Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Arthur
Eddie’s flat had become my cave.
Curtains drawn tight, the air growing stale, and bedsheets twisted into ropes from too many nights of tossing and turning without a second of real sleep.
I’d lost track of how long I’d been holed up here.
Hours blurred into days. All I knew was that the hollow ache in my chest hadn’t dimmed for a second since Bryce walked out.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of London traffic dance across the plaster. My mind spun in endless, agonizing loops. Bryce chose his career instead of me.
Except he hadn’t exactly said it like that, had he? He’d said we needed to “cool things off.” As if our love were a fever to be iced down until the political temperature returned to normal.
I should have hated him for it. I should have been aristocratic and cold, the Duke of Clarence in his high tower.
But I wasn't. I still clung to that last shred of hope, brittle as glass: that once the noise died down, once the tabloids found a new bone to chew on and the circus moved on, he might come back.
That he might still want the man beneath the title.
If only I knew when that would be. Or if, by the time it came, he’d already locked his heart back up in that steel, diplomatic box he’d lived in for forty four years.
I rolled onto my side, catching sight of my phone on the nightstand. The screen was dark, but I knew what was waiting there. Messages piled up like rubble. Chris, Laurence, even a distant cousin or two pretending to care about my "well-being." All unread.
Professionally, Clarence Atelier was flourishing. We were suddenly the hottest property in London. Sales were soaring, sustainable designers were whispering my name with reverence, and social media was ablaze with fan-edits of “The Prince and the Ambassador.” People loved the fairy tale.
If only the governments of the United States and the United Kingdom shared the sentiment.
A sound snapped me out of the spiral—a faint, metallic jangle from the front of the flat.
“Are those keys?”
My heart lurched into my throat. Then the front door creaked open.
Panic gripped me. Eddie wasn’t due back from his press tour in LA for two more weeks. Had I even remembered to lock the door? Had some enterprising paparazzo broken in? My muscles seized; I froze under the covers, listening, every nerve straining.
And then, footsteps. Familiar. Light. Eddie appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel in bespoke tailoring. He didn’t even say hello.
“Get your arse out of bed, Arthur,” he commanded, hands on his hips. “You look like a bearded Miss Havisham, only with significantly less lace and much worse hair.”
I spluttered, relief flooding through me so fast it left me dizzy. “What—Eddie—what are you doing here?”
“No excuses.” He marched over and sat on the edge of the mattress, his expensive cologne cutting through the musty air of my depression.
He grabbed my hand as if I were a drowning man he fully intended to drag to shore by his hair.
“This cannot continue. You’re wallowing.
And you’re dreadful at it, by the way. No poise at all. ”
I blinked at him, squinting against the light from the hall. “What are you even doing here? You’re supposed to be in LA. There were cameras. And... Emmy buzz.”
Eddie smirked, squeezing my fingers. “I called in a favor. Told the producers I had to fly back to rescue my mad ex-boyfriend before he wasted away into a puddle of Royal sorrow. They thought it was charming. Very Notting Hill.”
“Mad ex-boyfriend?” I tried for dry wit, but my voice cracked. “I’ve no idea who you mean.”
“You, darling. Obviously.” His nose wrinkled as he leaned closer. “And you smell. Honestly, Arthur, have you showered at all this week?”
The blush burned my cheeks before I could stop it. I opened my mouth to deny it, then realized I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d set foot in the bathroom for anything beyond splashing water on my face.
“I… may have forgotten.”
Eddie gave me a look that could melt steel. “Forgotten? Artie, you look like you’re auditioning for the lead in a gritty reboot of Les Mis. The barricade’s missing, but otherwise—spot on.”
A strangled laugh escaped me—half humiliation, half relief at hearing someone finally puncture the fog. Eddie’s eyes softened as he brushed a strand of hair off my forehead.
“You’re in love with Bryce,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “And you don't know what to do about it.”
I bit my lip hard and nodded.
“The Palace is giving you hell?”
Another nod.
“And Bryce is copping it from that pig in the White House?”
I nodded again, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
Eddie sighed, his expression hardening into resolve. “Then this has to stop. Go to him. Ask him for one more chance. If you don’t, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, and I’ll have to listen to you moan about it for the next forty years. I won't have it.”
His words sliced cleanly through my defenses.
The truth was too sharp to ignore. But I curled tighter into the sheets.
“Bryce told me we should cool things off,” I whispered.
“Until things settle. What am I supposed to do? March up to Winfield House and demand an audience with the Ambassador? It would be a scandal.”
Eddie grinned wickedly. “Prince Arthur Storms Embassy in Fit of Passion. Honestly, it would sell papers. And perhaps a few more of your waistcoats.”
“Eddie!” I groaned, but he only laughed.
And then—three sharp, authoritative knocks rattled the front door.
We both froze.
Eddie’s brows shot up. “Expecting someone?”
I shook my head, mute.
“Stay here,” he ordered, rising gracefully. “You still stink.”
