Chapter 23 #2
"I found traces of something in the security files when I first took this assignment," James admitted.
"Medical records that were heavily redacted, travel documents that didn't make sense.
But the palace security was so tight, I couldn't piece together what had actually happened.
I knew there was a covered-up incident, but not the details. "
The conviction in his voice broke something inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks. "I still see his face sometimes. Still hear the sound of his head hitting that table. All that blood..."
James's hand tightened over mine. "You survived a deviant and I say that because he was not a man—his main objective was to hurt you, break you down, making you fully dependent on him. Never apologize for escaping, for surviving. Do you understand?"
James was quiet for a long moment, his training warring with his emotions. I could see him processing everything - the implications, his duty as a security professional, his feelings for me.
"I should report this," he said finally. "Any involvement in a death, even accidental, should be investigated properly. It's what I've been trained to do."
My heart stopped. "Will you?"
He studied my face, and I could see the exact moment he made his choice.
"No," he said firmly. "Because you were the victim, not the perpetrator.
Viktor's death wasn't your fault - it was the result of his family's criminal activities years later.
And the real crime was what he did to you in that palace. "
I looked up through my tears, struck by the fierce protectiveness in his expression. "You're not disgusted by what I did? By the cover-up?"
"I'm disgusted by Viktor Kozlov," he replied, his voice hard. "By a system that would force you into a marriage with someone like him. But you? Never you."
Relief washed through me, so powerful it left me lightheaded. For five years, I'd carried this secret. In one conversation, James had lifted some of that burden.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For understanding."
He squeezed my hand once more before releasing it. "Thank you for trusting me. It helps me understand what we're facing."
And just like that, we were back to security concerns, back to professional territory. The moment of connection ebbed away, leaving our careful distance.
But something had shifted between us. A door had opened, if only a crack.
By early February, the penthouse felt more like a shared home. I still immersed myself in studies, but made time for evening conversations with James. Sometimes about security or Sicily, other times about books, travels, memories.
He remained reserved, but occasionally I glimpsed the man beneath the professional exterior—like his admission about Sicily and his grandfather's farm, or when he actually laughed at my story about trying to bathe a palace corgi.
Then Frederick called.
I was preparing dinner when my phone rang. James was in the living room reviewing security plans. My ex's name surprised me when I saw it on the screen.
"Frederick," I answered, keeping my voice casual. "This is unexpected."
"Evangeline," his smooth voice replied. "I heard about your sister. I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. It's kind of you to call."
"I'm in Luxembourg for a business conference. Perhaps dinner tomorrow? For old times' sake."
I hesitated, aware that James was listening. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Just dinner, as friends," Frederick insisted. "I have information about Viktor Kozlov's family that might interest you."
My blood ran cold. "What did you say?"
"I recently did business with Mikhail Kozlov. He mentioned his son's connection to the Bellavista royal family. Said something about unfinished business."
I gripped the counter for support. "What kind of business?"
"Not something to discuss over the phone. Tomorrow night? Seven o'clock? I'm staying at The Royal."
I weighed my options. Information about the Kozlovs could be crucial, but meeting Frederick alone seemed unwise.
"I'll meet you in the restaurant," I said finally. "But my security detail will be with me."
"Ah yes, the formidable Mr. Banks. Looking forward to it."
After hanging up, I turned to find James in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"You heard?" I asked.
He nodded once. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I, but if Frederick has information about the Kozlovs—"
"He could be lying to get you to meet him," James said, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his shoulders.
"I know. But what if he's not?" I shook my head. "I need to know, James."
After a long moment, he nodded. "Fine. But we do this my way. I'll be at your table. And at the first sign of trouble, we leave."
"Agreed."
"I don't trust him," James added, his voice hardening. "Never have."
Something in his tone caught my attention. "Is that a professional assessment or personal opinion?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Both."
The tension that had been simmering between us for weeks intensified, taking on an extra dimension. This tension though I couldn't quite identify. Was it jealousy? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
Dinner the next evening was a tense affair. Frederick was charming as always, greeting me with kisses on each cheek, his hands lingering too long. I felt James stiffen beside me, his presence like a gathering storm.
Throughout the meal, Frederick told stories of business ventures and travels. He included James in the conversation, though his attention remained fixed on me. Beneath his smooth exterior, I sensed an agenda—a calculated performance.
It wasn't until dessert that he mentioned the Kozlovs.
