenting, cold glare of the world, the screaming headlines, and the brutal certainty that my career—the one thing I’d built with surgical precision and immense sacrifice—was slipping through my fingers because our love had been exposed to the light.
