He leaned forward, eyes glittering.“I’ve already started drafting a capsule collection.Influencers, celebrities—get them in our clothes now, while the iron’s white-hot.Imagine the coverage.”
I pressed my hands flat on the desk, trying not to sag into it.“Yes.Brilliant, Chris.”
He tilted his head.“Why do you sound like someone just told you that you’re being audited?This is good news, Arthur.”
I forced a brighter smile, for him.“It is.Really.I’m just… tired.”
“Of course you are.”He waved a dismissive hand.“It’s been hell for you.But look at what it’s doing for us.If nothing else, take comfort in the fact that Clarence is thriving.”
Comfort was a word that felt far away.
The door creaked open again, this time with a gentler knock.Laurence slipped in, the model of efficiency, though his expression carried the faint amusement of a man holding gossip.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing slightly.“This just came in.”He gingerly placed a thick, glossy magazine on my desk.
American GQ.
Eddie’s face looked back at me from the cover, every inch the star.Hair sculpted, jaw sharp, shoulders draped in one of Chris’s tuxedos.He looked like the future of cinema, or at least the future the magazine wanted to sell.
Chris let out a delighted squeal and practically leapt across my desk to snatch it up.“Oh, he’s luminous!Look at the cut of that jacket—my God, it photographs like a dream.”He flipped through the pages, muttering in delight at each new spread.“This will cement us.Absolutely cement us.”
I tried to smile for him again, but something cold had settled in my stomach.
Laurence cleared his throat, diplomatic as always.“There’s the interview as well.”
Chris found it instantly, flipping with eager fingers.He began reading aloud snippets, gasping at the photographs that accompanied them.
Then his voice faltered, and the grin slipped.
I straightened.“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said too quickly, his eyes darting to the side.
“Chris Tennant, do not lie to me.”
He sighed, knowing he was caught.“They included… those photos.”
I didn’t need clarification.I could see them in my mind’s eye already—me and Bryce on the dance floor, his hand at my back, my laughter caught mid-flight, our joy turned into damning evidence.
Chris read aloud softly, “His Royal Highness bristled when asked about his private life—but seeing these photos, one can understand why.”
My face fell into my hands before I could stop it.“When the hell is this going to end?”I whispered.
The office was quiet except for the distant hum of sewing machines in the workshop below, a reminder that life, business, the world—they all kept turning, no matter how badly you wanted to step off.
Chris reached across the desk, covering my hand with his own.His touch was warm, steady.“Soon, Arthur.It has to.Scandals flare and burn out.They always do.”
I wanted to believe him.But two weeks had already felt like a lifetime, and every headline seemed to stretch it longer, louder, sharper.
All I could think was: I needed to see Bryce.
I lowered my hands, the magazine forgotten.
“Laurence, Chris—leave me, please.I have an important call to make.”
Chris blinked, clearly ready to protest, but something in my expression must have warned him off.He scooped up the GQ with a theatrical sigh and swept out.Laurence gave a small bow, as though I’d just dismissed him from court, then followed.
Silence fell.
