Naturally, Aidan doesn’t credit me aside from mentioning breezily in passing about having some help. Aidan waves a hand. “Oh, I just hired a designer.”
“Motherfucker,” I splutter in outrage.
Richmond is more or less on the way home from Windsor Castle. I have half a mind to turn up on Aidan’s doorstep and give him an absolute piece of my mind because he fucking deserves it, the arsehole. I scowl fiercely at the end of the video as the credits flash up, and then it starts to repeat. I slump back in my chair, drain my mug of the last of the coffee, and make my best effort to not slam down the porcelain because it doesn’t deserve it.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I mutter. “Ten out of ten.”
My phone buzzes beside my elbow. I lean over to peer at the notification on the screen.
Auggie, no less. Private message, not the prince group chat. My eyebrows climb in surprise, and I pick up my phone.
Auggie, 9:30 a.m.
I didn’t know you felt that way about Eddie. Good to see you both last night Ax
I blink. Did he watch us over by the bar? The place was absolutely heaving with guests, after all. An unsettled feeling begins to set in. I message back.
Theo, 9:33
Happy to see you happy Tx
I swipe through my missed messages and notifications. Most are things that can wait. Another client request. Mamma checking in on me. Then a message from Ethan.
* * *
Hey tiger, glad to see you had some fun last night, guess you’re following James’ advice after all? Also I see Aidan’s still an arsehole. See you Monday.
* * *
My stomach knots with dread as I swipe into Instagram to see a stack of notifications light up, along with the first post from James two hours ago, with highlights from his birthday party. There’s an impressive collection of reels and photos. It’s fascinating what’s there and what isn’t.
The cover photo shows James blowing a kiss, holding up a bottle of champagne like he’s won a sporting trophy, followed by a shot of a sparkling tower of full champagne glasses. Windsor Castle’s grounds. Auggie and Thomas, arms around each other’s shoulders. People dancing. James and John laughing over some joke. James dancing suggestively with Elsie. There’s no Frankie as yet. Interesting.
And then there’s a photo I wish I hadn’t seen. The way that James took the photo makes things look more heated than they were. I don’t remember Edward’s hand on my shoulder. Or kissing him so intently, eyes shut.
Shit. Fuck. Double fuck.
That’s way more than I bargained for on socials. And why the hell wouldn’t James clear the photo with me before posting? Because he was drunk, I tell myself darkly. And I was drunk. And Edward was probably drunk too. I groan.
The worst part is knowing Stef’s going to see this too, if he hasn’t already. I should’ve warned him last night. Though, I try to reason, he knows full well about the fake-dating ploy. But he’d already been salty about the Duke of Wiltshire, specifically.
Desperate, I wonder if there’s any way I can convince James to take down this post before Stef sees it.
* * *
After getting dressed for the day and a couple of texts to James, which I fully expected him to ignore because he’d be passed out drunk somewhere on the Windsor Castle lawn after last night, I’m on my way to meet him in a reception room for breakfast. I march down the corridor, on a mission. When I push through the doors of the small breakfast room, where James is sat at a round table with Frankie and Elsie and John, I rush in.
“Good morning, Theo—” James says breezily, lifting a hand to toast me with his tea.
“What the hell was that?” I demand hotly, folding my arms roughly over my chest.
Frankie’s startled. Elsie looks intrigued, giving me an appreciative once-over. And James shrugs, entirely unperturbed by my eruption.
“What the hell was what, darling?” James asks absently, taking a sip of his tea before setting it down.
“You can’t be serious. You full well know what,” I hiss.
James considers me for a long moment as I practically vibrate on the edge of a meltdown. “Sit. Talk to me.”
