16. “Castles Crumbling” - Taylor Swift ft. Hayley Williams
“Castles Crumbling” - Taylor Swift ft. Hayley Williams
“We have a problem,” Preston says, entering my office without preamble. It’s just after nine, and Maisie and I are in the middle of our morning debriefing.
I shoot him a look. “You know I hate that phrase.”
“Fine. A situation.” He stops in front of my desk. “One that’s escalating quickly.”
I glance at Maisie, but she looks as confused as I feel. “What is it?”
“Elizabeth Gable’s name was leaked to the media. They just ran the story on the news,” he says.
“How in the world did they get that?” I ask him, sitting up straighter in my chair. He’s right. This is a problem.
“Who knows? My guess is the journalist who reported her story initially gave it up. What matters is how we handle this.”
I drum my fingers on the desktop. “I assumed the way we always do: without comment.”
Preston tucks his hands behind his back as he paces, looking like one of those barristers in old movies. “I think we should reconsider this time.”
A frown pulls at my face. “I thought you said that once we take that step, it will be impossible to come back.”
Maisie has taken a seat across the room, tablet on her lap and fingers scurrying over the keyboard. When I catch her eye, she mouths, Do you want me to leave? I shake my head.
“It’s true that our usual method of approaching these kinds of stories is to say nothing,” Preston continues. “But this situation is different.”
“How so?” I ask.
He shoots me a look, then quickly returns his eyes to the floor in front of him. “For starters, it’s true, isn’t it?”
God, will everyone stop fixating on that? “How is that relevant?”
He coughs abruptly into his hand. “When the public finds out it’s true and that we did nothing . . .”
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. We all remember what happened three years ago when the Crown refused to acknowledge the evidence pointing to the wrong bloodline being on the throne.
“And you’re suggesting what?”
“Nothing but a simple press statement,” he says. “A chance to tell our side of the story.”
“Which is?”
“That we have spoken to Elizabeth Gable and are negotiating privately with her.”
My left eyebrow inches higher than my right. “And you think that will appease them?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Let’s do it.”
The problem with avoiding press statements is that when you actually give one, the pressure to get it perfect is amplified.
“Make sure you wear something that conveys the level of confidence and approachability we’re going for,” Preston says.
“I’ll let my stylist handle that,” I tell him.
We’re still sequestered in my office, where we’ve been for the past three hours, and where it appears we’ll be for the rest of the night if we don’t get this nailed soon. Fortunately, the kitchen has been keeping us supplied with food.
“Are you sure you don’t just want me to write this speech for you?” he asks after I pour my third cup of coffee. “You’re dragging.”
“I can handle it.” I slump into the chair beside him, hoping the move away from my desk will help get the brainstorming juices flowing. “Where were we? Still trying to decide if we should use her name or not?”
“I think it clears up a lot of miscommunication that could arise if you just say it. It keeps the power fully in our court,” Preston says.
“But aren’t we submitting to her power by admitting that she’s important enough for us to add her name to our official statements?”
“Not necessarily.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “We’re showing that we’re not threatened by her. Hiding her name sends the message that we’re not ready to be open and upfront about the situation.”
I let out a deep sigh that sucks me deeper into the clutches of fatigue. “Fine. Let’s add it.”
He jots a note on the pad he’s holding. “We should also address—”
The door opens, and Henry sticks his head inside. His brows furrow when he takes in Preston and me sitting in the armchairs near the window. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Working on a speech,” I say, before turning back to Preston. I don’t have time for Henry’s theatrics tonight, not if I want to sleep before morning. “You were saying?”
The door clicks shut behind us, but instead of disappearing, I feel the weight of Henry’s presence behind me.
Preston looks over his shoulder at Henry, then back at the notes in his lap. “I, uh, I was saying . . .”
I shoot a glare at my husband. “We’re in the middle of something. Can it wait?”
He places his hands on the back of my chair and leans forward. I get a whiff of his piney scent, and my pulse jumps. “Maybe I can help,” he says.
There’s no use pointing out that he will only be a hindrance. He’s already fully aware. I look at Preston. “Maybe we can finish it in the morning? It is getting pretty late.”
“Good idea,” he says, throwing one more glance in Henry’s direction. “I’ll see myself out.”
After the door closes behind him, I stand and whirl on Henry. “What the hell are you doing? We were nearly done.”
Hands still on the chair, he leans in. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s almost midnight, C.”
My eyes widen as I grab my phone. There’s no way we were working on this for that long. But the clock confirms it’s 11:38. Damn it. “I had no idea it was so late.”
“If you would check your phone every once in a while, you would’ve. You would also have seen that I texted you three hours ago.”
I look back down at the screen, and sure enough, I have several unread messages.
Henry: Wanna watch something?
Henry: I’ll even watch Bridgerton with you.
Henry: I promise not to complain. Very much.
