She hesitated, then turned fully toward me, folding her hands on the table between us.Not the Deputy Chief of Mission now.A woman, and perhaps a friend.
“It’s obvious you’re miserable,” she breathed.“It’s affecting everyone around you.”
I barked out a bitter laugh.“Oh, splendid.So I’m a diplomatic failure and a morale problem.”
Paula didn’t flinch.“Is this worth it?All of this?”She gestured faintly toward the window, where the clouds smeared past, then toward the staffers hunched at their laptops, and the entire apparatus we served.“Are you truly loving what you’re doing right now?”
I stared at her, too stunned to speak.
“You’ve built your career on diplomacy,” she continued, her voice steady but softer now.“On careful words, careful choices.But this—this isn’t about diplomacy anymore.This is about who you are.What you want your legacy to be.And right now, Bryce, it doesn’t look like you know.”
Her words hit like stones.I wanted to argue, to tell her that of course I knew, that of course this was worth it.But the protest caught in my throat.
Because she was right.
I didn’t feel like a diplomat anymore.Not in Brussels, not on this plane, not anywhere.I felt like an outcast, a scandal with legs, a man who’d had the audacity to fall in love and was being punished for it.
And underneath it all was the truth: I missed Arthur so fiercely I could barely hold myself together.His laugh, his sharpness, the way he made every room feel less suffocating.The world told me he was a liability.My heart told me he was the only thing that had ever made sense.
I pressed my lips together, forcing my face back into neutrality.“Paula,” I said, voice clipped.“That’s enough.”
She blinked, surprised, but inclined her head.“Of course, Mr.Ambassador.”
* * *
The aeroplane’s descent felt like a slow death.London spread out below the wing—grey rooftops, wet motorways glistening with traffic, the Thames a dark ribbon cutting through it all.
The jet touched down with a shudder, the engines roaring as the wheels caught.My stomach lurched.Staffers began collecting their things, zipping bags, shuffling papers back into folders.Paula closed her laptop with neat precision and glanced at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.
I wanted to stay on the plane forever.Just circle the city until the fuel ran out.Anything but walk into the gauntlet I knew was waiting.
The motorcade was already lined up on the tarmac—black SUVs, flashing lights muted in the daylight.More ominous were the bodies gathered behind the barriers: dozens of reporters, microphones like bayonets, cameras raised like rifles.The British press were predators, and I could feel their hunger even through the window.
As the door hissed open and the stairway wheeled into place, my phone buzzed with an email.Kirk.Of course.The subject line was as blunt as a pistol shot: “Statement for Arrival.”
I opened it.The words were bureaucratic sludge.
The United States applauds the commitment of NATO partners.We will continue to pursue peace through strength.Ambassador Lewis expresses his confidence in the enduring alliance between our nations.
My name was in it, but my voice was not.
Still, orders were orders, and I must read it.
Paula strolled up beside me and handed me a piece of paper.“The secretary sent me the statement earlier, so I wrote it down for you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, wanting to ball it up and toss it to the ground.
We filed out, one by one, down the narrow stairway into the wet London air.The wind whipped my coat against my legs.I kept my head down, but already I could hear them, a low roar building as the press spotted me.
“Ambassador Lewis!”
“Bryce!Did you spend the night with His Royal Highness?”
“Are you still seeing Prince Arthur?”
“Did the State Department threaten to sack you over your affair?”
Each question was like a punch in the gut.I forced my feet to keep moving toward the podium hastily set up on the tarmac.My security detail closed in around me, a living shield, but they couldn’t shield me from the noise.
