I miss most of the introductions from Doyle’s staff, too focused on Kit’s warm hand against mine. It’s the anchor I need in the spiraling sea of anxiety and grief that threatens to consume me, even though he’s still here and with me and mine. But I can feel the strings between us being cut one by one, and all I desperately want is for him and I to be okay again.
At first, everyone feigns politeness as they debate the best way to handle the now-public knowledge that Kit and I were involved in the investigation into the ABR, but the meeting eventually devolves into a battle between Astrid and Doyle, who seems determined to keep things as traditional anddownplayedas possible.
“That’s not going to work,” says Astrid flatly after Doyle interrupts her with yet anotherslight modificationto her surprisingly tactful and considered suggestions. “The whole point is to make bloody certain the entire world knows what happened in Oxford, and a subtle course will only put us right back where we started. If whoever’s in charge has problems with our approach, then we’ll reevaluate, but for now, wewillbe answering calls from every reputable news agency and chat show in the country. Wewillbe speaking to both current and former royal correspondents about book deals. Wewillbe entertaining pitches from every major producer and studio that is interested in afavorableadaptation of their harrowing—”
“A movie?” I blurt. “You want to do amovie?”
“Yes,” says Astrid calmly as Doyle opens and shuts his mouthlike an outraged fish. “Nothing influences public opinion like a good film, Miss Bright, and that’s what we’ll be aiming for—something of quality. Not a cheesy made-for-TV movie with a shoestring budget, but something with a celebrated director and known cast, released in theaters worldwide—perhaps even worthy of the BAFTAs or the Oscars.”
My eyes widen, and I look at Kit, who appears every bit as shell-shocked as I feel. A movie. Someone else playing me. Someone else playingKit.
“If we can get the palace’s permission to use royal locations,” continues Astrid, typing furiously now, “and if we can find an appropriate screenwriter to work in tandem with the author of our choosing, then perhaps we can have the film fast-tracked and released at the same time as the book later this year—”
“Astrid,” says Kit quietly, and it takes her a moment to look up. “I think that’s enough for today.”
“What?” she says, confused, and she glances between what must be his face and mine on her screen. “Oh. Look at the time—my apologies, Kit. Er, Lord Christopher. I suppose you have a flight to catch, don’t you? I’ll drop by Oxford over the weekend and go over more details with you. And, Doyle, you can brief Miss Bright. Or I’m happy to do so if you can’t be trusted.”
Doyle is so red now that he looks like he might explode, and while normally I’d be delighted, my head is spinning, and I’m slow to absorb exactly what she’s saying.
“Flight?” I manage, glancing at Kit once more, before Astrid continues as if I haven’t spoken.
“I’m arranging a live interview with the BBC for next week—we’ll of course prep you thoroughly, but Kit—Lord Christopher—I wanted to make sure you’ll be available.”
Kit nods, not looking at me. “I’ll make it work.”
“Lovely,” she says. “Miss Bright, Lord Christopher, I’ll speak with you soon. Doyle, I look forward to continuing this delightful verbal brawl over email.”
As soon as we’ve all disconnected, I turn to Kit, my mind still racing. Movie. Live interview.Flight.“What was she talking about?”
Even though he didn’t bring anything with him to the table, he glances around our shared space, as if searching for his things. “I, er—I’ve decided to head back to Oxford,” he says. “I’ve already missed too much of this term, and I’d rather not have to repeat it.”
A block of ice forms in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t understand,” I say, but he rises to his feet, his hand leaving mine, and panic surges through me. “Kit—I’m not—whatever this is really about, can we please talk—”
“I was going to tell you.” He finally meets my gaze again, his brown eyes full of something I’m too afraid to name. “Yesterday morning, right before Stephens interrupted us, I was about to tell you that I texted Singh. I couldn’t sleep, and all I could think about was losing our one chance to finish this, and what might happen if they came after you again—what almostdidhappen, and—” He rakes his hair back in a defeated gesture. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I did it, but I couldn’t make myself wait another moment, not with your life on the line. I’m done, Ev. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to stay, then or now, but even being here…seeing you so upset, knowing it’s my bloody fault thatBen is still free to do what he pleases…” He rubs his face. “I’m sorry. I need—a break. Space. Please.”
I stare at him, rooted to my seat. “A break?”
“Just for a little while. To get my head on straight. To—I don’t know. Recalibrate. To stop feeling like this. Like everything is a threat, even—”
He shuts his mouth before he can finish that sentence, but a sickening feeling washes over me, and I know exactly what he was going to say.
Even you.
There’s a knife in my chest now, buried so deep that I’m amazed my heart is still beating. This is what the end looks like. No shouting matches, no blowouts, no long-drawn-out feuds. Just two days of torture, and then this. A break. Space. A girl who makes him laugh that isn’t me, and heartache that will never go away. I know he truly intends for it to be a break, but I also know what it really means when people say they’ll keep in touch.
“Okay,” I say, so softly I can barely hear myself speak. I stand to join him, but there’s a chasm between us now that only grows wider with each passing moment. “When…?”
“Term ends on the ninth of March,” he says, and my insides twist. That’s more than a month from now.
“Can I visit?” I say, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know his answer. Kit reaches for my hand, squeezing it with shattering gentleness.
“Let’s play it by ear. I’m not in a good place right now, and I don’t want to…say anything or…do anything that might…”
He trails off, and I don’t know what he thinks he could possibly say or do around me that he might regret. But then thesight of our bedroom in Oxford flashes through my mind, with all of his things smashed to pieces, even though mine remained untouched.
He heads toward the door, and it’s only then that I notice his suitcase tucked into a corner. The sight of it rings like a bell in my head, making this all too real, and my heart pounds.
“Wait,” I gasp, hurrying after him. Kit obediently turns back, and suddenly I see his weariness. I see the fear etched into every faint line and furrow of his skin. And in his soft sigh, I hear the terrible truth—that I’m the one causing so much of this agony.
