Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bryce
The hum of the engines had become a kind of torture. A low, endless vibration that pressed into my skull and made every thought rattle louder than it should.
We were on the official jet—not Air Force One, but one of the smaller planes in the fleet, outfitted for senior staff and ambassadors.
It was a flying conference room: leather seats, polished walnut tables bolted down, little lamps that looked like they’d been lifted from a hotel lobby.
Everything screamed luxury, but to me it felt sterile, like a stage set.
Around me, staffers murmured in low voices, bent over laptops, tapping out notes, whispering about what this meant for NATO, for Brussels, for the headlines. My deputy, Paula, sat beside me, professional as always, her laptop centred in front of her.
We were flying back from Brussels, and I should have felt relief. President Harding had stunned everyone by pivoting—deciding the United States would commit forces to NATO’s defence after Russia’s invasion of Albania.
The moment Air Force One had landed in Brussels, the Russians pulled out.
Just like that. Moscow claimed its “objectives were achieved,” a fiction so thin you could see daylight through it.
The truth was simpler: they hadn’t expected the Americans to actually show up.
Once Harding did, they lost their nerve.
The Western press was calling it a victory. A triumph of deterrence. A turning point.
But I felt nothing.
Not pride, not vindication. Just… nothing.
The entire time we were in Brussels, Secretary of State Kirk never once looked me in the eye.
Not in the motorcade, not at the receptions, not even when we were lined up in that cavernous hall of the European Parliament while Harding delivered his speech.
He went out of his way to speak with every other ambassador, shaking hands, leaning in close for those little jokes that make people feel chosen. Me? I may as well have been invisible.
So did the others. The French ambassador, who once traded bourbon recommendations with me over late-night receptions.
The German envoy who’d texted me memes during interminable summits.
Even the Canadians, who were usually impossible to offend.
They all kept a careful distance, as if my scandal were contagious.
I knew why.
My credibility was gone. I wasn’t Bryce Lewis, an experienced diplomat. I was the ambassador who’d been splashed across front pages wrapped around a royal prince.
I had a sinking feeling it would never come back. Not with time, not with distance. Not with anything.
And yet, even knowing that, even feeling the humiliation of it in every stiff smile and averted glance, I regretted my decision to put my career first.
It had been a week since I told Arthur we needed to cool things off, and not an hour went by without him invading my thoughts.
The way he’d looked at me across that sofa in Eddie’s flat, his voice trembling as he said he’d give up everything—his business, his status, his entire life—for me.
And I was too cowardly, too tethered to this career I wasn’t sure I even wanted anymore.
I loved Arthur. God help me, I loved him so much it hurt to breathe. And I’d probably ruined us forever.
The engines droned. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep, because I couldn’t face the weight of my thoughts.
After a while, Paula’s voice broke the monotony. Low, careful. “Bryce… may I speak with you? About something personal.”
I opened my eyes. Her expression was unreadable, professional as ever, but her tone carried something gentler. I sighed, leaning my head back against the seat. “Why not? The rest of the world seems to love talking about my personal life.” The sarcasm landed heavier than I had intended.
She hesitated, then turned fully toward me, folding her hands on the table between us. Not the Deputy Chief of Mission now. A woman, and perhaps a friend.
“It’s obvious you’re miserable,” she breathed. “It’s affecting everyone around you.”
I barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh, splendid. So I’m a diplomatic failure and a morale problem.”
Paula didn’t flinch. “Is this worth it? All of this?” She gestured faintly toward the window, where the clouds smeared past, then toward the staffers hunched at their laptops, and the entire apparatus we served. “Are you truly loving what you’re doing right now?”
I stared at her, too stunned to speak.
“You’ve built your career on diplomacy,” she continued, her voice steady but softer now. “On careful words, careful choices. But this—this isn’t about diplomacy anymore. This is about who you are. What you want your legacy to be. And right now, Bryce, it doesn’t look like you know.”
Her words hit like stones. I wanted to argue, to tell her that of course I knew, that of course this was worth it. But the protest caught in my throat.
Because she was right.
I didn’t feel like a diplomat anymore. Not in Brussels, not on this plane, not anywhere. I felt like an outcast, a scandal with legs, a man who’d had the audacity to fall in love and was being punished for it.
And underneath it all was the truth: I missed Arthur so fiercely I could barely hold myself together. His laugh, his sharpness, the way he made every room feel less suffocating. The world told me he was a liability. My heart told me he was the only thing that had ever made sense.
I pressed my lips together, forcing my face back into neutrality. “Paula,” I said, voice clipped. “That’s enough.”
She blinked, surprised, but inclined her head. “Of course, Mr. Ambassador.”
* * *
The aeroplane’s descent felt like a slow death. London spread out below the wing—grey rooftops, wet motorways glistening with traffic, the Thames a dark ribbon cutting through it all.
