Epilogue
Arthur- One Year Later
The glass interior glittered like a dream.
Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the relentless hum of Fifth Avenue—yellow cabs honking, tourists gawking, the whole manic orchestra of New York City.
Inside, the new Clarence Atelier flagship store gleamed: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, velvet drapery in shades of midnight blue, and brass rails that curved like vintage jewelry.
I trailed my fingers along a mannequin wearing one of our new signature pieces—a three-piece suit in a charcoal silk-wool blend, the lining a hidden shock of electric violet. My chest swelled with a quiet, steady pride.
Chris strutted a few paces behind me, hands clasped at the small of his back like he was inspecting a royal guard.
His eyes scanned every inch—the architectural lines of the shelving, the lighting fixtures, the way a sleeve fell.
“Well,” he declared finally, adjusting his own patterned cravat, “it doesn’t look entirely dreadful. ”
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “High praise indeed, Chris.”
“I mean, it’s not the London atelier.” He sniffed, eyes narrowing at a cluster of mannequins in the corner. “And whoever dressed those poor boys clearly has a grudge against them. That pocket square is a felony.”
“You sent the detailed instructions on how to fold that square yourself,” I reminded him sweetly.
He stopped mid-stride, gasped, and clutched his chest. “Sabotaged by my own genius. Tragic.”
I laughed, the sound bouncing in the cavernous space. Banter with Chris had always been my safe harbor. Even now, with an ocean between the Prince I used to be and the man I’d become, he was still my anchor.
We moved toward the sweeping staircase, its banister carved like ribbons of gold. “You’ve got to admit,” I said, “it’s rather fabulous.”
He tilted his head, considering the light.
“Fabulous,” he agreed at last, “but slightly over-lit. We need softer bulbs, Arthur. Otherwise, darling, the customers will look like they’ve wandered into a surgical ward.
And who wants to buy a bespoke dinner jacket when they can see their pores in high definition? ”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet, invaluable.”
Before I could retort, a voice piped up from the side. “Excuse me… Your Royal Highness?”
I turned. A woman stood there clutching one of our glossy catalogues, her cheeks pink with nerves. She looked to be in her early forties, smartly dressed in a camel trench coat.
I smiled, the old mask of royalty replaced by something much more genuine. “Here in America, I’m not His Royal Highness. I’m just Arthur Windsor.”
Her shoulders relaxed, though her eyes still shone like she’d spotted a unicorn in midtown. “May I have your autograph?” She thrust the catalogue toward me, hands trembling slightly.
“Of course.” I took the pen from her and signed across the front page with a quick, practiced hand.
“And if you don’t mind my saying…” I glanced toward Chris, who arched one impeccable, judgmental brow.
“There’s a velvet blazer he designed for our fall collection that would look spectacular on a man in your life.
Or perhaps yourself—it’s quite versatile. ”
Her lips parted. “Truly?”
I nodded at her, then snapped my fingers. A sales associate materialized instantly—bless the training sessions we’d labored over. “Please show this lovely woman the 'Midnight Nocturne' jacket? Second floor. Deep navy with the silk lapels.”
The customer’s face lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “Oh, thank you!” She followed the associate toward the staircase, clutching the catalogue like it was holy scripture.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Chris muttered, “'Midnight Nocturne'? You renamed my jacket?”
“Darling, 'The Blue Smudge' wasn’t exactly marketing gold.”
He scowled, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Philistine.”
I looped my arm through his. “No, it’s genius.”
We walked on, past racks of waistcoats arranged like blossoms in a conservatory.
Employees flitted about in chic black uniforms, offering practiced, welcoming smiles.
Two of them nodded as we passed—one murmured, “Good afternoon, Mr. Windsor,” with reverent formality.
The other offered Chris an almost flirtatious grin, which he lapped up like clotted cream.
By the time we reached the back hall, Chris let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m parched. Shall we?”
“Champagne?” I suggested, as though we hadn’t been planning it since ten in the morning.
“Is there any other beverage worth the effort of swallowing?”
We breezed into the executive offices—quiet, plush, the beating heart of Clarence Atelier in New York. Thick carpet silenced our footsteps, and framed sketches from our earliest collections lined the walls, preserved like museum pieces.
As we passed the reception desk, I greeted the young assistant perched behind it. “Afternoon, Kelly.”
She beamed. “Afternoon, Mr. Windsor.”
Chris leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Darling girl, be a treasure and send a bottle of the good bubbly to the office, would you? The Ambassador’s about to be on.”
“Right away,” she chirped.
We slipped into the main office, and the door clicked softly behind us.
My sanctuary. Wide windows overlooked Fifth Avenue, its chaos muffled to a distant, soothing hum.
A pale oak desk stood near the center, stacked neatly with proofs and sketches.
To the side, a sitting area—two dove-gray armchairs facing a sleek television mounted on the wall.
I sank into one of the chairs, tugging my shoes off with a sigh of relief. “Bryce is about to be on CNN,” I said, grabbing the remote. “I want to watch him skewer President Harding live.”
Chris flopped into the other chair, tossing his scarf dramatically over his shoulder. “Diplomacy’s loss, journalism’s gain.”
