Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Evangeline
The weeks following the kidnapping blurred together—debriefings with Luxembourg police, medical check-ups, and the careful choreography of returning to normal university routines.
November had passed in a haze of increased security protocols and strained silences.
Now, as we flew back to Bellavista for the Christmas season, nearly three months after James had first arrived in my life, the reality of his departure felt suddenly, devastatingly real.
The private jet hummed steadily through clear December skies, returning us to Bellavista.
I stared out the window, watching clouds drift beneath us, acutely aware of James seated across the aisle.
He hadn't spoken more than ten words to me since we boarded, his attention focused on security reports and his phone.
The silence between us had become its own presence—heavy, accusing, and suffocating. I deserved it, of course. My recklessness had nearly cost both of us everything.
I closed my eyes, but the memories rushed in immediately—the masked man, his taunting voice, the name he'd spoken. Viktor Kozlov. My stomach twisted into a familiar knot of dread.
Five years had passed, yet it still felt like yesterday—the scandal that had nearly destroyed everything, my mother's cold fury, the hasty solution that was meant to silence it all. I believed it was forever buried until that kitten appeared with its ominous note at my door.
I know what you've done, Princess.
The captain announced our descent into Bellavista, and I opened my eyes to find James watching me. His face remained impassive, but there was something in his gaze—concern beneath the anger, perhaps. When our eyes met, he looked away immediately, returning to his tablet.
"We land in fifteen minutes," he said, his voice professionally detached. "Your mother will meet us at the airfield."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. There had been so many moments in the past few days when I'd wanted to tell him everything, to unburden myself of the secrets that were slowly crushing me. But where would I even begin? And what would he think of me afterwards?
The thought of disgust replacing that careful professionalism in his eyes was unbearable.
"Your replacement arrives tomorrow," I said, breaking our silence. "Roger Halliwell. I received an email from Dara."
Something hardened in his expression. "I'm aware."
"You don't sound pleased."
"It doesn't matter if I'm pleased." He closed his tablet with a decisive click. "My job is to ensure your safety until the handover is complete."
"And then you'll return to London."
It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "Yes."
The finality of that single syllable made my chest ache in a way I hadn't anticipated.
After all, this arrangement had always been in place—temporary protection until someone could vet and assign a permanent replacement.
Jake's injuries had made his return uncertain at best. James Banks was never supposed to stay in my life permanently.
So why did the thought of his departure feel like losing something essential?
The plane descended through the clouds, and the familiar landscape of Bellavista appeared below—rolling hills, dense forests, and the palace gleaming white in the distance. Home, supposedly. However, it had never really felt that way to me.
"I'm sorry," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider. "For sneaking out. For putting myself in danger. You were right—it was reckless and selfish."
James's eyes met mine, his expression unreadable. "Yes, it was."
I waited for more—perhaps forgiveness or at least acknowledgement of my apology. Instead, he simply unbuckled his seatbelt as we touched down, already focused on the following security protocol.
Despite the early hour, my mother was waiting as promised, impeccably dressed in a burgundy coat. As we descended the plane's steps, I saw her eyes sharpen, taking in my appearance with that uncanny ability to detect anything amiss.
"Evangeline," she greeted me, her voice warm even as her eyes assessed. She embraced me briefly, then turned to James. "Mr. Banks. I understand there was an incident."
"An attempted kidnapping, Your Majesty," he replied formally. "The princess is unharmed. Luxembourg authorities are investigating."
The Queen's face remained composed, but I knew her well enough to see the flicker of alarm. "We will discuss this privately," she said, guiding me towards the waiting car. "Unfortunately we can not delay the Christmas preparations."
As James followed at a respectful distance, I felt the weight of Bellavista settle around me again—the endless obligations, constant scrutiny, and suffocating expectations. After Luxembourg, with its relative freedom and simple routines, the palace felt more constraining than ever.
