Chapter 1
Chapter One
Bryce
The seatbelt sign blinked on, accompanied by the familiar chime. My stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with turbulence. Heathrow was sprawling beneath us somewhere, and in a few minutes the wheels would slam onto the runway, and with that jolt my life would change forever.
Across the aisle, Special Agent Daniel Brooks of the Diplomatic Security Service sat ramrod straight, arms crossed, expression carved out of granite.
Brooks had been assigned to escort me over from DC, and I suspected the man could sit through a ten-hour flight without blinking.
He’d barely spoken to me since Washington—just a monotone “No, sir” when I asked if he wanted coffee.
Stoic didn’t begin to cover it. He was a wall in a cheap suit, his tie knotted so precisely it could have been measured with calipers.
I envied him, in a way. He didn’t have to worry about what it meant to be stepping off this plane as the next United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s.
He didn’t have to hear the ghosts of every predecessor whispering about centuries of history and impossible expectations.
He just had to make sure I didn’t get shot.
The landing gear groaned down, and my palms grew damp. This is it, Bryce. No turning back now. The top post. The prize every career diplomat pretends not to care about but secretly dreams of.
The tires shrieked against the tarmac, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.
When the aircraft finally taxied to a halt, the purser appeared, deference softening her otherwise practiced smile. “Ambassador Lewis, if you’ll follow me, please. They’re waiting.”
“They always are,” I muttered, tugging my suit jacket into place.
At the aircraft door, two figures waited—one from the British Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office, a youngish man in a gray suit who introduced himself as Oliver Bates, “Protocol Directorate.” His vowels were so polished you could’ve eaten off them.
Beside him, a woman from the U.S. Embassy—Paula Brooks, Deputy Chief of Mission.
Perfect posture, perfect blowout, perfect handshake.
“Ambassador, welcome to London,” Paula said, as though I were an old friend rather than the understudy awkwardly stepping into Ian Mitchell’s still-warm shoes.
Brooks hovered behind me like a shadow as I was ushered down the jet bridge into the warren of Heathrow.
No queues, no questions, no rummaging through bags.
A private channel for dignitaries—how terribly convenient for the people least in need of convenience.
A customs officer glanced at my diplomatic passport, gave a stiff nod, and waved us through.
If only entering a country’s confidence were always so simple.
“Press are waiting outside,” Oliver murmured with the solemnity of a priest delivering bad news.
Of course they were.
The doors opened onto the gray tarmac, where a small knot of photographers and reporters had gathered behind a rope line. Flashes popped as if I were some Hollywood leading man rather than a jet-lagged civil servant with a pit in his stomach.
I stretched my lips into a smile I didn’t feel, the kind that made my jaw ache after five seconds.
I silently thanked Mrs. Ashcroft for insisting I ditch my jeans and sneakers for a charcoal suit and polished oxfords.
“First impressions matter, sir,” she’d said in that clipped tone that brooked no argument.
Damn it, she was right. At least I looked like I belonged here, even if I didn’t feel it.
“Ambassador, a word for the press?” someone shouted.
I kept my voice steady, though my chest felt tight. “Former Ambassador Mitchell’s family are very much in my thoughts today. I hope I can, in some small way, fill his shoes.”
No elaboration. No opening myself up to their traps. Let them spin those two sentences however they liked.
I was mercifully guided away, Brooks flanking me as though I might sprint away for freedom.
A sleek black Jaguar waited at the curb, diplomatic plates gleaming, the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes fluttering together from little stanchions.
Oliver Bates gestured toward it as if unveiling the Crown Jewels.
The leather seat swallowed me whole as I sank into it, grateful for the brief reprieve from scrutiny. Paula slid in beside me, Brooks up front. The door shut with the finality of a vault sealing.
As the car pulled away, my stomach fluttered again, nerves tumbling over each other like schoolchildren jostling in line. Outside the tinted glass, London blurred past, gray skies pressing low, the city vast and unfamiliar.
You’re not here as a tourist, Bryce. You’re here to represent your country. You’re here to take Ian’s place. You’re here to prove you belong.
I pressed my hands together in my lap to still the trembling. This was the ultimate job. And I couldn’t decide if it felt more like an honor—or a sentence.
* * *
The sleek black Jaguar purred through the gray London streets, and I gripped the armrest like it was a lifeline.
Beside me, Paula Brooks sat composed, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes scanning briefing notes on her tablet as though she’d been born to predict chaos.
I tried to take comfort in her calm, but all I felt was the weight of the city pressing in—the low hum of traffic, the drizzle tapping the window, and the sudden, inescapable reality of the job I’d been handed.
“Embassy is just a few blocks from here,” Paula said softly, glancing at me. “We can go over the initial priorities once we’re inside.”
I nodded, though my mind was elsewhere, running through the briefing Paula had given me in shorthand during the ride: trade tensions sparked by Harding’s latest tariffs, the fragile state of British-American relations, and the ever-present expectation that I’d smooth things over without causing a scene.
The president’s impulsiveness had left a mess I was expected to clean up with a smile.
The embassy came into view, a block of polished concrete and glass, designed to look imposing without being ostentatious. Inside, the scent of coffee, antiseptic, and air conditioning mixed in a way that somehow felt both energizing and suffocating.
Paula led me into the atrium, where the senior staff were gathered. Their polite smiles and quick nods didn’t quite mask the nervous energy that always came with a new ambassador. I returned the nods with my best approximation of cordiality, though my stomach was still knotting.
