Eddie was staring at his hands, his expression unreadable. “I’m thinking that my sister might be right. I’m thinking that losing everything else might be worth it if it means I get to keep you.”
He looked up at me then. “I’m also thinking that I’m absolutely terrified,” he added.
Hell, so was I. I reached over to take his hand. “I would say that’s completely normal under the circumstances.”
Eddie squeezed my fingers, and for the first time since we’d arrived in England, he looked like Eddie again rather than Prince Gregory. “So what do we do now?”
“Now,” I said, “we figure out how to fight for this. Together.”
Nothing had changed, and yet in that quiet room, with Eddie’s hand in mine and the promise of his sister’s support, I felt something I hadn’t experienced since we’d left North Carolina.
Hope.
It was dangerous and maybe foolish, but it was real. And after everything we’d been through, real was enough to hold onto.
25
EDDIE
I woke up with something I hadn’t felt in days: hope.
The conversation with Charlie the night before had changed everything—not the reality of my situation, but my understanding of what might be possible if I found the courage to fight for it. For the first time since arriving in England, I could imagine a future that didn’t involve slowly suffocating under the weight of expectations and duty.
The morning routine felt different, lighter somehow, even though nothing had technically changed. I still had to dress formally, still had to navigate the careful protocols of Sandringham House, still had to maintain professional distance from Bash in public. But underneath it all was the knowledge that I didn’t have to accept the life that had been chosen for me. I could choose differently.
The opportunity for a stolen moment came during the morning security briefing. While the British security team huddled around their schedules and protocols, I caught Bash’s eye and gave the slightest nod toward the corridor. He followed a few minutes later, maintaining appropriate professional distance until we were safely out of sight in the same alcove where Charlie had discovered us.
“You look different this morning.” Bash studied my face with the kind of attention that had become so familiar and precious to me.
“I feel different. What Charlie said last night about fighting for this, about the possibility of choosing happiness over duty—I think she might be right.”
“And if she’s not? If it costs you everything?”
I looked at him, taking in the concern in his dark eyes, the way he held himself with careful tension even in this moment of relative privacy, the fact that he was willing to risk everything simply because he loved me. The last of my uncertainty fell away. “Then at least I’ll have tried. At least I’ll know I didn’t spend my whole life wondering what might have been.”
Bash’s smile was soft and proud and heartbreaking all at once. “When do you want to tell them?”
“Soon. Maybe after Christmas, when things are less formal. I’ll ask to speak with Father privately, explain the situation?—”
“Your Highness?”
We sprang apart as one of the palace staff appeared at the end of the corridor. I forced my expression into polite attention while internally cursing the interruption.
“Yes?”
“His Majesty requests your presence in his private study. Immediately, if you please.”
My stomach dropped. Uncle Henry’s private study was where serious conversations happened—conversations about duty, obligation, and the kinds of decisions that shaped the future of the monarchy. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Of course,” I replied with practiced calm. “I’ll be there shortly.”
The staff member departed, leaving Bash and me alone again. The easy hope of minutes before had been replaced by familiar anxiety. “Probably just Christmas scheduling,” I said, though could scarcely believe it myself.
“Probably,” Bash agreed, but I could see the concern in his eyes.
The walk to Uncle Henry’s study felt like a march to execution. Sandringham House had always felt imposing, but this morning, the corridors seemed longer, the portraits of my ancestors more disapproving, the weight of centuries of tradition heavier on my shoulders.
I knocked on the heavy oak door and waited for permission to enter.