"Mikhail believes the official story about his son's death isn't what it appears to be," Frederick said casually. "He thinks Viktor's death in the river wasn't related to criminal activities - he suspects it goes back to what happened at the palace."
"And what has he found?" James asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"Enough to be dangerous. Mikhail is a powerful man with unlimited resources and a grudge against the Bellavista royal family. Specifically, against Evangeline."
"Why tell us this?" James pressed. "What's your interest?"
A smile played on Frederick's lips. "Let's call it concern for an old friend." His hand moved across the table to cover mine. "I care about Evangeline's safety."
James's eyes tracked the movement, his expression darkening. "If that's true, you'll share everything you know."
Frederick withdrew his hand slowly. "Mikhail believes palace security covered up what happened to his son. He's particularly interested in Nikolai Voss—apparently a cousin who disappeared around the same time Viktor left Bellavista."
"The man who kidnapped me in Luxembourg," I breathed.
"Yes, I heard about that unfortunate incident. Mikhail has been looking for Nikolai for years. He believes he has vital information about what really happened."
"And why tell us now?" James asked, his voice hard.
"Because Mikhail has recently doubled his efforts.
He's offering a substantial reward for information about Nikolai—or evidence against the Bellavista crown.
" Frederick studied us carefully. "Later, an announcement that he'd left the country for extended medical treatment abroad.
When his body was found in the river years later, everyone assumed it was connected to his family's criminal activities, not to what happened at the palace. "
The implication was clear. The cover story about Viktor's disappearance was in danger of unraveling. If it did, the scandal would rock not just my reputation, but the entire monarchy.
"I should go," I said, suddenly needing air. "Thank you for the information."
Frederick reached for my hand again. "I'm staying in Luxembourg for a few days. If you need anything—anything at all—call me."
I felt James's hand at the small of my back, a possessive gesture that surprised me. "We appreciate the information," he said to Frederick, his tone making it clear the conversation was over.
Frederick's eyes moved between us, something knowing in his expression. "Of course. It was lovely to see you again, Evangeline. Perhaps we can continue at another time. Privately."
Tension filled the drive home, making breathing difficult. James's hands gripped the steering wheel, his profile rigid in the passing streetlights.
"You don't like him," I said finally.
"No," James replied, the word clipped and final.
"Why? Is it just because he's my ex, or is there more?"
James's jaw tightened. "He wants something from you. Something beyond concern for your safety."
"That doesn't answer my question."
He glanced at me briefly. "Yes, I don't like him because he's your ex. Yes, I don't like how he looks at you, touches you. And yes, I don't trust his motives. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Your Highness?"
The formality stung. "Don't do that. Don't retreat into 'Your Highness' when you're uncomfortable."
"What would you prefer I call you?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
I swallowed hard, remembering how my name had sounded in the darkness of my bedroom, whispering against my skin. "You know what I prefer, James."
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "We agreed to maintain professional boundaries."
"Is that what you want?" I asked, my heart pounding. "Truly?"
He didn't answer, his silence was more revealing than words. When we reached the penthouse, he disappeared into his bedroom without another word.
The tension continued to build over the next few days. Frederick called twice more, suggesting we meet again—alone. I declined firmly, aware of James's watchful presence during each call.
By the end of the week, the atmosphere was strained to breaking point.
We moved around each other carefully, like dancers following a complicated routine, always aware of the other's position but never connecting.
Easy conversation had evaporated, replaced by terse exchanges about schedules and security.
Then came the morning that changed everything.
I woke up early, preparing for a day of lab work. The shower was gloriously hot, steam filling the bathroom as I washed away another restless night. Dreams of James had plagued me again—his hands, his mouth, his voice murmuring things that made me blush even in sleep.
Wrapped in a towel, hair dripping down my back, I opened the bathroom door and stepped directly into a solid wall of muscle. James, heading to the bathroom himself, wore nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Time stopped as we stood frozen, bodies almost touching.
Water droplets ran down my shoulders, and I watched his eyes track their path with undisguised hunger.
His chest—broad and muscular, scattered with dark hair—rose and fell with quickened breaths.
The scent of him—sandalwood and something uniquely him—enveloped me, making me dizzy.
"James," I whispered, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
His eyes, dark with wanting, met mine. The careful distance we'd maintained evaporated in an instant, leaving only raw, undeniable need.
And in that moment, I knew we were both done pretending.