Chapter Twenty-One
“I’m Samuel Frick, and this is Ashleigh Wallace, and we are here on the red carpet in London for the premiere of Rebel, Princess, Terrorist, Spy, one of the most anticipated movies of the year—”
“One of the most anticipated movies of our lifetime! Look at this crowd! Thousands have gathered here in Leicester Square, where the stars of the big screen are joined by real-life royalty from around the world!”
“And speaking of real-life royalty, it looks like the British royal contingent are arriving now. Ashleigh, who are you most excited to meet tonight?”
“Evangeline, of course! Her and Lord Clarence—can you think of a more stunning couple?”
“None come to mind. Considering they’re one of the most photographed couples in the world, it’s no wonder they’re so fierce about protecting their—”
“Oh my god! Is that Princess Mary? And—First Son Thaddeus Park? Did you know they were dating?”
“No clue, Ashleigh. But they’re gorgeous together, aren’t they? Her Royal Highness’s couture gown is simply breathtaking—”
“Did he just kiss her hand? Did he just kiss her hand?”
“We’ll find out all the details as soon as they make their way to us. Oh, those heels! We’ll also ask who she’s wearing, and if she considered a tiara for the evening, though she seems to have opted for a lovely diamond comb instead—”
“The other car! Is that Queen Helene? Or—well, former Queen, though I’m not sure we know what her title is now that the royal divorce has been finalized. But that’s definitely the Duke of York, gorgeous as ever. It’s lovely to see them looking so happy together. And—who’s that with them?”
“That would be Laura Bright, mother of Evangeline and His Majesty’s former mis…
companion. She certainly looks stunning in that flowing watercolor gown, doesn’t she?
Though we’ve never seen her at a public event before, tonight we may finally get the chance to ask her the important questions, like who she’s wearing and what impact her internationally renowned artwork has on her fashion choices—”
“Sam. Sam! Do you see what I see?”
“Er, what is that, Ashleigh?”
“The ring! Do you see the ring on her finger?”
“I—is it the one on her left hand?”
“Yes! She isn’t wearing anything else, not even earrings. Is it—can you see it?”
“I can. And…well, perhaps there isn’t anything former about her relationship with His Majesty after all.”
“Is it possible? Only weeks after his divorce to the former Queen has been finalized, is the King engaged to Laura Bright?”
—Entertainment Now Live Red Carpet event, 10 September 2024
The car Kit and I take to the premiere is the last one to arrive.
I hear the crowd half a mile before I see them, though there’s no missing the fireworks that seem to light up Central London.
The movie studio and palace have gone all out for this spectacle, and that’s exactly what it is—something meant to be gawked at.
Even I have trouble tearing my eyes away as we pull to a stop at the head of the red carpet.
“Ready for this?” says Kit, his fingers laced in mine. He looks incredibly handsome in a navy tuxedo, his dark wavy hair artfully disheveled, like there’s a reason the crowd had to wait for us, and in the low light, I want to make that fantasy the truth.
“No,” I say, but I gather my clutch and kiss him anyway. That’s the exact moment the door opens, revealing us to the fans, and their screams triple in volume, a relentless onslaught of auditory waves that nearly bowl me over.
I break away from Kit with a sheepish smile, because I really didn’t plan that.
He touches the corner of my mouth, as if fixing a smear of lipstick I know hasn’t budged, before climbing out first. The screams rise to a frenzy, and every camera is pointed toward us as he offers me his hand.
Wordlessly I take it, exiting the town car in what feels like slow motion—until everything speeds back up again, slamming us into the reality our PR team has created.
“Evangeline! Evangeline!” The shouts are all around us, and while Kit is as much a part of this as I am, it’s my name that rises to the top.
I don’t know how he must feel about it, but he squeezes my hand and raises it to his lips, kissing my knuckles as he meets my eye.
Whatever he’s thinking, the fact that I’m the one they’re cheering for doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
Countless flashes go off, and I’m momentarily blinded as someone ushers us up the carpet toward the gauntlet of photographers, fans, and reporters.
My dress, which is a figure-hugging, floor-length scarlet gown with an ostentatious glittering train that Tibby is in charge of wrangling, is arguably a showstopper, but it’s also a giant pain in the arse.
