Chapter 17
Ricard
The city of Dallas sprawled beneath the helicopter, a concrete labyrinth stretching toward the horizon.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching skyscrapers rise like sentinels from the urban landscape.
Inside my mind, thoughts scattered like the buildings below, fragmented and impossible to organize into anything coherent.
Remy is here.
The knowledge settled heavily in my gut. My brother—Crown Prince of Avaline, heir to the throne, and subject of an international scandal—had crossed an ocean to find me. Whatever crisis had driven him to American soil must be dire indeed.
“Your Grace?” The pilot's voice crackled through my headset, pulling me from my thoughts. “We’ll be landing in five minutes.”
I watched the shadow of our aircraft slide across glass-clad buildings, a dark silhouette momentarily distorting their perfect reflections. A perfect metaphor for how Remy's arrival had cast its shadow across my brief respite from duty.
I straightened in my seat, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt beneath my jacket, the familiar ritual of preparation settling over me like armor. A duke once more. “Thank you.”
Vincent arranged everything with his typical efficiency: a car from Dove Canyon to a private airfield, a jet for the short hop to Dallas, and now a helicopter to the hotel. The transition had been seamless, allowing no time for hesitation or regret over leaving Theo behind.
Stop torturing yourself. That interlude was never meant to last.
The helicopter banked sharply, beginning its descent toward a rooftop landing pad. I gripped the armrest, bracing myself for what lay ahead.
When the skids touched down with a gentle bump, the blast of hot air hit me like a weight after the air-conditioned interior. I stepped onto the pad, squinting against the glare, and moved toward the waiting figure.
“Your Grace.” Sébastien bowed, his expression revealing nothing. “I trust your journey was comfortable?”
“As comfortable as expected,” I replied, clasping his shoulder briefly. “It’s good to see you, Seb.”
A flicker of warmth crossed his stoic features. “And you, sir.”
“How bad is it?” I asked as we headed into the building, skipping pleasantries that felt unnecessary.
“Complex,” he answered carefully. “His Highness will explain.”
That meant it was worse than I’d feared. Sébastien was nothing if not diplomatic.
We entered a private elevator, its brass doors gleaming in the artificial light. Sébastien pressed the call button, his movements efficient. “Remy is staying here?”
“The presidential suite,” he confirmed. “He arrived with a minimal security detail. The top floor is reserved for our needs.”
The elevator chimed as it arrived at the ninth floor. “And the press?” I inquired, watching our reflections multiply in the mirrors.
“Unaware of His Highness’s presence, for the moment.” His tone suggested this state of affairs might not last long. “Mr. Stone has been most helpful in ensuring discretion.”
I nodded, mentally noting to thank Vincent personally. The last thing Remy needed was a media circus.
We reached a set of double doors flanked by security personnel in dark suits. As they stepped aside, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and crossed the threshold.
The presidential suite was everything I expected—ostentatiously American, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Dallas skyline. My focus, however, was drawn to the figure by the glass, his back to me, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand.
Remy.
Even from behind, I recognized the tension in his shoulders, the uncharacteristic slope of defeat in his normally proud posture.
His usually impeccable hair, the same honey-gold shade as our mother, was disheveled, as though he had repeatedly run his fingers through it in frustration.
He turned at the sound of the door and I was struck by the changes in him—new lines around his eyes and a tightness in his mouth that spoke of exhaustion.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Then Remy’s familiar smile broke through, the charm that had won hearts and softened many a misstep. “Ricard,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “Dieu merci.”
“Remy,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light, but how could I ignore the gravity of his presence? “This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you were in Geneva for the climate summit.”
“Change of plans,” he gestured toward a seating area, the signet ring on his right hand, the crown prince's seal, catching the light. It seemed heavier on his finger somehow, as if the weight of the monarchy itself was physically pulling him down. “Viens, assieds-toi. I'm so happy to see you.”
I followed him to a pair of leather armchairs near the windows. Sébastien remained by the door, a silent sentinel. I sank into a chair, watching as Remy poured a second drink from a crystal decanter. “It’s a bit early for me,” I said as he offered it.