The jet touched down with a shudder, the engines roaring as the wheels caught. My stomach lurched. Staffers began collecting their things, zipping bags, shuffling papers back into folders. Paula closed her laptop with neat precision and glanced at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.
I wanted to stay on the plane forever. Just circle the city until the fuel ran out. Anything but walk into the gauntlet I knew was waiting.
The motorcade was already lined up on the tarmac—black SUVs, flashing lights muted in the daylight.
More ominous were the bodies gathered behind the barriers: dozens of reporters, microphones like bayonets, cameras raised like rifles.
The British press were predators, and I could feel their hunger even through the window.
As the door hissed open and the stairway wheeled into place, my phone buzzed with an email. Kirk. Of course. The subject line was as blunt as a pistol shot: “Statement for Arrival.”
I opened it. The words were bureaucratic sludge.
The United States applauds the commitment of NATO partners. We will continue to pursue peace through strength. Ambassador Lewis expresses his confidence in the enduring alliance between our nations.
My name was in it, but my voice was not.
Still, orders were orders, and I must read it.
Paula strolled up beside me and handed me a piece of paper. “The secretary sent me the statement earlier, so I wrote it down for you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, wanting to ball it up and toss it to the ground.
We filed out, one by one, down the narrow stairway into the wet London air. The wind whipped my coat against my legs. I kept my head down, but already I could hear them, a low roar building as the press spotted me.
“Ambassador Lewis!”
“Bryce! Did you spend the night with His Royal Highness?”
“Are you still seeing Prince Arthur?”
“Did the State Department threaten to sack you over your affair?”
Each question was like a punch in the gut. I forced my feet to keep moving toward the podium hastily set up on the tarmac. My security detail closed in around me, a living shield, but they couldn’t shield me from the noise.
I gripped the edges of the podium and unfolded the paper with Kirk’s words. The cameras flashed so violently I could hardly see.
“The United States—” I began, my voice taut.
“Is Prince Arthur your boyfriend?” someone shouted.
“Did you meet his mother, Princess Anne, yet?” another voice cut in.
“Do you intend to resign, Ambassador?”
“Does President Harding approve of your relationship with a royal?”
The questions came in waves, relentless, drowning out my words.
I raised my voice. “The United States applauds the commitment of—”
“Is it true the Palace demanded you break up with him?”
“Did you betray your office for love?”
“Are you in contact with Arthur now?”
My throat tightened, and I tried again. “We will continue to pursue peace—”
“Peace through what, pillow talk?” someone jeered. Laughter rippled through the pack.
The paper trembled in my hands, and my chest constricted. The reporters weren’t listening. They never would. To them, I wasn’t a diplomat, or even a person. I was a scandal in a suit, a fallen man wrapped around a prince.
Heat burned behind my eyes. I blinked hard, desperate not to let the tears spill here, not in front of them.
My mouth opened, but no more words came.
I glanced down at the page, Kirk’s sterile script blurring.
My career, my sacrifices, the years I’d given—all of it had led here, to this podium, to this humiliation.
I saw it clearly: I was finished. My credibility was gone, and my usefulness to the Service burned away by the tabloid pyre.
What was left for me?
Arthur’s face rose in my mind, his voice trembling in Eddie’s flat when he said he would give up everything for me. And me, the coward, telling him to wait, to cool things off. I’d chosen this career over him, and now my career was in ashes.
I couldn’t do it. Not another word.
I turned, pressing the paper into Paula’s hand. My voice was a hoarse whisper. “You deliver it. Please.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded, professional even when surprised.
I caught the eye of my lead agent, gave the signal. “Now.”
They moved instantly, forming a tight wedge around me as I stepped away from the podium. The questions rose to a frenzy, shouted louder, desperate.
“Ambassador Lewis, are you quitting?”
“Will you return to Washington in disgrace?”
“Do you love Prince Arthur?”
That last one cut the deepest.
My pace quickened, almost a run, as the agents ushered me toward the waiting SUV. Cameras chased me, reporters pressing forward against the barrier, their voices sharp and merciless.
My chest heaved as I slid into the car, the door slamming behind me. For a moment I sat in the dark silence, hands trembling in my lap, my breath ragged.
I realised then what I had known all along but hadn’t dared say: my career was over.
I was not a diplomat anymore, a respected envoy.
Kirk would have my resignation on his desk by the end of the week, and the world would spin on without me.
NATO would survive without my presence, and history would never remember Bryce Lewis except as a footnote in a royal scandal.
But maybe that was all right.
Because now I knew, with a clarity that cut through the despair, what truly mattered. Not the speeches, not the alliances, not the career I had sacrificed everything for.
Arthur.
The only thing on my mind, pounding in rhythm with my heart, was his name. I needed to see him and tell him I was sorry. To beg his forgiveness, and pray he could still find it in his heart to give me one more chance.
The SUV pulled away from the tarmac. The reporters chased after us in the rear window like a pack of hungry wolves.
And the question that echoed through me, sharper than any of theirs, was this:
Would Arthur even want me back?