Chapter Seventeen
Royal Fans Gather Outside Hotel to Greet Evangeline and Lord Clarence
Royal watchers and fans of Evangeline Bright, daughter of His Majesty and Laura Bright, and Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, battled the February chill to spend all day lined up in front of the Maychester Hotel in Mayfair, eager to show their support for the royal couple-turned-spies.
“I can’t believe they managed to keep it from us this whole time,” says Fiona Quint, a fourteen-year-old fan from Watford. “Can you imagine how dangerous it must have all been? And we even heard Evangeline was kidnapped!”
How Astrid lost him, I have no idea—nor, apparently, does anyone else on his security team, which has been scrambling since the moment they discovered his flat in Oxford empty that morning.
I call him again and again, hoping for a miracle each time I press his number, but it never rings. Instead, I get his voice mail for almost exactly an hour after we land until the message changes, declaring his inbox full.
“Are you prepared to do this yourself, Evangeline?” says Astrid, who’s been pacing a path into the carpet of our suite at the Maychester Hotel.
Even her growing apprehension doesn’t detract from how dazzling she looks in person, her posture perfect and her skin glowing, but when I look at her, all I can see is Kit’s touch.
“If we cancel now, the entire campaign will be called into question—”
“I strongly disagree,” cuts in Tibby, who sits cool and collected on a love seat as she plays with my puppy.
Despite how often Astrid has addressed me directly today, Tibby has answered for me every single time.
“Given the spread of the Regal Record’s tasteless article over social media and in the more unsavory corners of the internet today, I’m certain the general public would understand if we rescheduled. ”
“No,” says Astrid, “they would not. They’ll spin conspiracy theories out of it, and this supposedly isolated incident will be enough to pull more than the usual crackpots into it.
Kit must be here, and if he isn’t—if he’s really going to let us down like this—then Evangeline needs to be prepared to go on by herself. ”
“She won’t be by herself,” says Tibby, still supremely unbothered. “She’ll have Agent Singh with her.”
“Unless she’s been in a secret relationship with Singh for almost a year, then that’s hardly anything to work with,” says Astrid, and I turn away from the pair of them and pretend to study my reflection in the mirror.
Louis Jenkins, the official royal stylist, has done a magnificent job making me look like a polished version of me for once, with a soft leather jacket, fitted black jeans, and Dr. Martens that lace up nearly to my knees.
But all I care about is the empty chair and vanity next to me, and the cluster of stylists still waiting in case, by some miracle, Kit does show.
If he was going to make it, though, he would have called, or found some way to get in touch—if not with me, then with Astrid. Worrying everyone down to the last minute isn’t his style, and my stomach is in knots so tight that it takes me a moment to realize that everyone is now staring at me.
“What?” I say, nonplussed.
“Are you willing to do this alone?” repeats Astrid, her frustration clear. “Because it’s fairly obvious by now that Kit has no intention of being here, and—”
“On the contrary,” says a heart-achingly familiar voice, and we all turn simultaneously.
Standing in the hallway, flushed and looking like he’s run a half-marathon, is Kit.
He’s here. He’s real, or at least I think he is—he must be, judging by the way Astrid rushes forward and throws her arms around him, and he greets her with a kiss on the cheek.
I turn away, a lump the size of Big Ben in my throat. He may be here, but he’s not mine anymore. That much is also obvious.
“Where have you been?” demands Astrid, and I hear the rustle of Kit’s coat and scarf. “We’ve been trying to reach you all bloody day.”
“I had to turn my mobile off. Someone leaked my number to the press,” he says.
“I went to Somerset to talk to my parents and—figure out how to handle this, I suppose. Or, rather, to tell them I’m going to address it openly tonight.
I have a short list of questions I’ll allow, if Smythe wants to go there and there’s time.
I won’t let anyone use Liam against us.”
“Lovely,” says Astrid with a hint of bitterness. “So good of you to loop me in.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have been the tiniest bit tempted to tell one of your more upstanding contacts where I was, or what I’m planning to do?” he says, and I stare at my nails, freshly painted a sparkly silver.
