But maybe that was all right.
Because now I knew, with a clarity that cut through the despair, what truly mattered.Not the speeches, not the alliances, not the career I had sacrificed everything for.
Arthur.
The only thing on my mind, pounding in rhythm with my heart, was his name.I needed to see him and tell him I was sorry.To beg his forgiveness, and pray he could still find it in his heart to give me one more chance.
The SUV pulled away from the tarmac.The reporters chased after us in the rear window like a pack of hungry wolves.
And the question that echoed through me, sharper than any of theirs, was this:
Would Arthur even want me back?
ChapterTwenty-Four
Arthur
Eddie’s flat had become my cave.
Curtains drawn tight, the air growing stale, and bedsheets twisted into ropes from too many nights of tossing and turning without a second of real sleep.I’d lost track of how long I’d been holed up here.Hours blurred into days.All I knew was that the hollow ache in my chest hadn’t dimmed for a second since Bryce walked out.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of London traffic dance across the plaster.My mind spun in endless, agonizing loops.Bryce chose his career instead of me.
Except he hadn’t exactly said it like that, had he?He’d said we needed to “cool things off.”As if our love were a fever to be iced down until the political temperature returned to normal.
I should have hated him for it.I should have been aristocratic and cold, the Duke of Clarence in his high tower.But I wasn't.I still clung to that last shred of hope, brittle as glass: that once the noise died down, once the tabloids found a new bone to chew on and the circus moved on, he might come back.That he might still want the man beneath the title.
If only I knew when that would be.Or if, by the time it came, he’d already locked his heart back up in that steel, diplomatic box he’d lived in for forty four years.
I rolled onto my side, catching sight of my phone on the nightstand.The screen was dark, but I knew what was waiting there.Messages piled up like rubble.Chris, Laurence, even a distant cousin or two pretending to care about my "well-being."All unread.
Professionally, Clarence Atelier was flourishing.We were suddenly the hottest property in London.Sales were soaring, sustainable designers were whispering my name with reverence, and social media was ablaze with fan-edits of “The Prince and the Ambassador.”People loved the fairy tale.
If only the governments of the United States and the United Kingdom shared the sentiment.
A sound snapped me out of the spiral—a faint, metallic jangle from the front of the flat.
“Are those keys?”
My heart lurched into my throat.Then the front door creaked open.
Panic gripped me.Eddie wasn’t due back from his press tour in LA for two more weeks.Had I even remembered to lock the door?Had some enterprising paparazzo broken in?My muscles seized; I froze under the covers, listening, every nerve straining.
And then, footsteps.Familiar.Light.Eddie appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel in bespoke tailoring.He didn’t even say hello.
“Get your arse out of bed, Arthur,” he commanded, hands on his hips.“You look like a bearded Miss Havisham, only with significantly less lace and much worse hair.”
I spluttered, relief flooding through me so fast it left me dizzy.“What—Eddie—what are you doing here?”
“No excuses.”He marched over and sat on the edge of the mattress, his expensive cologne cutting through the musty air of my depression.He grabbed my hand as if I were a drowning man he fully intended to drag to shore by his hair.“This cannot continue.You’re wallowing.And you’re dreadful at it, by the way.No poise at all.”
I blinked at him, squinting against the light from the hall.“What are you even doing here?You’re supposed to be in LA.There were cameras.And...Emmy buzz.”
Eddie smirked, squeezing my fingers.“I called in a favor.Told the producers I had to fly back to rescue my mad ex-boyfriend before he wasted away into a puddle of Royal sorrow.They thought it was charming.VeryNotting Hill.”
“Mad ex-boyfriend?”I tried for dry wit, but my voice cracked.“I’ve no idea who you mean.”
“You, darling.Obviously.”His nose wrinkled as he leaned closer.“And you smell.Honestly, Arthur, have you showered at all this week?”