“Trust me, mon frère, you’ll want this for the conversation ahead.”
His statement did little to ease the anxiety knotting my stomach. I accepted the glass but set it on the small table between us. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Remy? You crossed an ocean to find me while I’m on holiday.”
Remy sighed, raking a hand through his unruly hair. “Direct as always, Ricard. Pas de temps for pleasantries.”
“Je pense que nous sommes au-delà des politesses.” I gestured toward the window, taking in the world beyond.
“I’ve seen the headlines. Helene has left for her homeland with the children.
Another affair, another child. The palace is in chaos, and the fortieth anniversary celebrations are less than a week away.
” I leaned forward, meeting his gaze. “Forgive me if I skip small talk and ask: what the fuck is going on?”
A long moment passed; Remy looked away, shoulders slumping in a gesture of defeat I'd rarely seen from him.
Since childhood, he had approached life with an unshakable confidence that had both impressed and infuriated me.
Even when caught in wrongdoing, he maintained a certain poise, a belief that his charm would ultimately prevail.
Not now. “It's a mess, Ricard. A complete and utter mess.”
“Of your own making.” The sharpness in my voice surprised even me. It carried decades of resentment—for the times I'd covered for him, cleaned up after him, shouldered responsibilities while he enjoyed freedoms I never dared claim for myself.
He flinched but didn’t argue. “Oui.”
“The woman,” I continued. “The American model. Is the child yours?”
Remy took a long swallow, grimacing as he set down the glass. “I don't know. It's... possible. We were together during the timeframe she claims.” His admission lacked the defensive posturing I'd expected.
I closed my eyes for a moment, absorbing this harsh truth. “And Helene?”
“Furious. Devastated. She says she’s done, Ricard.
That she can forgive many things but not this, not another child, not the public humiliation.
” His voice cracked, revealing the genuine affection for his wife that existed beneath his infidelities.
“She’s taken the children to her parents’ estate in Montserrat and is refusing all contact except through her lawyers. ”
The situation was worse than I'd feared.
Helene was beloved in Avaline, her popularity consistently outranking other royal family members in public opinion polls.
Her charity work with children's education had won international acclaim.
If she truly left him, the damage to the monarchy could be irreparable. “What does Father say?”
“Furious as expected. He says I’ve disgraced the family name, endangered the monarchy.
” Remy’s humorless laugh rang hollow. “All true, of course, but not particularly helpful in the moment. The entire Council of Ministers has been in emergency session for three days.” Remy swirled his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
“Father has even reached out to Cardinal Moreau about the implications for the Concordat.”
The mention of the Concordat, the centuries-old agreement between Avaline and the Vatican, underscored the severity of the situation. Divorce within the royal family would require special dispensations and potentially reopen negotiations that had remained settled since 1847.
“And Mother?”
“Disappointed. Concerned about the children, Helene, and the stability of the throne.”
“So you’ve fled the country,” I stated, struggling to mask my judgment. “Left them all to deal with the fallout while you hide in Dallas?”
Remy’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Je n’ai pas fui, Ricard. I’ve come to find you.”
The implication hung in the air. “Why? What could I possibly do to help this situation?”
He leaned forward, urgency sharpening his expression. “Because I’m considering renouncing my title.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Renunciation was almost unheard of in our family, reserved for the most radical circumstances. “Renunciation?” I repeated, disbelief creeping into my voice. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he confirmed, and I glimpsed the truth in his eyes. “The monarchy is at a tipping point, Ricard. Father’s health is declining. The people’s faith in the institution is wavering. This scandal could be the final push into obsolescence.”
I shook my head, grappling with his drastic suggestion. “And your solution is to abandon your responsibilities? To throw away centuries of tradition because you couldn’t keep your trousers zipped?”
The crudeness surprised him, but he didn’t flinch. “My solution is to step aside for the good of the crown. To allow someone more... suitable to take my place.”
The unspoken implication was unmistakable. “Non,” I said, the word escaping before I could consider it. “Absolutely not.”