I threw a pillow at his retreating back, but he was already gone. From the bedroom, I heard the front door creak open. Eddie’s voice, low and questioning, mingled with another I couldn’t quite make out. My pulse thundered in my ears, a frantic drumbeat.
Footsteps again. Two sets this time. Drawing closer.
And then—there he was.
Bryce. Standing in the doorway.
He looked exhausted, beautiful, and utterly devastating.
Eddie stood right beside him, looking as smug as a cat that had just delivered a particularly prized mouse. He gave me a look—arched brow, the faintest smirk—that screamed don’t screw this up before he stepped back.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said in a sing-song voice and swept out as if he’d staged the whole encounter.
Looking at the state of Bryce’s tie, he probably had.
Bryce lingered in the doorway, his fingers clenched tight around the strap of his leather briefcase.
He looked terrified. Not the Ambassador Lewis who could spar with heads of state, whose voice could slice through a conference room full of politicians with Virginia precision.
No—this was Bryce stripped bare. His eyes were rimmed with red, his hair was uncharacteristically unkempt, and his shoulders were curved inward as if he’d been trying to fold himself small.
My heart, that traitorous thing, leapt anyway.
“Bryce,” I whispered.
He crossed the room in two hesitant steps, then stopped, as if the carpet itself might bite. “Arthur…” His voice cracked on my name. He pressed a fist to his mouth, shook his head, and tried again. “I shouldn’t have left things the way I did. I’ve been—God, I’ve been such an ass.”
I sat up, clutching the twisted sheets to my chest, my dignity long gone. “You have been,” I managed, half defiance, half desperation.
His lips trembled into the faintest, saddest smile I’d ever seen.
“I know. And I can’t take it back. But I can tell you I’m sorry.
I took advice from people who thought they were protecting me, trying to save my 'legacy.' And maybe they were well-meaning in their own warped way, but…” He blinked hard, and a single tear spilled free, tracing down his cheek. “I should’ve listened to my heart. Because my heart—” He swallowed, his voice breaking entirely— “my heart only wants you.”
The words detonated inside me.
Bryce sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, as though afraid the whole fragile moment might shatter if he moved too fast. His knee brushed mine through the blankets—the barest contact, but it sent lightning up my spine.
I couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears spilled hot and fast. “Do you mean that?” I croaked. “Because I’ve been tearing myself apart, Bryce. Hating you, loving you, not knowing if I'd ever see you again—” My breath hitched. “And I still... I still love you.”
His hand found mine. Warm. Shaking. He squeezed, and suddenly both of us were crying—messy sobs that should have been embarrassing but felt like the only honest thing in the world. We leaned into each other, foreheads pressed together, tears mingling.
“I love you, Arthur,” he whispered. “I never stopped. Every stupid, lonely second I spent at the Residence, I thought about your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you make the world feel like it’s actually worth saving. My career—it’s nothing if it means losing you.”
I clutched his jacket, afraid that if I let go, he might vanish back into the London fog. “I thought you were gone for good. That I’d lost you to the State Department.”
“Never.” He cupped my face, his thumbs brushing my tears away even as more fell from his own eyes. “I’m done hiding. I'm done choosing what looks 'respectable' over what I know is real.”
I kissed him then—I couldn't help myself. The taste of him, the catch of his breath, the heat of his mouth pressed to mine—it was raw, desperate, and alive. We kissed like we’d both been starving in a desert and finally found a spring.
When we broke apart, gasping for air, my cheeks ached from trying to smile through the tears. I tried for a bit of levity, if only to keep from drowning in the intensity of it. “Full disclosure,” I sniffled, “I haven’t bathed in days. Eddie was quite insistent about that.”
Bryce let out a shaky, beautiful laugh, his forehead resting against mine. “Arthur, kissing you is like… finally stepping into the sun after a lifetime of winter.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden, fierce light. “I don’t care if you smell like a locker room. I’d still choose your lips over oxygen.”
I barked a watery laugh, then crushed my mouth to his again. This kiss was slower, deeper—less about the hunger and more about the promise.
When we finally pulled apart, I whispered, “So what now? What happens to us?”
His smile faltered, just for a second. He took my hands in his, his gaze steady and solemn. “What happens now is… I resign.”
The words knocked the breath clean out of me. “What? Bryce, no.”
“I can’t be the Ambassador anymore,” he said, shaking his head with a finality that silenced me.
“The world doesn't care about my diplomatic record. They only care about who I love. And I cannot do my job with integrity if every move I make is judged through the lens of a 'scandal.' So I’m walking away. I’m starting over.” His grip on my hands tightened. “But only if you’ll be by my side.”
My throat closed up. “You’d give it all up? For me?”
His eyes shone with a clarity I’d never seen in them before. “I’d give up everything for you, Arthur. Because what’s the point of a legacy if the only person you want to share it with isn't there?”
A sob tore free, but this one wasn't about despair—it was joy, fierce and overwhelming. I buried my face against his shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline.
“Arthur,” he murmured into my hair, crying as hard as I was, “tell me you’ll say yes.”
“Yes, Bryce. A thousand times, yes.”