Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Evangeline
Three days had passed since the confrontation in my mother's study, three days of tense silence between us while the palace handled the media aftermath of our return from Sicily.
When Mother's private secretary had requested my presence for an urgent medical consultation in London, I'd assumed it was routine—another specialist opinion about her multiple sclerosis that she preferred to keep private from the Bellavistan court physicians.
The private medical clinic in Harley Street was exactly what I'd expected—all polished brass nameplates and hushed voices, the kind of place where discretion was as carefully cultivated as the exotic orchids in the waiting room.
I sat beside Mother in the elegant reception area, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, trying not to think about what the specialist might tell us about her condition.
Multiple sclerosis had been progressing faster than anyone had anticipated.
What had started as occasional fatigue and mild confusion had escalated into episodes that left Mother disoriented and weak.
The royal physicians in Belavista had done their best, but Mother had insisted on seeking a second opinion from Dr. Harrison, supposedly one of Europe's leading neurological specialists.
"I still don't understand why we couldn't have him come to the palace," I said quietly, watching Mother fidget with her handbag—an unusual display of nerves from someone who'd faced down world leaders without blinking.
"Some consultations require specialized equipment," she replied, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. “Frankly, I needed to get away from the palace for a few days. The constant hovering of the medical staff was becoming suffocating.”
I nodded, understanding the sentiment even if something about this trip felt off. The secrecy, the last-minute arrangements, the way Mother had insisted we tell the staff only that we were visiting London for routine diplomatic meetings—it all seemed excessive for a simple medical consultation.
But then again, everything felt off these days.
Six months of living with the ghost of James Banks had left me perpetually on edge, jumping at shadows and seeing his face in every crowd.
The numbness I'd cultivated so carefully had developed cracks lately, letting in unwelcome feelings I wasn't ready to confront.
"Mrs. Evans?" The receptionist's voice broke through my brooding. Mother had insisted we use false names—another layer of secrecy that seemed unnecessary for a medical appointment.
"Yes," Mother replied, standing with the careful precision of someone fighting not to show weakness.
"Dr. Harrison will see you now. Room three, just down the hall."
I started to rise as well, but Mother placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Actually, darling, I'd prefer to speak with the doctor privately first. You know how I hate having an audience when discussing medical matters."
"Mother—"
"Please, Evangeline. Just wait here. I won't be long."
There was something in her tone—a finality that brooked no argument—that made me sink back into my chair. I watched her walk down the hallway with measured steps, her spine straight despite the tremor I could see in her hands.
Thirty minutes passed. Then forty. I tried reading the carefully curated magazines on the coffee table, but the words blurred together meaninglessly. I tried checking my phone, but there were no messages worth responding to. I tried not to think about James, but that was like trying not to breathe.
Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I approached the receptionist. "Excuse me, but my moth—Mrs. Evans has been with Dr. Harrison for quite some time. Is everything alright?"
The woman's smile was professionally sympathetic. "These consultations can be quite thorough, Miss Evans. But actually, Dr. Harrison asked me to send you to room five when you were ready. Just down the hall, opposite direction from room three."
Room five? Why would they need a different room? A cold dread began spreading through my chest as I walked down the corridor, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Something was wrong. The secrecy, the separate rooms, the way Mother had been acting lately—
I knocked softly on the door marked with a brass "5" and entered without waiting for permission.
The first thing I saw was Dr. Harrison—silver-haired, distinguished, exactly what I'd expected from a Harley Street specialist. He was standing beside his desk, professional smile in place, but there was something in his eyes that looked almost like sympathy.
The second thing I saw sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
James Banks stood by the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind him in that familiar military posture I'd once found so comforting.
26 weeks. 4,417 hours since he'd looked me in the eye and told me I meant nothing to him.
26,297,460 heartbeats since he had walked over mine and vanished completely from my life.
Now he was here, in a London medical office, as if summoned from my most desperate dreams and worst nightmares combined.
He turned when I entered, and the full force of his attention washed over me with startling intensity.
Those blue eyes I'd memorized in agonizing detail swept over me, and for just a moment—before he could stop himself—I saw something raw and hungry flicker across his face.
Then the professional mask slammed into place, but not before I caught the way his hands had clenched at his sides, the slight intake of breath that suggested my presence affected him more than he wanted to admit.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice carefully neutral as he gave me a brief nod. But there was a roughness to it, as if saying my title instead of my name caused him physical pain.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Extensive numbness I'd cultivated over six months crumbled in an instant, leaving me raw and exposed and utterly unprepared for the tsunami of emotion crashing over me.
Love. Rage. Humiliation. Desperate, treacherous hope.
Entertainment, his voice whispered in my memory. Good sex. Nothing more.
Dr. Harrison cleared his throat diplomatically.
"Perhaps I should give you two some privacy for this discussion.
The consultation with Queen Sophia went well, and she's resting comfortably in my private office.
" He moved toward the door with practiced discretion. "I'll check on her in a few minutes."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving us alone in the sudden silence.
James's composure faltered the moment we were alone, his professional mask slipping just enough for me to see the man beneath—exhausted, hollow-eyed, as if he'd been fighting his own demons for months.
"You look..." he started, then stopped himself, jaw clenching as he fought whatever words had been about to escape. "How are you?"
The question was too loaded, too personal for the professional distance he was trying to maintain.
I could see him struggling against the urge to ask what he really wanted to know—if I'd been sleeping, if I'd been eating, if I'd thought about him even half as much as he'd obviously been thinking about me.
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. "What are you doing here, James?"
He flinched slightly at my use of his first name, as if I'd touched a nerve he'd tried to deaden. "Your mother contacted me. Through... mutual connections."
"Mutual connections?"
"My brother Spencer," he said reluctantly. "She reached out to him two weeks ago, requesting my assistance with a security matter."
The pieces began falling into place. "This isn't about her MS at all, is it?"
"No." His voice was rough now, the careful neutrality slipping. "It's about the Kozlov family. They've been making contact, applying pressure."
My blood ran cold. "What kind of pressure?"
James moved closer, his body language shifting from professional to protective without him seeming to realise it. "They have photographs, Evangeline. Of us. In Sicily."
The words hit me like ice water. "Photographs of what?"
"Everything." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and I could see him fighting the urge to reach for me. "The barn. That afternoon when we..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "They're explicit enough to destroy your reputation if published."
I sank into the nearest chair, my legs giving out. "How?"
"Long-range camera. Professional surveillance. Someone was paid very well to document our every move." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "They've been sitting on them for months, waiting for the right moment to make their demands."
"What demands?"
"Marriage." The word came out like a curse. "They want you to marry Prince Dmitri Volkov. Their way of having an inside man in the Bellavistan royal family."
Understanding crashed over me like a wave. "Dmitri. The man Mother's been pushing me toward. That's not a coincidence."
"No. The Kozlovs have been planning this for months. Dmitri is their nephew, their path to influence over the Belavistan crown." James's voice turned savage. "They've been blackmailing your mother, using these photographs to force her to encourage the match."
"Mother knew. She's known for weeks that you and I..." I couldn't finish the sentence, the betrayal too fresh and raw.
"You’re mother contacted me because she was running out of options. Dmitri's been applying more pressure, and the Kozlovs are threatening to release the photographs if she doesn't deliver you within the month."
“Deliver me! So now I’m a piece of furniture custom ordered for the Kozlov family.