Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
James
Iset down the empty whiskey bottle with more force than necessary; the glass clinking against the others lined up on my coffee table like trophies of poor decisions. Six months of nights that blurred together, six months of trying to drown out memories that refused to stay buried.
Takeaway containers, newspapers I'd read but didn't throw away, and clothes draped everywhere made my flat chaotic because I didn't want to think about tomorrow.
My phone buzzed from somewhere in the wreckage.
Another potential client, probably. I'd been turning them all down for months now—new contracts, lucrative offers, high-profile assignments.
I kept the existing clients satisfied, went through the motions at the office, but anything that required a proper engagement got a polite decline.
My assistant had stopped asking why weeks ago.
The blinds stayed drawn most days. Sunlight was optimistic, and I wasn't in an optimistic mood.
I'd grown out my beard because shaving every day seemed pointless when no one was looking.
The stack of unread mail was on the kitchen counter because bills could wait and everything else was probably rubbish, anyway.
The pounding on my door started at exactly noon—sharp, authoritative knocks that suggested the person on the other side had no intention of going away quietly. I knew that rhythm of impatience. Spencer.
“PISS OFF” I called out, without bothering to get up from where I was sprawled on the sofa reading the same page of a military history book for the past hour.
The knocking continued, more insistent now.
"James, open up or I'll get one of my agents to force the door in."
A second voice joined in, lighter, more amused. "Or we could just tell the press the prime minister is conducting wellness checks on his alcoholic brother. That'd make the evening news."
Rupert. Of course, fucking Spencer had to drag him along.
I dragged myself upright, running a hand through hair that was longer than I usually kept it but not unkempt.
I opened the door.
Spencer stood there in his typical government-issue authority, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ Magazine.
Perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect expression of disgust as he took in my appearance.
Two security officers flanked him at a discrete distance.
Beside him, Rupert wore casual but expensive clothing, and his eyes already catalogued the chaos visible behind me with obvious amusement.
"Christ, this place smells like the back of a bar," Rupert said cheerfully, pushing past me into the flat.
"Charming as always." I turned away, leaving the door open. Let him follow or not—I didn't care.
Spencer entered my flat, but his expression, as usual, was unreadable. His eyes swept over the devastation with a frown, cataloguing every empty bottle, every piece of evidence of my spectacular self-destruction. He kicked an empty whiskey bottle, sending it clattering across the hardwood.
"This is pathetic. Even for you."
I said nothing. What was there to say? He wasn't wrong.
"Do you know what Mother asked me last week?" Spencer said to Rupert, acting like I wasn't even in the room.
"I'm sure you're going to enlighten me," Rupert replied, still glancing around.
"She asked if James had gone back to Iraq, because apparently, that's the only acceptable excuse for missing three family dinners in a row."
More silence. Spencer could conduct this entire conversation by himself if he wanted. He was good at that.
"I told her James was busy brooding romantically and working." Rupert's voice dripped with disdain. "But that was before I realised he'd turned into Howard Hughes with a drinking problem."
I reached for the Jameson bottle. Spencer was faster, snatching it away before my fingers could close around the neck.
"Fuck you both."
Rupert shook his head, and Spencer stared at the bottle with an unusual expression.
"You know what the genuine tragedy is here?
" Rupert continued, settling himself into my armchair like he owned the place.
"Our dear brother has become predictably boring.
Six months of the same routine—drink, sulk, ignore the world.
At least when you were getting shot at in foreign countries, you had some variety in your misery. "
Spencer remained standing, still holding the whiskey bottle like evidence in a court case.
"Maya went through a phase like this when she found out that Laura was pregnant.
Ten years old, locked herself in her room for weeks, refusing to speak to anyone.
The difference is that she was a child processing a substantial permanent change in her living environment.
You're a grown man who should know better. "
The comparison hit like a slap. Spencer mentioning Maya was rare—he guarded his relationship with his daughter fiercely, keeping her separate from the political circus of his life. And now with Laura as his wife, Maya had finally found stability again. For him to draw that parallel now...
I said nothing, reaching for another bottle on the table.
Rupert chuckled. "He's fucking in love, Spence, so leave the poor bugger alone."
Spencer's laugh was harsh, humorless. "Love? Is that what we're calling this pathetic display? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like cowardice dressed up in romantic bullshit. At least when Maya had her tantrum, eventually found her big girl pants and dealt with reality."
The words hit their mark. My jaw clenched involuntarily, fingers tightening around the bottleneck.
Love. Such a simple word for something that felt like being flayed alive every day.
Six months of trying to convince myself it was just attraction, just good sex, just..
. anything but the thing that made my chest feel hollow every time I thought of her name.
Evangeline. Even thinking about it felt like touching a live wire.
Rupert leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. "Oh, now we're getting somewhere. Look at that face—he's practically vibrating with suppressed rage. This is the liveliest he's looked in months."
Spencer wasn't finished. "You know what the real joke is? Maya asked me why Uncle James doesn't visit anymore. A ten-year-old showing more emotional intelligence than her grown uncle. Do you know what I told her?"
I didn't want to know, but the bastard was going to tell me, anyway.
"I told her you were working through some things. Because that's what adults do, James—they work through things. They don't just crawl into a bottle and pretend the world stopped existing."
“Speaking of family,” Rupert interjected, his tone shifting slightly, "Andrew's been asking about you too.
Well, when he's not cosplaying a Hollywood heartthrob in Los Angeles.
Did you know he's filming some action thriller?
