“Did you know?” I manage, trying to rein in the chaos of emotions storming inside me. “That—that our crisis management handler is Kit’s ex?”
“I knew they were close,” says Tibby. “Which I thought they’d made clear during your meeting.”
“Yes, but—I thought they were friends,” I say, my voice strangled. “Why did no one mention this?”
“Likely because it isn’t relevant, since Kit is with you,” she says. But my traitorous eyes choose this moment to tear up, and I can barely make out her blurry form leaning toward me across the table. “Evangeline. Evan. Tell me what’s going on.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. How the hell am I supposed to explain? “Kit’s—mad that I risked my life in Oxford,” I mumble. “And he has every right to be. But he wanted a…a break. To think about our relationship.”
It’s more complicated than that, of course, but I can’t bring myself to go into detail, and Tibby doesn’t push. If anything, she seems to read between the lines, and she taps her perfectly manicured nails on the table. “I see,” she muses. “A valid reason to need to step away, but I expect it’s done you no good.”
I shake my head and sniff wetly. “It’s not about me. I just want him to be okay.”
“Of course it’s about you,” she says. “You’re part of this relationship, too, and it’s shit that you’rebothgoing through this. And the more you repress your own feelings, the less likely you two are to ever work through it properly. Is that what you want?”
I imagine the moment I’ll see him today—a moment only hours away—and think about it being the last. Or at least the last moment where hope and love still burn between us. My eyes start to overflow, and I shake my head again, turning to stare out the window.
“I didn’t think so,” she says with surprising gentleness. “Now, how are you really doing?”
She must know—she’s been with me every single day, after all, but I take a deep breath and tell her anyway. “I miss him. None of this feelsrealwithout him, and I keep thinking of him and—and Astrid, and—she made him laugh when he was miserable, and—” I gulp and wipe my eyes with my palms so hard that I see stars.
“And you think someone hemighthave shagged once over a year ago could hold a candle to everything you’ve been through together?” says Tibby. I shrug.
“She doesn’t come with the baggage I do. She doesn’t givehim panic attacks or—or make him worry, or scare him half to death.”
Tibby considers me for a long moment, as if something has just occurred to her. “Did you read the article from this morning?”
“The one on theRegal Record? Of course not,” I say, making a face and wiping my wet eyes with my sleeve. “Kit told me what happened months ago. I don’t need Ben’s salacious take on it.”
“Fair,” says Tibby slowly, “but in this case, I think you might want to read it anyway. There may be…details in it that Kit might not have mentioned. For good reason.”
I stare at her, my mouth already open to object, but something overtakes me instead. She wouldn’t suggest it if it weren’t important. I warily pick up my phone once more, scowling at the picture of Kit and Astrid, and navigate back to theRegal Record’s homepage. The article about Liam is at the top, and while I intend to skim it, halfway through the second paragraph, my body goes cold like I’ve plunged into the depths of the freezing ocean.
The mysterious June 2022 death of William Abbott-Montgomery has finally been revealed as a suicide.
The body of the 21-year-old son of the Duke of Dorset was found with a self-inflicted gunshot wound in the family home in Somerset by his younger brother, Christopher Abbott-Montgomery. According to royal insiders, while William—known as Liam to friends and family—left no note, a difficult breakup is thought to be the catalyst.
The Duke, with help from his sister, Queen Helene, and brother-in-law, King Alexander, was quick to smother all mentions of William’s death in the media, let alone any leaks about the manner of his demise, leaving those who knew Abbott-Montgomery to assume an accident or brief illness. Even Christopher, only eighteen at the time of the tragedy, was sworn to secrecy, and he has done a masterful job of keeping his family’s skeletons hidden ever since.
If the current Lord Clarence is willing to keep something as important as his brother’s death by suicide a secret from friends and family, then what’s stopping him from lying to the public about his experience with MI5? And after Queen Helene’s confession of a sham marriage and adultery earlier this year, can we really trust a word coming from the mouth of any Abbott-Montgomery?
Kit found his brother’s body. I don’t know why I assumed Liam died far away from Kit, or that the manner of his death hadn’t involved blood and gore and horrific violence—maybe because of how close the Abbott-Montgomerys are to the royal family, and the idea of anything messier than a bottle of pills is unthinkable in those circles. But a bullet wound. A devastating scene that Kit must still see in his more difficult moments—maybe every time he closes his eyes.
“He never told me,” I whisper as I skim the rest of the article, which is of course nothing more than Ben bad-mouthing Kit after he’s just flung him into a fiery pit of despair. It’s a damn good thing we’re thousands of feet in the air right now, because if I were still at Balmoral, I would hunt the sick asshole down and ensure his family line ended with him.
“Of course he didn’t,” says Tibby. “What do you expect? ‘Oh, I suppose I’m not too keen on marinara sauce because I found my brother’s body after he shot himself in the head. Pass the salt, would you, darling?’ ”
My stomach turns at the mental image that flashes through my mind. “Obviously not, but—we’ve talked about all kinds of hard things. I just thought…I don’t know. I thought he would tell me something like that.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get through to you,” says Tibby. “You’re convinced thatyou’rethe one causing his panic attacksand anxiety, but I think that while what you’ve been through together certainly hasn’t been helping, the intensity of his reactions goes far deeper than you. He lost his brother less than two years ago under horrifically traumatic circumstances, ones his family has refused to acknowledge. He certainly didn’t cope well before your arrival, and he’s been so busy supporting you since that, quite frankly, it rather seems like he’s been suppressing his own trauma in favor of helping you through yours.”
I pull my legs to my chest, so cold now that I’m trembling, but I hardly feel it. All I can think about is the sight of Kit huddled against our bed in the dark, tormented and bloody and broken. I didn’t understand his pain at the time, or why it hit him so hard—because we’d gone through it before, because of the circumstances behind the kidnapping, because he was the one who was supposed to be putting himself in danger, not me.
But now I know. It was me—it was always me—but it will alwaysbeme, too. I can’t take away his pain. I can’t heal his trauma. There’s nothing I can do to erase the horror of the terrible things he’s been through, or the scars left behind that will always be part of him. I can’t fix this with words. I can’t fix this with actions. I can’t fix this with promises. I can’t fix this at all.
I rest my forehead against the window, not caring that Tibby can definitely see me crying now. I thought part of it would be up to me, that I would have some control over what happens next, even if I have to beg and plead and promise Kit that I’ll never put myself in danger again. But I can’t fight these demons for him, and he’s already walked away and given up on us.
There’s nothing I can do anymore.
