He departed with his usual efficiency, leaving me finally alone, my father having retreated to his own personal quarters. I moved through my evening routine with mechanical precision, showering again, brushing my teeth, changing into my pajamas.
It wasn’t until I was finally alone in the guest bedroom, surrounded by expensive furnishings that held no personal meaning, that the full weight of the day crashed down on me. I sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed and tried to process what my life would look like if I continued down this predetermined path.
Mornings would begin with formal schedules. Days would be filled with public obligations and charitable photo opportunities rather than genuine learning and discovery. Evenings would end with polite separation from a suitable wife rather than falling asleep in the arms of someone I loved.
It would be a comfortable life based on mutual respect and shared duty, a perfectly acceptable existence by any reasonable standard. It would fulfill every expectation placed on me by family, institution, and country.
It would also be a lie.
Because after months of experiencing what authentic happiness felt like, I finally understood what I’d been missing my entire life. The freedom to choose my own path, to love whom I wanted to love, to wake up each morning excited about the possibilities the day might bring. I’d tasted authentic life, and the prospect of returning to performance felt like suffocation.
The tears came suddenly and without warning, breaking through the careful control I’d maintained all day. My throat was so tight, I could barely swallow as my tears kept falling, a sadness that bordered on despair filling me. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed with the kind of desperate anguish that came from understanding exactly what I was being asked to sacrifice.
Six months ago, I hadn’t been happy, but I wouldn’t have felt this way because I hadn’t known what life could be like. I hadn’t known love and joy and intimacy and that deep happiness of being connected to another person in every way. I hadn’t known what it was like to live authentically, to truly be myself.
But now I did, and it made the reality unbearable.
And through it all, I was utterly, completely alone. The person I most needed for comfort was somewhere in the building but might as well have been on another continent. Professional protocol dictated that Bash remain in the security quarters, that our interaction be limited to formal, work-related exchanges. The man who had comforted me through moments of doubt and fear was now forbidden from offering the support I desperately needed.
The isolation was perhaps the cruelest part of all. Not only was I being asked to abandon the authentic life I’d discovered, but I had to endure the transition completely alone, without the comfort of the person who had become my anchor.
I cried until exhaustion finally overtook despair, collapsing onto my bed. As I lay there in the darkness, staring at shadows cast by London streetlights, one truth crystallized with absolute clarity: I couldn’t do this.
I couldn’t return to the prison of royal expectation, couldn’t marry a woman I didn’t love, couldn’t pretend for the rest of my life that authentic happiness was less important than institutional duty. Whatever the consequences, whatever the cost, I had to find a way to choose the life I actually wanted rather than the life that had been chosen for me.
The question was whether I’d have the courage to act on that understanding when the moment came. Whether love would prove stronger than duty, or whether I’d spend the rest of my life mourning the happiness I’d been too afraid to fight for.
Lying alone in that cold, perfect bedroom, I wasn’t sure I had the answer.
But I knew I had to try.
24
BASH
The transformation was brutal to watch.
I watched Eddie navigate his family obligations with the kind of practiced ease that came from a lifetime of training. He attended formal meals where every course was served with military precision. He participated in carefully structured conversations about royal duties and charitable obligations. He smiled and nodded and played the part of the dutiful prince with such perfection that I sometimes wondered if I’d imagined the man who’d laughed at my terrible jokes and fallen asleep in my arms.
But I knew him too well now to be completely fooled. I could see the tension in his shoulders during formal dinners, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes when discussing future plans, the careful distance he maintained from everyone around him. He was performing beautifully, but it was killing him by degrees.
The worst part was how little I could do to help. My role here was purely professional—maintain proper distance, blend into the background, be available if needed but otherwise invisible. The separation was excruciating on every level: physical, emotional, psychological, existential. In this place, surrounded by the full weight of royal protocol, what we’d built together felt fragile as spun glass. I couldn’t offer comfort or support or even basic human connection. I had to watch the man I loved suffer in silence while pretending he was just another assignment.
It was fucking agony.
And my gut said it would only get worse now that we’d arrived at Sandringham House.
The estate itself was overwhelming—20,000 acres of perfectly manicured grounds, the main house looming like something out of a fairy tale, and security everywhere. I’d studied the floor plans and protocols, but being here in person made me understand how impossible Eddie’s situation really was. This was an entire world built around tradition, expectation, and the absolute subjugation of personal desire to institutional need.
“Welcome to Sandringham, Your Highness,” the head butler said with a bow. “His Majesty is expecting you in his private study at four o’clock.”
“Thank you, Peterson,” Eddie replied, his voice carrying the kind of formal authority I’d rarely heard from him. “Please see that Special Agent Puller is settled with the security staff.”
Special Agent Puller. Just the formal distance of a protectee addressing hired help. I knew it was necessary—knew that maintaining professional boundaries was the only way to protect us both—but hearing it still felt like a knife between the ribs.
“Of course, Your Highness. If you’ll follow me, Agent Puller.”
I was led through a maze of corridors to the security quarters, a series of small, efficient rooms that might as well have been on another planet from the opulent family areas. My room was clean and functional, with a narrow bed and a window that looked out on the service entrance. It was exactly what I’d expected, and exactly the opposite of the warm, intimate space Eddie and I had shared for months.
