37. How Redford Lost it’s Shield #2
That realisation leaves me feeling very different from the man I was two nights ago, the one who promised himself he would never abandon Francesca.
Anthony’s close enough now to reach for the duffel, and I let him take it. “Come, there’s a car outside.”
I can taste my own humiliation when I beg him, “Anthony, please.” He freezes. “You can drag me back to the palace after, but I need to get to Redford. I need to see her.”
His brow arches, and he tilts his head a fraction. “You didn’t receive the email, I take it.”
I blink. “What email?”
The mocking tone is nonexistent now. “Yesterday, the King’s office received word that an article will be released later today, unless we remove you from Sheffolk.
” He shifts his grip on the duffel. “Your father decided it would be best not to test whether they’re bluffing.
We’ve been operating under the assumption that the same email was sent to Redford’s office. ”
Something cold slides under my ribs. Even though Anthony’s stare makes me doubt myself, I’m sure I could survive if Charlie and his vulture of a mother ran to the press.
I can still walk straight to Sylvaine and tell her that Charlie’s the one who strangled the fuck out of her heir.
Charlie’s the one who planted that candle in Francesca’s room, and he was going to do it again.
Charlie’s a weapon being held by the traitor, and weapons can be traced back to their owners.
He—or some other replacement—is going to do something worse if I don’t get to her.
That’s the logic of it, one that I cling to.
But logic doesn’t explain why nobody at Redford has been answering me.
Unless, of course, this email Anthony references is worse than I give it credit for.
Somewhere beyond my room, the rest of the building seemingly wakes up.
I hadn’t noticed it through my panic before, but there’s a commotion outside.
Raised voices drifting in from the pavements below.
Anthony tips his head towards the door, mumbling something about how he’ll be waiting in the foyer but I’m immune to everything except the fact that I can’t get to Francesca.
I stand there for a moment longer, willing my brain to pull itself together so I can sort this shit out.
Scratch.
The fucking tag again. My nerves spike, and I drive my hand down the back of my neck in search of the irritating piece of shit.
I rip it out, hearing a portion of the sizing label come with it.
I look down at my palm, expecting to see a cardstock with the price printed there, but what I actually see is a piece of paper folded thrice into a compact square.
Held together by the string I just pulled free.
Stitched into the jumper that was ‘bought from the mall’.
A letter that’s been breathing against my spine this entire time.
Remember what I first warned you, Your Highness?
You didn’t think much of it then, but look at you now: dragged out, just like I promised.
Probably wishing Redford was still yours, right?
I almost prefer the earlier version of you, when you thought she was beneath you, because it appears you have forgotten you were only a visitor here.
But you were useful, I have to admit, making Francesca believe there’s someone out there who still hears her beating heart. Thank you for softening her up, because now I get to remind her that she’s dead, and you get to watch from a safe distance like an obedient little prince.
I’m not naive enough to think that this is goodbye, however. That pride of yours won’t let you leave this game unfinished, especially when the last move was mine.
So come back, Prince Eric. I look forward to you stepping back into my world.
I’m waiting for the real game.
I fold the note carefully, slip it into my pocket and begin taking the room apart.
Mentally, of course. Anything to help the way my lungs have shrivelled up.
I count the windows, the doors and the light fixtures, then I focus on how many steps it takes me to get to the window.
The glass is cool against my forehead as I struggle to inhale.
I see my reflection in it, and I find it repulsive that nothing about my inner panic is visible from the outside.
I feel… wrong, like my skin is also two sizes too small, and it’s stretching around too much bone.
The traitor could be with Francesca right now.
Despite knowing it’s only about a fifteen-minute drive, she feels further away than ever.
My brain fixates on that distance, making it measurable.
Manageable. But it isn’t enough because my father’s patience is already at its limit.
Two assaults, two political altercations.
He won’t tolerate another fuck-up, especially when he’s here as a supportive father for damage control.
One wrong move, and he’ll tighten the leash until I can no longer breathe.
Until I can’t reach Francesca anymore.
No. No, fuck this. I need to get to her.