The screen blinked to life. A polished anchor in a grey suit leaned forward at his desk. “Joining us now is Bryce Fielding Lewis, former U.S. Ambassador and now a leading foreign policy expert, known for his viral analysis channel Diplomatic Truths. Welcome, Mr. Lewis.”
My pulse quickened even now, a year later. He filled the screen—his dark hair perfect, wearing one of my custom-tailored navy blazers, those steady steel-grey eyes I knew so intimately.
The anchor continued: “We’re turning now to the crisis in Venezuela, where President Harding has ordered U.S. troops to dismantle the government. Bryce, what’s your take?”
Bryce inhaled, then spoke with that crisp, Virginia precision that always made me shiver.
“President Harding campaigned as the ‘America First’ candidate of restraint. No more wars, he claimed. Yet in less than two years, he’s attempted to project power into sovereign nations under the guise of performative patriotism.
To the international community, it looks less like peacekeeping and more like a hollow-suit ambition.
That inconsistency—the endless aggression without a cohesive strategy—has eroded the very credibility I spent twenty years trying to build.
Respect isn’t won with empty rhetoric, and our allies know it. ”
His words sliced through the studio like a blade. My chest swelled with a pride so fierce it almost hurt. Bryce was brilliant, fearless, and entirely mine.
Just then, a soft knock preceded Kelly’s entrance. She carried a silver tray with a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two fluted glasses. “Your champagne,” she said, setting it gently on the side table before retreating.
Chris wasted no time, popping the cork with a celebratory pop! that made me laugh. He poured generously, handing me a glass.
“To the Atelier,” he toasted.
“To Bryce,” I countered.
We clinked, the crystal chiming sweetly, and I leaned back, sipping as I watched the man I loved dismantle the remnants of the Harding administration for a national audience.
The year had been hard. Messy. Beautiful.
And here I was: not a Prince defined by a crown, nor a scandal to be managed, but a man in love, building a future brick by brick.
Bryce had kept his promise. He’d resigned and carved out a space where his voice carried further than any embassy ever could.
And I had my career—the suits, the sketches, the customers who whispered my name with a different kind of reverence.
For once, I felt whole.
The screen flickered as Bryce leaned forward, his voice low but resolute. “If America wants to lead again, it must first remember how to tell the truth.”
I smiled into my champagne.
Even the anchor looked rattled. He cleared his throat, shuffled his papers, and forced a closing smile. “Thank you, Bryce Fielding Lewis, always incisive, and always fearless. We’ll be right back after this break.”
Chris, bless him, wasted no time. “Boom,” he said, grabbing the remote and killing the screen. “That man could cut steel with his tongue. I'm glad you're the one who has to argue with him about the laundry, not me.”
I laughed, warmth flooding my chest. “Don’t I know it.”
He tipped his glass to me. “So, are Warren and I still invited to your palace—sorry, penthouse—for dinner tonight?”
“Of course,” I said.
His entire face softened, and I caught the telltale glow that still clung to him whenever Warren’s name entered the air.
Six months in, and Chris looked ten years younger.
Once married to his sewing machine, he was now globe-trotting with Warren Flanders, Broadway’s most prolific producer.
Between Warren’s premieres and Chris’s fittings, their frequent-flyer miles could’ve circled the globe three times over.
And yet, somehow, they always found their way back to each other.
Chris smiled at me, boyish and giddy. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Warren wants to talk to Bryce about some political thriller he's developing.”
Just then, Kelly poked her head back in, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Mr. Windsor? That customer you signed the catalogue for—she’s absolutely thrilled with the Midnight Nocturne. She was wondering if Mr. Tennant could help her pick a few more pieces for her husband’s charity gala?”
Chris drained his champagne in a single gulp, smacked his lips, and leapt to his feet. “Duty calls. Try not to spend all evening swooning over Bryce before dinner.” He winked and swept out.
Alone, I padded to the window. Fifth Avenue stretched below—taxis darting, shoppers laden with bags, the constant hum of New York’s heartbeat. I pressed a hand to the glass and let myself breathe it all in.
My life had changed. More than I’d ever dared dream.
The royal family had come around slowly, then all at once.
My grandfather, the King, had even sent a private note saying he was proud—proud that I had built something lasting, something that mattered beyond a title.
A few cousins still muttered their envy, unable to fathom how I’d managed to slip the leash of the crown and still land on my feet.
Clarence Atelier was no longer a scandal—it was a phenomenon.
And Eddie—radiant, sharp-tongued Eddie—had become the face of our brand.
And of course—Bryce. None of it would have been possible without him.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Speak of the devil,” I smiled.
Just finished the CNN segment. Heading to the studio to film a clip for the channel. I’m passing by LeClair’s Gourmet—should I pick up that porcini-and-truffle ravioli for dinner tonight with Chris and Warren?
I grinned, my thumbs flying over the screen.
Perfect. It’ll be brilliant with my sauce. See you at home, love.
Bryce’s reply came seconds later, and as always, my heart skipped a beat reading those simple, final words.
I love you.