“Ambassador Lewis,” Paula said, her voice low and calm, “welcome to London.”
“Thank you,” I replied, pressing my fingers together in front of me, trying to channel some fraction of the collected calm she radiated.
We moved into the conference room, the polished wood table gleaming under the soft fluorescent lights. Screens hung at either end, waiting to display charts, figures, and the inevitable barrage of briefings. I settled into the chair at the head of the table while Paula sat beside me.
“Here’s the current situation,” she said, gesturing to the assembled staff.
“The political climate is tense, obviously, thanks to the sudden tariffs imposed by President Harding. His Majesty’s government is working hard to comply with the new trade arrangements.
You’ll need to smooth things over during your first few weeks.
Economic officers can fill you in on specifics. ”
I nodded absently, the familiar pang of frustration rising. Smooth things over. That was the polite way of saying “clean up after a manchild who doesn’t understand diplomacy.”
Paula continued with security and communications protocols, briefing me on encrypted devices, secure lines, and emergency procedures. “You’ll be expected to be in the public eye,” she said carefully, hesitating. “The State Department believes your background and presence will help.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Charm? Really? My job is diplomacy, not a popularity contest. And yet, the looming presentation of credentials to King George VIII made it unavoidable.
Sure enough, Paula’s assistant wheeled in a garment bag and two suit boxes: a midnight-navy Tom Ford, a charcoal Gieves & Hawkes, and a morning coat that looked more suited to a coronation than a diplomatic introduction. My stomach dropped.
“I’ll…look at these in a minute,” I said, though I knew it was a losing battle.
“And we also have a grooming specialist scheduled,” Paula added gently, as though anticipating an epic tantrum.
“No. Absolutely not. I’ll handle it myself,” I said firmly, louder than I felt. My hair was clean, my jaw was shaved—why should anyone buff me into a version of myself I didn’t recognize?
Paula raised an eyebrow, just a fraction of surprise in her otherwise imperturbable expression. “Understood,” she said smoothly.
I leaned back, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
My body ached from travel, my brain buzzed with protocol and expectation, and the air in the embassy smelled oppressive and sharp.
I took a deep breath, forced a smile to my face, and reminded myself: I’ve survived hot zones, hostile press, and worse. This is just…different. And exhausting.
* * *
The Jaguar rolled to a stop outside the wrought-iron gates of Buckingham Palace.
My stomach tightened as I caught my first full view of the facade—the stately symmetry, the guards in bearskin hats standing motionless as if frozen in time.
Everything was so impossibly still, so deliberate.
My shirt collar had stiffened on the ride over, my new shoes pinched, and my brain was a jumble of protocol notes I’d been rehearsing since I’d left Australia.
A protocol officer approached as the car door opened, bowing slightly. “Ambassador Lewis, welcome.”
I forced a polite nod in return, resisting the urge to tug at my cuffs.
The officer led me through corridors lined with portraits of long-dead monarchs whose eyes seemed to track every move.
The floors gleamed under my shoes, echoing my steps back at me in a rhythm that made my pulse feel louder than it should have.
The scent of polished wood and centuries of history filled my senses, grounding me even as my chest felt too tight to breathe normally.
I was left briefly in a gilded antechamber, alone, the gold framed mirrors reflecting a slightly haggard version of myself.
A tray of tea sat untouched on a side table.
My reflection in a tall mirror revealed the jet-lagged man behind the ambassadorial mask—shadows beneath my eyes, hair threatening to wave out of its careful discipline, shoulders tense.
“Get it together, Bryce,” I muttered under my breath, straightening my spine.
The doors opened, and I was ushered into the receiving room.
King George VIII stood near a ceremonial desk, his posture impeccable, radiating a warmth that was formal but not cold.
James Whitmer, the British Prime Minister, late fifties, composed and dryly amused, observed from nearby, hands clasped loosely in front of him.
My hands trembled slightly as I stepped forward, holding the sealed letter from the President. King George VIII regarded me steadily, his posture perfect, the weight of centuries in the measured tilt of his head.
“Ambassador Lewis,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, “welcome to the Court of St. James’s. We are gratified by your presence and look forward to continued cooperation between our nations.”
“Your Majesty,” I replied, bowing my head just enough to be respectful, “it is a profound honor to present my credentials. I hope to serve in a manner worthy of Ambassador Mitchell’s memory and to advance the enduring friendship between the United States and the United Kingdom.”
My voice caught on the last few words despite my careful rehearsal. I felt my pulse in my throat, the adrenaline prickling at my fingertips. The King’s expression remained neutral, yet there was a subtle warmth in his eyes that steadied me more than I expected.
Whitmer stepped forward then, offering a handshake that was firm, calculated, and unmistakably knowing. “Welcome to the lion’s den,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I managed a polite smile in return, though the inside of my head was a swirl of nerves, calculation, and the sudden, acute awareness of every eye in the room. A photographer snapped a single photo, the flash making me blink, and for a moment, I felt suspended between history and personal reality.
The ceremony ended as swiftly as it had begun. I was escorted back through the same echoing corridors, my shoes clicking in time with the rapid beating of my heart. The grandeur, the formality, the weight of centuries pressing down—it was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
Who the hell am I in a place like this?
Jet-lagged and exhausted, I felt simultaneously exposed and invisible. The grandeur of the palace pressed down on me, and for the first time since boarding the plane, I allowed myself a flicker of doubt.
Could I really be the ambassador they expected me to be?