“I mean, it’s not the London atelier.”He sniffed, eyes narrowing at a cluster of mannequins in the corner.“And whoever dressed those poor boys clearly has a grudge against them.That pocket square is a felony.”
“You sent the detailed instructions on how to fold that square yourself,” I reminded him sweetly.
He stopped mid-stride, gasped, and clutched his chest.“Sabotaged by my own genius.Tragic.”
I laughed, the sound bouncing in the cavernous space.Banter with Chris had always been my safe harbor.Even now, with an ocean between the Prince I used to be and the man I’d become, he was still my anchor.
We moved toward the sweeping staircase, its banister carved like ribbons of gold.“You’ve got to admit,” I said, “it’s rather fabulous.”
He tilted his head, considering the light.“Fabulous,” he agreed at last, “but slightly over-lit.We need softer bulbs, Arthur.Otherwise, darling, the customers will look like they’ve wandered into a surgical ward.And who wants to buy a bespoke dinner jacket when they can see their pores in high definition?”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet, invaluable.”
Before I could retort, a voice piped up from the side.“Excuse me… Your Royal Highness?”
I turned.A woman stood there clutching one of our glossy catalogues, her cheeks pink with nerves.She looked to be in her early forties, smartly dressed in a camel trench coat.
I smiled, the old mask of royalty replaced by something much more genuine.“Here in America, I’m not His Royal Highness.I’m just Arthur Windsor.”
Her shoulders relaxed, though her eyes still shone like she’d spotted a unicorn in midtown.“May I have your autograph?”She thrust the catalogue toward me, hands trembling slightly.
“Of course.”I took the pen from her and signed across the front page with a quick, practiced hand.“And if you don’t mind my saying…” I glanced toward Chris, who arched one impeccable, judgmental brow.“There’s a velvet blazer he designed for our fall collection that would look spectacular on a man in your life.Or perhaps yourself—it’s quite versatile.”
Her lips parted.“Truly?”
I nodded at her, then snapped my fingers.A sales associate materialized instantly—bless the training sessions we’d labored over.“Please show this lovely woman the 'Midnight Nocturne' jacket?Second floor.Deep navy with the silk lapels.”
The customer’s face lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.“Oh, thank you!”She followed the associate toward the staircase, clutching the catalogue like it was holy scripture.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Chris muttered, “'Midnight Nocturne'?You renamed my jacket?”
“Darling, 'The Blue Smudge' wasn’t exactly marketing gold.”
He scowled, but the corners of his mouth twitched.“Philistine.”
I looped my arm through his.“No, it’s genius.”
We walked on, past racks of waistcoats arranged like blossoms in a conservatory.Employees flitted about in chic black uniforms, offering practiced, welcoming smiles.Two of them nodded as we passed—one murmured, “Good afternoon, Mr.Windsor,” with reverent formality.The other offered Chris an almost flirtatious grin, which he lapped up like clotted cream.
By the time we reached the back hall, Chris let out a theatrical sigh.“I’m parched.Shall we?”
“Champagne?”I suggested, as though we hadn’t been planning it since ten in the morning.
“Is there any other beverage worth the effort of swallowing?”
We breezed into the executive offices—quiet, plush, the beating heart of Clarence Atelier in New York.Thick carpet silenced our footsteps, and framed sketches from our earliest collections lined the walls, preserved like museum pieces.
As we passed the reception desk, I greeted the young assistant perched behind it.“Afternoon, Kelly.”
She beamed.“Afternoon, Mr.Windsor.”
Chris leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially.“Darling girl, be a treasure and send a bottle of the good bubbly to the office, would you?The Ambassador’s about to be on.”
“Right away,” she chirped.
We slipped into the main office, and the door clicked softly behind us.My sanctuary.Wide windows overlooked Fifth Avenue, its chaos muffled to a distant, soothing hum.A pale oak desk stood near the center, stacked neatly with proofs and sketches.To the side, a sitting area—two dove-gray armchairs facing a sleek television mounted on the wall.
