Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Evangeline
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the veterinary clinic's car park as I finished securing the last of my medical supplies in the boot.
It had been another productive day—we'd successfully treated a mare with colic and vaccinated an entire herd of goats.
The work was exactly what I'd hoped for when I'd proposed this placement—meaningful and hands-on in a way that palace-approved charitable visits never were.
James emerged from the clinic building after completing his final security sweep, his expression typically stoic but with that subtle softening around his eyes that I'd learned to recognise.
Since we'd finally stopped fighting what was between us several weeks ago, everything had shifted.
The careful professional distance had evaporated, replaced by stolen touches, heated glances, and an intimacy that made my pulse quicken every time he looked at me.
"Ready?" he asked, opening the passenger door for me with the same courtesy he'd shown since day one, though now his fingers brushed mine as I settled into the seat.
"Mmm," I murmured, watching him round the bonnet with that predatory grace that had first caught my attention. He slid behind the wheel, and I caught a hint of his cologne mixed with the earthy scent that clung to both our clothes after a day working with animals.
The drive back towards our villa should have been routine—we'd made this journey dozens of times now over our weeks in Sicily, and James had memorised every curve of the coastal road, every potential security concern. But as we approached the main village, something felt different. Wrong.
"James," I said, sitting up straighter as I spotted the cluster of vehicles near the town square. "What's… that?"
His jaw tightened as he took in the scene ahead—several cars with British number plates, people with cameras and notebooks milling about. "Fuck," he seethed under his breath, immediately slowing the car.
"Is that—" I began, but he was already reaching for his phone.
"Press," he confirmed grimly, speed-dialling what I assumed was his security contact. "How the hell did they find us here?"
My stomach dropped as recognition dawned.
Those weren't just any photographers—I could see the familiar logos of major British tabloids on the sides of the vehicles.
The very publications that had made my life miserable during my teenage years, that had driven me to seek privacy in veterinary work rather than public royal duties.
"We need to get past them to reach the villa," James said, his phone pressed to his ear. "Sir? We have a situation... Yes, press. British tabloids, by the look of it... No, I don't know how they located us."
As we drew closer, I could see them more clearly—at least a dozen photographers and journalists, some with telephoto lenses already trained on our approaching vehicle. They'd clearly been waiting, positioned strategically to catch us on our return from the clinic.
"Can we go around?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. The coastal road was the only route to our villa, and they'd chosen their position well.
James ended his call with a sharp "Understood." He turned his head looking at me seriously. "We're going through. Keep your head down, don't engage, and whatever you do, don't answer any questions. I'll get us out of there as quickly as possible."
But as soon as our car came into clear view, the pack descended like wolves sensing prey. Cameras started flashing, and several journalists stepped directly into the road, forcing James to slow to a crawl or risk running them down.
"Princess Evangeline!" A voice shouted through the closed windows. "Are you on holiday in Sicily?"
"Is this an official royal visit?" another called out.
James kept driving slowly forward, his face like thunder, but they pressed closer, some actually leaning against the car as they tried to peer through the tinted windows.
Then came the question that made my blood run cold: "Princess! Are you in a relationship with your bodyguard?"
James's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. Through the chaos of voices and camera flashes, I heard more variations of the same theme:
"How long have you been seeing James Banks?"
"Are the romance rumours true?"
"Will you be making an official announcement?"
My heart hammered against my ribs as the implications crashed over me. They knew. Somehow, they knew about James and me. But how? We'd been so careful, so discreet. We hadn't been seen together in any compromising situations, except for our afternoons together at the various farms around Sicily.
"Princess Evangeline, is it true you've been living together in Sicily?"
"James! James! Any comment on your relationship with the Princess?"
The questions kept coming as James pushed through the crowd, his driving careful but determined. Some of the more aggressive photographers actually jogged alongside the car, cameras pressed against the windows, trying to capture clear shots of us inside.
