Theo’s parting words cut through my reverie. Had he seen something in me that I couldn’t recognize? Or was he just lashing out, unable to grasp the complexities of royal duty? The rawness of our last exchange left an emotional wound that refused to close.
I opened my eyes, redirecting my focus to the changing landscape. The lush grounds of Dove Canyon gave way to the rugged beauty of the Texas Hill Country, rolling terrain dotted with cedar trees, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Far removed from the manicured gardens of Avaline.
The car turned onto the main highway, smoothly accelerating toward the private airfield. I reached for my new phone—a replacement for the one I'd impulsively hurled into the pool—and checked formessages. A flurry awaited: several from Sébastien confirming travel arrangements, one from Julius wishing me well, and a single text from Remy:Looking forward to seeing you. We have much to discuss.
I set the phone aside without responding. What was there to say? I was returning to my duties, and a life preordained at birth. The brief interlude of freedom, and passion, at Dove Canyon would fade like a dream upon waking, leaving lingering feelings of loss.
The flight to Dallas was short, barely enough time for one glass of wine before we began our descent toward another airfield. Soon, I was stepping into yet another black car, en route to the hotel where Remy awaited.
Already I could feel the machinery of royal obligation whirring back to life around me. My phone had vibrated continuously during the flight—messages from the Royal Chamberlain about the revised schedule for the upcoming anniversary ceremonies; an urgent note from our Ambassador to the EU regarding trade negotiations that might be affected by the current turmoil; a discreet inquiry from Cardinal Moreau about whether I would require a private audience upon my return to discuss “matters of spiritual significance”—code for exploring the theological implications of succession changes.
Sébastien met me at the entrance to the hotel, his familiar presence a comforting anchor amid my tumultuous feelings. He looked impeccable as always, his crisp suit and perfectly knotted tie in stark contrast to my disheveled state. His concern as he assessed me was evident. “Your Grace,” he greeted with a slight bow. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“As comfortable as could be,” I replied, trailing him through the opulent lobby to the elevators. “Any updates I should know about?”
Sébastien pressed the button for the top floor. “His Highness is anxious to speak with you,” he said in a low voice. “He delayed our departure until tomorrow morning and is reportedly pacing the suite. The latest statements from the Palace about Princess Helene’s absence have stirred further speculation in the press.”
I sighed, leaning against the polished wood paneling. “Of course it has. The vultures are circling.”
“Indeed,” he said, his tone neutral yet laced with understanding. Sébastien was skilled at agreeing with me without judgment, a valuable talent in his role. “I took the liberty of preparing rooms for you tonight. Your suite is adjacent to His Highness’s. Once upstairs, I can unpack your essentials and press your dinner attire. He has requested a private dinner at eight.”
The elevator doors opened onto a hushed corridor carpeted in deep burgundy. Sébastien led the way to a set of double doors guarded by two men in dark suits—Remy’s security detail, who nodded respectfully as we passed. My own accommodations were similarly grand, decorated in muted golds and creams, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Dallas skyline.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Sébastien asked as he followed me into the suite, closing the door behind us.
I loosened my tie, the weight of the day crashing down on me. “A drink, perhaps,” I replied, moving to the window to gaze out at the city. “Scotch, if they have it.”
“Of course.” Sébastien moved to the bar cart, the soft clink of glass the only sound in the room.
As I watched the city glitter below, I felt both drawn to and repelled by its relentless energy. No centuries of protocol constraining its movements. “Your scotch, Your Grace,” he said, returning with my drink.
I accepted the tumbler, grateful for the familiar burn that followed my first sip. “Thank you, Sébastien.”
He hovered nearby, then inquired with obvious care, “Is everything alright, Your Grace? If I may be so bold, you seem… troubled.”
I considered deflecting, but who else could I confide in? “I'm fine,” I said automatically, then sighed at the untruth. “No, that’s not true. I’m... conflicted.”
Sébastien's professional demeanor faltered, revealing his genuine concern. “About Your Highness’s potential abdication?”
“Among other things,” I admitted, taking another sip of my scotch. “It’s been an eventful week.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Sébastien hesitated again, then added, “If I may say so, it seemed to do you good. Your time away, I mean. You appeared... more relaxed when you arrived at the airfield.”
I gave him a wry smile.
For a wild moment, I imagined disappearing—not to New York or Singapore, but back to Dove Canyon. Back to Theo.
But the fantasy dissolved as quickly as it had formed. If Remy truly intended to renounce his claim to the throne, my presence in Avaline would be essential. The royal family couldn't afford another scandal, another disruption to the carefully maintained image of stability and tradition.
I glanced at my watch. Just past six, giving me two hours to prepare myself for what promised to be a difficult conversation. “No, thank you, Sébastien. That will be all for now.”
He bowed slightly and moved toward the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “If I may, Your Grace,” he said, turning back to face me. “Whatever decision His Highness makes... you will rise to the occasion. You always do.”
The simple vote of confidence touched me more than I expected. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I appreciate your faith in me.”
After Sébastien left, I finished my scotch in contemplative silence, then moved to the bathroom to shower and change for dinner. As I dressed in the formal attire Sébastien had prepared—a charcoal suit with subtle pinstripes, a pale blue shirt, a silk tie in Avaline's royal blue—I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. The man who stared back at me looked every inch the duke. Composed, dignified, ready to shoulder whatever burden his family and country might place upon him.
But behind that polished exterior lurked doubts I couldn't quite silence. Theo's accusation echoed in my mind:You're afraid to stand up to your family, afraid to demand the right to your own life, your own happiness.