At some point, I move. Down the corridor and down the stairs until I’m in the foyer.
The lights are all wrong, practically blinding me, and my ears are ringing again.
There’s a steel pot over my head and somebody keeps whacking the side of it with a pole.
Lobby. Carpeted floors followed by marble.
Security assists me but I can’t manage more than simple gratitude.
Then I’m outside, following Anthony, and the cameras start going off. Flashes capture my hollow stare as I move straight ahead. I can barely hear the ruckus, can barely take in the sight of the crowd. Some locals, some press—nobody I care for.
“Shame!”
“Justice for Charlie Henderson!” yells one woman, but Anthony just shoves me into the back of the SUV before I can turn around. The doors shut and my head’s still spinning. Anthony slides into the driver’s seat, glaring at the woman currently slamming her palms against his window.
I ignore the commotion as the car starts, pulling out my phone just as a link pings through from the top.
From a new unknown number, blue and underlined, which takes me to a Google Doc that isn’t available for editing.
The tab is untitled, and the little lock informs me that this is restricted access: only those with a link can view.
The headline robs me of what little breath my lungs could manage.
INSIDE THE CROWN’S DIRTY WAR ON SHEFFOLK: CROWN PRINCE’S “AFFAIR” WITH THE DUCHESS-HEIR SAID TO BE PART OF A PLOT TO WEAKEN THE DUCHY.
The letters swim before me, sliding away from each other and dodging every attempt I make to understand.
My brain stalls the way it used to, dropping two sentences whilst trying to make sense of one.
It’s pathetic how my body remembers its training, forcing itself to pin down the words.
I’m still that boy staring at a report, reminding himself not to stutter, not to fail—not to give his father a reason to hit him.
They make me sound like a dog my father unleashed on purpose.
Dirty war. Affair. Plot.
As if every second spent with her was strategic, a means of gaining access to what Sheffolk has long concealed.
No, the title sounds like something my father’s PR team would stitch together.
They have to be behind it because he needed a clean, public reason to recall me.
He never did like the idea of my contentment—not with books, or university or anything that wasn’t chosen for me—and I happened to find a sliver of it in the land the Crown doesn’t own.
“What the fuck is this?” I question Anthony, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
My voice doesn’t sound like my own and the only thing that fully registers is the ache against the side of my leg. The taps have turned into what feels like individual punches.
“You tell me, Your Highness,” he answers with a heavy, disappointed exhale, turning the SUV into a confessional booth.
What follows is probing, disguised as concern.
“I was under the impression you’d overextended yourself again.
Another middle finger to the palace. Another rebellion.
Thought you’d done this to ruin your father’s little reconciliation tour he’s sent you on—but then I hear you on the phone with Lady Francesca, promising things you can’t deliver on…
” He bites down on a smirk. “Now I’m thinking you finally stepped on the toes of the wrong bastard, somebody who doesn’t care how many titles come before your name. ”
This bears Godwyn’s fingerprints, or the fingerprints of whoever was rageful enough to let him have them.
The SUV rolls over a pothole and I swallow down bile.
There’s no breakfast to even hack up, but I can feel something crawling up my throat.
The whole of Sheffolk suddenly feels porous.
Police sirens ring through the air as they escort us to the airfield, and every passing citizen tries to look through the tinted windows.
Too much attention, too many eyes—there might as well be a magnifying glass hovering over me.
Anthony tilts the rearview mirror enough that our eyes meet. “Read on, sir,” he says over the sound of a cyclist yelling at the police car blocking his path. “See the full extent of what this person’s willing to do if you don’t get your ass out of Sheffolk.”
I scroll past the mention of different anonymous sources that have decided to speak out.
Yesterday gave Redford’s guests the attention they needed because these words sound more like an audience who’ve confused themselves for witnesses.
Everything I’ve done since stepping off the jet is described as being premeditated.
Each word strips me of personhood and turns me into another of the king’s strategies.
The attack on Charlie is framed as retaliation against a man only concerned for his childhood friend. My teeth grind when I see the quote from Edmund, claiming that I isolated Francesca from her family.