“I—of course not,” she protests. “But I would’ve wanted to come with you.”
This crushes something inside me—maybe what’s left of my heart—and I stand before I know what I’m doing. “Loo,” I mumble, not looking at anyone, and I hurry to the nearest door, ducking inside and closing it behind me with a soft click.
Only then do I realize it isn’t a bathroom, but a dimly lit bedroom, complete with ornate gold furnishings and crisp taupe sheets that look brand-new.
With an inward sigh, I perch on the edge of the bed, wishing I could burrow under the covers and forget everything for a little while.
That would be infinitely easier than facing the nightmare outside that door.
But in the silence of the bedroom, noise from the main room filters through, and I can hear both Astrid and one of the stylists calling Kit’s name.
“We don’t have time for that,” insists Astrid. “We barely have time to run a bloody comb through your—”
“I don’t care.” Kit’s voice is surprisingly close to the door, and I sit up straighter, my heart thudding. “Five minutes.”
“We don’t have five minutes,” says Astrid. “Kit, it’s a live interview—”
The door opens, flooding the room with light, and Kit steps inside, his silhouette appearing only briefly before he shuts and locks the door behind him. Astrid immediately tries the handle, and as soon as she realizes she can’t get in, she begins to knock.
“Kit—Kit!”
He ignores her and steps toward me slowly, as if I’m an injured animal he’s trying not to startle. “I’m sorry,” says Kit softly. “I shouldn’t have left.”
I pull a pillow to my chest, confused. He doesn’t owe me an apology. He doesn’t owe me anything at all. “You needed space. You needed a break—”
“I shouldn’t have left.” He emphasizes each word as he steps forward again, as slowly as before.
“You were upset—I hurt you—”
“I—shouldn’t—have—left.” Two more steps, and now he’s so close that I can touch him.
He can touch me. But neither of us does.
Instead, he kneels, resting his hand on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve spent every moment since regretting it, but I was too afraid of myself to return.
I attended my lectures because I had to, but when I wasn’t, I was working through everything I’ve been avoiding for the past year and a half. Since Liam died.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice crackling. “I had no idea—”
“Because I never told you,” he says. “I never let you see that darkest part of me. If I had, you would’ve understood what I’ve been trying to fight, what made everything that happened with the Abr and Fox Rex that much worse for me.
But you couldn’t, because I never gave you that chance.
It wasn’t on you, Ev. It was never on you. ”
Something hot and wet slides down my cheek, but before I can wipe it away, Kit’s hand is there, barely brushing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean into his touch, hating myself for it. Hating myself for needing him so badly when I’ve already put him through hell.
“Kit?” Astrid knocks again, harder this time. “You two better not be shagging in there. We need to move, now.”
Yet again, he ignores her, his soft touch all I can feel. “Tibby just mentioned that you found a picture of me and Astrid from…from before,” he says, and I freeze. “I never told you about her, did I?”
I can’t believe he wants me to speak right now, but I manage it, barely. “No. I don’t—”
“She’d been dating Liam for two years when he died,” he says before I can finish telling him I don’t want to know, and the words disappear from my tongue.
“She’s always blamed herself, even though it wasn’t her fault.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. We used to spend time together right after it happened—sort of a grieving party of two situation, since we couldn’t really talk to anyone else about it, and sometimes she came out with me.
But we were just friends, Ev. We still are, and that’s all we’ve ever been. ”
Something in my brain clicks, and I remember the line from Ben’s horrific article. A difficult breakup is thought to be the catalyst.
The terrible swirl of despair and hopelessness I’ve felt about Astrid vanishes all at once, and I open my eyes.
She isn’t a replacement. She isn’t even a predated artifact.
She’s a friend—a gorgeous friend, but one his brother was with for too long for that to ever be Kit’s thing.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as Astrid knocks again, but it’s easy to ignore, even though a large part of me now feels bad for how much stress we must be causing her.
Friends. They’re just friends.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper at last, fighting another wave of tears. “For hurting you. For—for making it worse even if I didn’t know the whole story. I shouldn’t have been so damn reckless—”