Chapter 17 #2
“Pathetic,” Whitmer muttered finally, turning away from me as though I were beneath notice. “Absolutely pathetic.”
Beside him, Nigel Thorne lifted his gaze to me at last. His eyes, normally shrewd and faintly amused, were cool and sharp now. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The weight of his disapproval landed just as heavily as Whitmer’s tirade.
“You’re dismissed,” Whitmer said, flicking his hand as though swatting a fly. “Go polish your talking points, Ambassador. The adults will handle the rest.”
My face burned, though I kept my chin high. I gathered my things, turned, and walked out.
Thorne followed. His shoes clicked softly against the marble tiles as he escorted me down the corridor, neither of us speaking. The silence was worse than words. When we reached the black door that led out to Downing Street, he opened it for me, gesturing toward the waiting SUV idling at the curb.
“Mr. Thorne,” I murmured.
He inclined his head, lips pressed in a thin line. No rebuke. No sympathy. Just dismissal in its quietest, most devastating form.
The cold London air chilled me as I crossed the pavement and slid into the SUV. The door shut with a heavy thud, cocooning me in leather and silence. My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone.
I dialled Secretary Kirk. The line connected after only two rings.
“Lewis,” he said flatly.
“I delivered the message as instructed,” I said. My voice sounded brittle to my own ears. “The Prime Minister is furious. He views America’s refusal as a betrayal of NATO obligations. What should I do next?”
A low, bitter laugh crackled over the line. “Do whatever you want. Get drunk. Read a book. NATO understands our position. I just got off the phone with Brussels — they finally realise America won’t always be there to pick up their pieces. Let Europe handle Europe for once.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead, closing my eyes. “Sir—”
But the line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my reflection warped in the glass. A hot tear welled in the corner of my eye, and I swiped it away with the heel of my palm before it could fall.
The vibration buzzed against my skin. A text from Arthur.
I saw the news. Shocking. How would you like to forget for a night?
* * *
The bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat, rattling up my legs, and vibrating in my chest. Lights strobed over the crowd, painting the room in dizzying flashes of pink and blue.
Sweat, cologne, and cheap beer hung in the air, the heady cocktail of a hundred bodies pressed close together, moving in time to the DJ’s beat.
Arthur’s hair was tousled and damp against his forehead, his body pressed against mine as we swayed together in the writhing mass.
He’d tugged me onto the floor the moment we arrived with Chris and his circle of impossibly beautiful friends, his hands slipping easily around my waist, his mouth grazing my ear as he whispered, “Just let it all go.”
At first, I hadn’t wanted to. My mind had been a clenched fist all evening. What if Russia pushed further west? What if Harding changed his mind overnight and demanded a pivot? And what if Kirk called again? Every scenario had played out in a loop as we’d driven to the club in the back of my SUV.
But then he reminded me of Kirk’s sneer, of his bitter laughter when I’d asked what to do next: “Do whatever you want. Get drunk. Read a book.”
So I’d taken his advice.
I had gotten drunk. And now, in the heat of this crowd, with his arms tight around me, it was easy — shockingly, dangerously easy — to forget the weight of the world outside.
His lips brushed my temple as he shouted over the music, “See? Not so bad, is it?”
I smiled despite myself. The alcohol warmed my blood, and the scent of his cologne cut through the haze. “Not bad at all.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and I kissed his throat before I could stop myself.
Then, as if the DJ had been reading my mind, the beat slowed. The opening chords of Whitney Houston’s “I Have Nothing” drifted out, soft and sweeping. A collective cheer rippled through the crowd, bodies stilling before finding new rhythm, pairs drawing close.
Arthur’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Slow dance with me, Ambassador?”
I chuckled, but my chest tightened at the title. “You’re impossible.”
We moved together, swaying slowly, his arms looped around my neck, my hands firm on his waist. The disco’s chaos melted at the edges until there was only him, lit by a soft wash of lavender light.
His gaze was steady, his breath warm against my cheek, his heartbeat thudding against my chest in time with mine.
For a moment, I let myself believe it — that this was all there was. Just two men, no embassies, no treaties, no headlines. Just us.
But as Whitney’s voice soared, the words threading through the air — “Take my love, I’ll never ask for too much…” — something inside me cracked.
My throat closed, and my vision blurred. I felt the burn of tears welling, sudden and unstoppable.
Arthur stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to search my face. “Bryce?” His voice was low, urgent. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, but the tears spilled anyway, hot trails cutting down my cheeks. All the weight I’d been carrying — Whitmer’s fury, Kirk’s disdain, Harding’s betrayal of everything I’d sworn to protect — it crashed through me in a single rush.
And at the centre of it all, the single truth I could no longer keep buried.
I cupped his face in my hands, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Arthur’s eyes shimmered in the half-light, filled with worry and tenderness.
“I love you,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “God help me, Arthur, I love you.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then a tear slipped down his cheek, catching the light as it fell.
His lips trembled. “I love you too.”
The music swelled around us, the room spinning, the crowd oblivious. I bent my forehead to his, closing my eyes, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in a world gone to ash.