Page 65 of Making It Royal
I sank into one of the chairs, tugging my shoes off with a sigh of relief.“Bryce is about to be on CNN,” I said, grabbing the remote.“I want to watch him skewer President Harding live.”
Chris flopped into the other chair, tossing his scarf dramatically over his shoulder.“Diplomacy’s loss, journalism’s gain.”
The screen blinked to life.A polished anchor in a grey suit leaned forward at his desk.“Joining us now is Bryce Fielding Lewis, former U.S.Ambassador and now a leading foreign policy expert, known for his viral analysis channelDiplomatic Truths.Welcome, Mr.Lewis.”
My pulse quickened even now, a year later.He filled the screen—his dark hair perfect, wearing one of my custom-tailored navy blazers, those steady steel-grey eyes I knew so intimately.
The anchor continued: “We’re turning now to the crisis in Venezuela, where President Harding has ordered U.S.troops to dismantle the government.Bryce, what’s your take?”
Bryce inhaled, then spoke with that crisp, Virginia precision that always made me shiver.“President Harding campaigned as the ‘America First’ candidate of restraint.No more wars, he claimed.Yet in less than two years, he’s attempted to project power into sovereign nations under the guise of performative patriotism.To the international community, it looks less like peacekeeping and more like a hollow-suit ambition.That inconsistency—the endless aggression without a cohesive strategy—has eroded the very credibility I spent twenty years trying to build.Respect isn’t won with empty rhetoric, and our allies know it.”
His words sliced through the studio like a blade.My chest swelled with a pride so fierce it almost hurt.Bryce was brilliant, fearless, and entirely mine.
Just then, a soft knock preceded Kelly’s entrance.She carried a silver tray with a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two fluted glasses.“Your champagne,” she said, setting it gently on the side table before retreating.
Chris wasted no time, popping the cork with a celebratorypop!that made me laugh.He poured generously, handing me a glass.
“To the Atelier,” he toasted.
“To Bryce,” I countered.
We clinked, the crystal chiming sweetly, and I leaned back, sipping as I watched the man I loved dismantle the remnants of the Harding administration for a national audience.
The year had been hard.Messy.Beautiful.And here I was: not a Prince defined by a crown, nor a scandal to be managed, but a man in love, building a future brick by brick.Bryce had kept his promise.He’d resigned and carved out a space where his voice carried further than any embassy ever could.And I had my career—the suits, the sketches, the customers who whispered my name with a different kind of reverence.
For once, I felt whole.
The screen flickered as Bryce leaned forward, his voice low but resolute.“If America wants to lead again, it must first remember how to tell the truth.”
I smiled into my champagne.
Even the anchor looked rattled.He cleared his throat, shuffled his papers, and forced a closing smile.“Thank you, Bryce Fielding Lewis, always incisive, and always fearless.We’ll be right back after this break.”
Chris, bless him, wasted no time.“Boom,” he said, grabbing the remote and killing the screen.“That man could cut steel with his tongue.I'm glad you're the one who has to argue with him about the laundry, not me.”
I laughed, warmth flooding my chest.“Don’t I know it.”
He tipped his glass to me.“So, are Warren and I still invited to your palace—sorry, penthouse—for dinner tonight?”
“Of course,” I said.
His entire face softened, and I caught the telltale glow that still clung to him whenever Warren’s name entered the air.Six months in, and Chris looked ten years younger.Once married to his sewing machine, he was now globe-trotting with Warren Flanders, Broadway’s most prolific producer.Between Warren’s premieres and Chris’s fittings, their frequent-flyer miles could’ve circled the globe three times over.And yet, somehow, they always found their way back to each other.
Chris smiled at me, boyish and giddy.“We wouldn’t miss it for the world.Warren wants to talk to Bryce about some political thriller he's developing.”
Just then, Kelly poked her head back in, cheeks flushed with excitement.“Mr.Windsor?That customer you signed the catalogue for—she’s absolutely thrilled with the Midnight Nocturne.She was wondering if Mr.Tennant could help her pick a few more pieces for her husband’s charity gala?”
Chris drained his champagne in a single gulp, smacked his lips, and leapt to his feet.“Duty calls.Try not to spend all evening swooning over Bryce before dinner.”He winked and swept out.
Alone, I padded to the window.Fifth Avenue stretched below—taxis darting, shoppers laden with bags, the constant hum of New York’s heartbeat.I pressed a hand to the glass and let myself breathe it all in.
My life had changed.More than I’d ever dared dream.
The royal family had come around slowly, then all at once.My grandfather, the King, had even sent a private note saying he was proud—proud that I had built something lasting, something that mattered beyond a title.A few cousins still muttered their envy, unable to fathom how I’d managed to slip the leash of the crown and still land on my feet.Clarence Atelier was no longer a scandal—it was a phenomenon.And Eddie—radiant, sharp-tongued Eddie—had become the face of our brand.
And of course—Bryce.None of it would have been possible without him.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Speak of the devil,” I smiled.
Just finished the CNN segment.Heading to the studio to film a clip for the channel.I’m passing by LeClair’s Gourmet—should I pick up that porcini-and-truffle ravioli for dinner tonight with Chris and Warren?
I grinned, my thumbs flying over the screen.
Perfect.It’ll be brilliant with my sauce.See you at home, love.
Bryce’s reply came seconds later, and as always, my heart skipped a beat reading those simple, final words.
I love you.