"Hold tight," James warned, then accelerated sharply as soon as we cleared the worst of the pack. In the wing mirrors, I could see them scrambling back to their vehicles, clearly intending to follow us.
The drive back to the villa was tense and silent except for James's occasional sharp turns designed to lose any pursuing vehicles.
He took a circuitous route through narrow village streets I didn't even know existed, his knowledge of the area proving invaluable.
By the time we reached our private road, we appeared to have lost them, but I knew it was only temporary.
"How?" I asked as soon as we were safely inside the villa, my hands shaking as I set down my bag. "How did they know to look for us here? How did they know about... us?"
James was already on his phone again, barking orders to his contacts about increased security sweeps and potential information leaks. When he hung up, his expression was grim.
"Someone talked," he said simply. "Either someone at the clinic, someone in the village, or..." He trailed off, but I could see the suspicion in his eyes.
"Or what?"
"Or someone at the palace leaked our location."
The suggestion hit me like a physical blow.
That someone in my mother's household might have deliberately exposed us was almost too awful to contemplate, but I couldn't dismiss it entirely.
Palace politics were Byzantine and often cruel, and there were plenty of people who might benefit from my public embarrassment.
"I need to see what they're saying," I said, reaching for my laptop.
"Evangeline—"
"I need to know, James."
With trembling fingers, I opened the browser and searched for my name. The results made my stomach lurch. The first headline read: "PRINCESS EVANGELINE'S SECRET SICILIAN LOVE NEST" with a subheading that made me feel sick: "Exclusive photos show royal heir in intimate embrace with bodyguard."
"Oh God," I whispered, clicking on the article.
There, in full colour, were photographs I'd never seen before—images of James and I that should have been impossible to capture.
Somehow, they had pictures of us on the villa's private terrace, James's hand on my face as we talked over dinner.
Another showed him helping me down from a farm gate during one of our days at the various practices, but the angle made it look like an intimate caress rather than simple assistance.
But the worst was a video clip embedded in the article. It showed James watching me work with one animal at Dr. Vitale's practice, and even I could see what the cameras had captured—the way he looked at me wasn't professional observation. It was raw, unguarded affection. Love, even.
"Fuck," James said quietly, reading over my shoulder. "Someone took those with a telephoto lens from a significant distance. They have been watching us for days."
I scrolled through more articles, each one worse than the last. The speculation was wild and increasingly invasive:
"EXCLUSIVE: Palace sources confirm Princess Evangeline has been 'living in sin' with her protection officer in a Sicilian villa"
"brEAKING: Queen Sophia 'furious' over daughter's secret romance"
"Royal Crisis: Princess Evangeline's bodyguard romance threatens succession"
"They're making it sound sordid," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Like we're having a tawdry affair."
James moved to stand behind my chair, his hands settling on my shoulders in a gesture of comfort and possession. "What we have isn't tawdry."
"I know that. You know that. But this—" I gestured at the screen "—this is how the world will see it. The Princess and her bodyguard. It's like something out of a cheap romance novel."
More articles appeared as I refreshed the page.
Someone had clearly been feeding information to multiple publications simultaneously.
There were quotes from "palace insiders" claiming the Queen was considering removing me from the line of succession, speculation about James's military background being fabricated, even suggestions that our relationship was part of some larger security breach.
The memory from weeks ago still haunted me—the lifeless kitten, the note.
It had been the beginning of everything unraveling, the reason James had been so protective, so determined to keep me safe.
Even here in Sicily, far from Bellavista's politics and threats, I knew someone was still out there, still watching.
"I need to call my mother," I said, reaching for my phone. "I need to explain before this gets completely out of hand."
But when I tried to call, the line went straight to voicemail. I tried again, and again, with the same result. My mother's private number, the one that was supposed to be answered no matter what, was being ignored.
"She's not taking my calls," I said, panic beginning to creep into my voice. "James, she's not taking my calls."