The voice of the President’s Chief of Staff, echoed in my head.
“This isn’t a prep school mixer, Lewis.You’re the face of the United States in the U.K.Act like it, or we’ll find someone who will.”
My phone buzzed on the side table.I grabbed it too quickly, my heart already hammering against my ribs.It was a message from Arthur.
I miss you.I understand you need peace and quiet.Mummy and I spoke at length, and now I want to sleep for the next year.I love you.
Three words.They cracked me wide open.My throat tightened until it physically hurt to swallow.Why was it that the first time I’d truly let myself love someone, the entire damned world seemed to line up in battle formation against us?
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, then moved with a mind of their own.
I love you, too.
The screen lit up again almost immediately.This time, it wasn’t a text.It was an incoming call.I nearly dropped the phone when I saw the name on the caller ID.
Dad.
He never called.Never.If he needed me, he wrote a formal letter on heavy cream stationery or, more often, sent nothing at all, relying on the tacit agreement that I’d come home to Richmond for Christmas and Easter, exchange polite, hollow words over a roast, and go back to the life he didn't quite approve of but tolerated because it carried the weight of respectability.
If he were calling now, it couldn’t be good.
For a second, I considered letting it ring out.I could pretend I was asleep, or in that bath Mrs.Ashcroft was preparing.But I knew the man.He would keep dialing until I gave in and answered.I pressed the green button, my palm clammy against the screen.
“Dad?”My voice came out raw, thinner than I intended.
There was a long, deliberate pause before he answered.When he spoke, his drawl was measured and soft—that specific, melodic cadence of old Virginia money.
“Bryce, son,” he said.“How’re you holding up?”
The simple, paternal question nearly undid me.I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes, but it was useless—the tears welled anyway.A tiny, jagged breath slipped out, humiliating in its helplessness.
“Dad, this is… it’s too much.I didn’t sign up for this.”The words tumbled out before I could filter them.“I chose this life to serve my country, not to become a circus act for the tabloids.”
On the other end, I heard him sigh.“Your mother’s been beside herself,” he said finally.“She worries.You know how she is.”His voice softened by a fraction, a rare crack in the granite.“We both do.But you ought to know, Bryce—we support you.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the cool leather of the chair.Support.It was more than I’d expected from the Lewis patriarch, yet far less than I actually needed.Still, my throat ached with a sudden, sharp gratitude.
Silence stretched between us, long enough for me to hear the faint clink of ice against glass on his end.I could see him perfectly: in the study in Richmond, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the night, one hand resting on the arm of his worn chair, the other steady around a tumbler of bourbon.
Then, in that quiet, devastatingly deliberate way of his, he asked, “Is it worth it?”
I blinked, the word echoing in the empty library.“What?”
“This relationship.With the Prince.”He didn’t sneer the word—a Lewis never sneered—but he said it like something exotic and entirely impractical.
I swallowed hard.My father and I had never spoken about my personal life.Not like this.The sudden intimacy of the question felt like being caught in a house where the walls had suddenly vanished.“Dad…”
“Maybe,” he said carefully, “you ought to take a step back.Look at the big picture, son.You’ve worked your whole life to reach this summit.Being the Ambassador to the Court of St.James’s is no small thing—it’s an honor.Do you really want to throw that legacy away for this man?For a situation that is, let’s be frank, entirely inappropriate for a man in your position?”
The words hit me like icy rain.They weren’t cruel; they were worse.They were rational.They were the kind of Virginia logic that no amount of emotion could easily dent.
It all came rushing out then, the dam finally breaking.My voice cracked, and I said the thing I hadn’t dared say to anyone but Arthur.“I’ve never fallen in love before, Dad.Not really.Not like this.And now I don’t know what the hell to do.”
Silence.I could hear my own heartbeat, a reckless, uneven drum in my ears.Had I gone too far?My father was a man of restraint, of polished manners and carefully curated words.Our family name was engraved on historical plaques, not splashed across theDaily Mail.We had a signature on the Declaration of Independence, for God’s sake.And here I was, sounding like a crumbling wreck.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, gravelly.“Bryce, I love you.You know that.But I can’t tell you what to do.You have to make your own choices.”
The ache in my chest swelled until I couldn't breathe.