In the car, my mother waited until someone raised the privacy screen before turning to me.
I hesitated, weighing how much to share. "I evaded my security detail. It was stupid. A man approached me at a nightclub and drugged my drink. If James hadn't found me..."
"This isn't like you," she said, studying my face. "Not anymore. Not since..."
She didn't finish the sentence—she never did. Our family might as well have labeled five years ago "the unmentionable period."
"I know," I whispered. "It was a momentary lapse of judgement."
"Did this man say anything to you? Make any demands?"
My heart rate quickened. Did she somehow know? "No specifics. Just ransom demands."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained penetrating. "Your sister arrives tomorrow for the holidays. I don't want her troubled by this. The official story is that you had a minor security concern, nothing more."
The official story, always. The protection of the public's appearance is always paramount. I nodded automatically.
"And Mr. Banks?" she asked, glancing towards the front of the car. "I understand his replacement arrives tomorrow as well."
"Yes, Roger Halliwell."
"Good." She straightened her already perfect posture. "Having your original security assignment back on track will help normalise things."
If only she knew how little I wanted things to "normalise"—to return to the careful artifice of royal life, to pretend the past few months with James had never happened.
At the palace, I excused myself as quickly as propriety allowed, retreating to my suite. James accompanied me to the door, his duty taking precedence over our contention.
"I'll be stationed in the south wing," he said. "If you need anything, call."
"Will I see you at dinner?" I was suddenly desperate to keep him from walking away.
"I'll be briefing Roger Halliwell when he arrives. I've already coordinated with Dara to ensure proper coverage for this evening—Marcus will be on duty. He assisted during the Luxembourg incident and proved reliable."
Another dismissal. Another reminder that he was counting the hours until he could leave Bellavista—leave me—behind.
"James," I said. The rare use of his first name stopped him as he turned to go. "I really am sorry."
Something flickered in his eyes for a moment—a vulnerability I'd rarely glimpsed beneath his professional exterior. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Get some rest, Princess. You've been through a traumatic experience."
As he walked away, I noticed something in his posture—a hesitation, perhaps even reluctance. Despite his professional distance, I sensed he was struggling, too. The past months had changed us, whether we acknowledged it or not.
And then he was gone, his broad shoulders disappearing down the corridor.
After an hour of restlessly pacing my suite, I decided. If words didn't fix the damage between us, actions will have to be taken. James was a man who valued competence and thoughtfulness over grand gestures or empty apologies.
The kidnapping had stripped away my illusions about safety, about control, about the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment. Life was fragile, time was limited, and James would be gone tomorrow. If I were going to act on these feelings that had been building for months, it had to be now.
I'd noticed his appreciation for the training facilities during his previous stay, particularly the palace's historic armoury.
With a few calls to Dara, I arranged for a private tour of the rarely-accessed royal weapons collection—including several 18th-century military pieces I knew would interest him based on comments he'd made months ago.
It wasn't much, but it was something genuine—an acknowledgement of the man beneath the professional exterior, the person I'd come to know during our months together, the person I wasn't ready to lose despite knowing I should be.
The note I wrote to accompany the invitation was simple: For everything you've done. For everything I haven't said.
When evening came, I dressed with particular care—a simple navy dress that was elegant without being overly formal, my hair loose the way I'd noticed him watching it once when he thought I wasn't looking.
I arrived at the armoury five minutes early, heart racing inexplicably as I waited. What was I doing? This man was my security detail, nothing more. In a few days, he would return to London, to his life, and I would remain here, bound by duties and secrets he could never understand.
Yet when he appeared in the doorway, perfectly punctual, the sight of him still made my breath catch. He'd changed into a charcoal suit. The formal attire somehow emphasised his military bearing rather than softening it.
"Princess," he said, his expression carefully neutral as he took in the private exhibition I'd arranged. I could see the war between duty and personal interest playing across his features—the soldier drawn to military history battling against the professional who should maintain distance.