Even now, I’m still struggling to keep my balance underneath the heavy layers of fabric, but Kit never lets go of my hand, and I grip his like it’s the only thing stopping me from falling flat on my face. Which it probably is.
“Where are the others?” I say into his ear, and he glances around, using his height to his advantage. Finally he nods toward the photographers, and as a few people ahead of us step aside, I spot the last person in the world I expect to see.
“Mom?” I call, even though there’s no way she can hear me over the din. Instantly my palm is sweaty in Kit’s. “What is she doing here? Is Alexander here, too?”
Kit shakes his head, still scanning the area. “Maisie and Thaddeus are doing interviews right now. Your mum is with Aunt Helene and Nicholas, but she isn’t posing for pictures.”
I suck in a deep breath. She wasn’t supposed to come.
She never said a word about this—never gave any indication that she was planning on leaving Alexander’s side, and every single one of his advisers, Jenkins included, made it damn clear that he couldn’t let his first appearance after the bombing be a movie premiere, no matter how important it is for the royal family’s image.
Why is she here? I glance around, plastering a smile on my face as I wave to the crowd, though I’m really searching for—what?
John Phillip Michaels in a teal scarf? A bouquet of blood-red gerbera daisies with my name on it?
That’s over now, I tell myself, even though it doesn’t feel like it’ll ever be.
Half the police force in London are here, including snipers on the roofs nearby, and after everything that’s happened, if even the slightest hint of a threat appears, I know our army of PPOs won’t take any chances.
But Ben and Dylan are still on the loose, and on a night like tonight, anything feels possible. Especially the worst-case scenario.
“Please tell me you don’t plan on standing here all night,” hisses a voice in my ear.
Tibby appears beside me, stunning in the plain black dress she’s chosen to wear, and she gestures toward the photo call area.
“Smile and wave to your fans, take a few pictures, and then we’ll head to the interviews. Do you remember your answers?”
“Of course,” I say through a tight smile, my lips barely moving. “My mom is here.”
“Is she?” Tibby sounds surprised, but when I glance at her, her expression is as impassive as always. “She obviously wants to support you. Don’t let her down.”
Leave it to Tibby to take my panic and use it against me, and I dig my heels in as Kit steps toward the photographers. “No, wait,” I say. “Fans first.”
After the assaults we’ve both endured at the hands of some of our more enthusiastic new friends, I don’t blame him for looking less than thrilled about putting ourselves in that direct line of fire again.
But the crowd barriers are packed with security, and we have to squeeze between police officers to shake hands, take selfies, and hug those who’ve stood outside all day to meet us.
Some people greet us like old friends. Some squeal too loudly for us to understand what they’re saying.
One middle-aged woman in a pink shirt even bursts into sobs after babbling her undying love to both of us and asking Kit to sign her marriage proposal written on a neon yellow poster—which he does, with good humor, letting her know this unfortunately doesn’t make things legal in the eyes of British law.
By the time we make our way down the line, neither of us has lost any hair, gained any new tears in our clothes, or accumulated any fresh mental scars, and Tibby is practically beside herself.
“We have seven minutes. Seven minutes, Evangeline, before we have to be inside,” she hisses. “Did you have to greet everyone?”
“Yes,” I say, waving at the cheering crowd once more before heading to the photo call area. “They’ve been waiting here all day.”
Tibby grumbles, but seems to mellow out once Kit and I are posing for the cameras, turning this way and that as the photographers shout our names.
By now I should be used to it, but it never stops feeling like they’re trying to steal a piece of our souls as they take picture after picture, as if there can never be enough.
I hate it, but I don’t stop smiling, even when two freakishly familiar people join us.
“Oh my gosh, it’s really you!” cries an American girl three inches taller than me, her dark hair tumbling down her back in perfect waves. She catches me in a hug, and it takes me a beat to realize this is Riley Monroe, the actress who plays me in the film.
“And it’s you!” I say, trying to match her excitement as I hug her back, ignoring the flashing cameras.
Astrid’s firm insisted on keeping Kit and I separate from the actors playing us—Riley and an eerily handsome man named Greyson Thatcher—on the promo circuit, and I have no doubt that both Riley and Greyson have been carefully coached to time our first meeting in front of these cameras.