I look back up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, you looked pretty busy.” His tone has a level of steel in it that sends off alarm bells in my head.
“We were working on a speech—”
“Always a good cover story.”
“Are you implying that we were doing something besides writing a speech?” My eyes burn from holding them open and from the tears that are threatening to fall.
“Are you implying that you weren’t?”
“Of course we weren’t,” I snap.
Henry’s knuckles turn white on the back of the chair. “I’m sure it wasn’t from lack of desire on his part. The question is, how do you feel?”
I shake my head in disgust and move to the desk to gather my things.
“You know he has feelings for you,” he says, angling his body toward me.
Regardless of whether Preston does or does not feel something other than professional respect for me, he has not once acted on it. Which makes him a gentleman, and one I desperately need on my team.
I stick my planner into my handbag, then look up as something occurs to me. “Wait. Are you . . . jealous?” The idea is so outlandish I’m not positive it’s not just the result of fatigue.
Henry’s face flushes, and he crosses the room, keeping my desk between us. “Of course I’m fucking jealous. If he ever tries to make a move on you, so help me—”
“We were coming up with a way to address your secret love child, and you’re upset that I was with Preston instead of with you?” I see his fists are balled up at his sides.
“I’m upset that he was keeping you up this late when you should be in bed,” Henry says. It comes out as nothing short of a growl.
I can’t help myself. “How do you know I wasn’t the one keeping him up?” I zip my bag closed and sling it over my shoulder.
His glare is enough to melt the statue of David. Or my panties.
My press statement went the way we hoped and prepared for. I delivered the message in clear, concise sentences that proved we are not only willing to discuss the matter, but have already started to do so.
I answered two questions that Preston had prepared me for ahead of time, and then Davies whisked me back into the sanctuary of the palace. The whole thing was over in less than five minutes.
Regardless, those were five of the tensest minutes of my life.
Which is why I’m currently sitting on the edge of the sofa in our living room, watching both the clock and the television, waiting for the nightly news to come on.
Tundra rests his head on my knee, and I stroke it as I wait.
When the theme music starts playing, Henry walks in and sits beside me wordlessly.
He props his arm behind me, and the warm weight of him flows into my shoulders.
The news anchor comes on, and after a few mentions of events going on around the world—another hurricane hit Haiti earlier this week, the strikes in Paris have been going on for two months—the screen changes, and the footage from the press conference begins playing.
They air the entire thing from start to finish. About thirty seconds into it, Henry’s hand begins caressing my back, slowly rubbing up and down my spine. “You did great,” he says.
I look a little stiff, wearing a mint-green power suit and reading from the notes in my hand, but my voice is strong throughout. I keep my chin up while offering a small smile to the reporters that swarm around me.
I turn just enough to give Henry a grateful smile before facing the TV again. The video clip ends and is replaced by the news anchor.
“Developments in this story continue to become more interesting,” he says. “Not only did we receive a press statement from the royal family today, but our team was also able to secure an interview with Miss Gable herself. Here she is now.”
I swing my eyes back to Henry. Did he know about this? He looks frozen in confusion.
They are now showing a video taken in downtown Wesbourne. I recognize the street the Historical Society is located on. Elizabeth’s disgustingly perfect face fills half the screen, mic shoved in front of her, wind blowing strands of her hair like it’s been orchestrated by a modeling producer.
“Tell us, Miss Gable,” the off-screen reporter says, “is it true that you met with Queen Celia and Prince Henry?”
“It is.” Her voice is as musical as ever, like high, clear notes on a freshly-tuned piano.
“And what did they have to say? Did they agree to your terms?”
She chuckles nervously and attempts to tame her hair. “They were wonderful. I didn’t come with any terms. I just want Axel to know his father.”
“How does Prince Henry feel, knowing he has a son?”
Henry is no longer reclining against the back of the sofa but leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Even Tundra sits up and stares at the screen.
Elizabeth manages to look both flustered and composed at the same time. “I think he’s in shock, mostly. We haven’t talked about it much yet.”
“Can you tell us more about your relationship with the prince?” the reporter says.
A single, surprised laugh falls out of her mouth. “I believe that information belongs to me and Prince Henry only.” Henry relaxes with relief beside me. “But the only relationship we have with each other now is as it pertains to Axel.”
“How does your son feel knowing his father is the prince consort of Wesbourne?”
The interview continues, but I block the rest of it out. I’ve seen enough to establish several things in my mind.
First, left alone, my press statement would have been fine. But paired with Elizabeth’s interview, I come off as cold, unfeeling, and buttoned-up. She glowed for the camera.
Second, between her musical laughs and that enchanting smile, she has charmed the socks right off the entire population of Wesbourne—I’m sure of it.
Third, gauging by the look on Henry’s face as he sits mesmerized by her on the screen, I’m going to need to find a way to imbue myself with some of that same warmth, or I will lose him forever.