Apparently, he's been there for two months now, and Mother's beside herself with worry about all of us.
One son gallivanting around America getting shot at by stunt coordinators, another son drinking himself into oblivion. .."
"She's threatening to come here herself if you miss another dinner," Spencer added, his voice carrying a warning.
Fuck. The mention of our mother sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I'd been carefully managing our phone conversations for months—calling her just often enough, saying just the right things to keep her from getting suspicious.
"Touching family moment," Rupert continued, though his tone had shifted slightly, less amused now. "Really brings a tear to the eye. But perhaps we should get to the real reason we're here? The phone call?"
Something shifted in Spencer's expression—a flicker of something I couldn't quite read. He exchanged a glance with Rupert, and suddenly the air in the room felt different. Charged.
"What phone call?" The words were out before I could stop them.
Spencer straightened his tie, a nervous habit from childhood that his political training had never quite eliminated. "Queen Sophia called me yesterday."
The room went still. My vision narrowed, focusing entirely on Spencer's face. Six months of carefully constructed numbness cracked like ice under pressure.
"What did you just say?"
"She called the office. My private line." Spencer's voice was measured, precisely. "She—"
I was moving before conscious thought kicked in, crossing the room in three strides. My hands found Spencer's lapels, and I slammed him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures hanging there. His security detail started forward, but Spencer held up a hand, stopping them.
"Tell me everything," I growled, my face inches from his. "Tell me everything right fucking now."
For once, Spencer's composure cracked—not from surprise or fear, but from satisfaction. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of a smirk breaking through his controlled facade. He'd gotten exactly the reaction he was aiming for.
"Well, well," Rupert called out from his chair, "Somebody found the on switch! Should I be taking notes for future reference?"
I didn't take my eyes off Spencer. "The call."
"She called to fill me in on the situation. There are... complications. Security concerns. She said her life and Evangeline's life are in danger, that she thinks she's being watched. She needed to route this through diplomatic channels to avoid suspicion."
The blood drained from my face. My grip on Spencer's lapels tightened, and I slammed him back against the wall again, harder this time.
"What kind of danger? What the fuck do you mean they're being watched?" My voice was raw, desperate. "Who's watching them? What aren't you telling me?"
Spencer's composure flickered for a genuine moment, seeing something in my face that made him realise this wasn't just about getting a reaction anymore.
"She was hesitant to speak over the phone," Spencer's voice was measured, resolute.
"Just that she needs your help with a serious matter involving Evangeline.
She couldn't discuss details over the phone—diplomatic protocol, she said.
But James..." His voice dropped. "It was how she said it. The urgency."
I released him, stepping back. The alcohol fog was lifting rapidly, my mind shifting into operational mode despite myself. Six months of carefully maintained numbness cracked like ice under pressure.
"What exactly did she say?" My voice was steadier now, the professional part of me kicking in. I ran a security firm—I knew how to ask the right questions. "Word for word."
Spencer straightened his jacket, recognizing the shift in my tone. "She said she needed to speak with you urgently about a security matter involving her daughter. That normal communication channels weren't secure, and she was routing this through diplomatic means to avoid suspicion."
I started pacing, my mind already working through possibilities. Threat assessment. Resource allocation. Response protocols. "Suspicion from whom? Internal or external threats? What's the timeline?"
"She didn't specify. But she's calling you tonight with more details."
"When tonight?" I was moving now, months of apathy burning away. My hands found the empty bottles scattered around the room, and I started clearing them automatically, needing to do something with the nervous energy building in my system.
"Nine o'clock. Secure diplomatic channels."
I stopped pacing, turning to face them both. "I should go to Bellavista. Tonight. Get there before—"
"You’re to fucking hot headed,." Spencer's voice was firm but not sharp. "Think about it logically. If Sophia is concerned about surveillance, about normal communication channels being compromised, what do you think happens when James Banks suddenly books a flight to Bellavista?"
I resumed pacing, running my hands through my hair. Every instinct was screaming at me to move, to act. "But if they're in danger—"
"Then you going in blind makes it worse," Rupert interjected, his casual demeanor replaced by something more serious. "You know that. You run a security company, for Christ's sake. When did you start making decisions with your heart instead of your head?"
The words stung because they were true. I'd built my career on careful planning, thorough intelligence gathering, measured responses. But this was different. This was Evangeline.
"Six months," I said, still pacing. "Six months of nothing, and now this."
"All the more reason to take the call first," Spencer said reasonably. "Find out what we're actually dealing with before you start booking flights."
I wanted to argue, but the rational part of my mind—the part that had kept my teams alive in hostile territory—was reasserting itself. Going in without intelligence was how good people died.
"Besides," Rupert added, settling back into his chair, "Mother will lose her mind if you disappear to Bellavista without warning. She's already convinced something's happened to Andrew in America—if you vanish too, she'll probably call out the SAS to find you."
That stopped me mid-pace. The last thing I needed was our mother's particular brand of concerned interference.
"Fine," I said finally, the word tasting like defeat. "The call first. Then we assess."
Spencer nodded. "Smart decision."
"We?" I looked between them.
"You think we're letting you handle this alone?" Rupert's grin was sharp. "James, this is the first interesting thing to happen in months."
Spencer's expression was more cautious but equally determined. "If the Bellavistan royal family is requesting help through diplomatic channels, it becomes a matter of state interest."
I stared at them both—my brothers, who'd spent the last hour systematically tearing down my defenses and forcing me back into the world of the living.
For the first time in six months, I felt something other than emptiness.
I felt like myself again.