Page 61 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
“Jesus,” he said, his voice as rough and raw as I felt. “I’m never letting you go.”
How I wanted that to be true.
23
EDDIE
A week later, I woke up to the sound of rain against the windows and the immediate, crushing weight of remembering where I was. Not in our narrow university bed with Bash’s arm around my waist. Not listening to the familiar sounds of campus life beginning outside our windows. No, I was in the pristine guest bedroom of Frogmore Cottage, surrounded by expensive furnishings that had never felt like home.
Frogmore Cottage was where my father lived, where I had grown up, though it had stopped feeling like a home to me after my mum had died. She’d been the sunshine in my life, the center of my universe, and after she’d died, nothing had ever been the same. It was like clouds had permanently settled over my head that had never disappeared again… until Bash.
No, I couldn’t think about him now. Somewhere in the building, Bash was waking up in the security staff quarters, in a small, utilitarian bedroom that was a world away from the comfort we’d grown accustomed to sharing. The separation felt like a physical ache, a constant reminder of how artificial all of this was.
I lay there for several minutes, staring at the ornate ceiling moldings and trying to summon the energy to begin what I already knew would be an exhausting day. By the time I emerged from the bedroom, dressed in the kind of formal attire that had once felt natural but now felt like a costume, breakfast had been laid out with typical palace efficiency. Marcus was already seated at the dining table, reviewing documents while my father—Prince James—finished a phone call in the sitting room.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” Marcus said, rising with the kind of formal deference that made me want to crawl back into bed. “I trust you slept well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” I lied, accepting the cup of Earl Grey that had been prepared exactly as I’d been trained to prefer it. The taste was familiar but somehow wrong after months of drinking American coffee with Bash each morning.
My father entered the room with the purposeful stride that had always characterized his approach to royal duties. At fifty-one, he carried himself with the unconscious authority that came from a lifetime of being deferred to, his graying hair and lined face lending gravity to every expression.
“Gregory,” he said, settling into his chair with practiced efficiency. “I trust you’re prepared for today’s schedule?”
“Of course, Father.” I glanced at the itinerary Marcus had provided. Photo opportunity at Harrods. Lunch with the PR team. Various meetings and appearances. Dinner with the Pembertons. A carefully orchestrated performance of princely duty from morning until night.
“Excellent.” He accepted his coffee—black, no sugar, exactly as it had been served to him for decades—without acknowledgment of the staff member who provided it. “Before we begin, I want to discuss your time in America.”
I felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps he was genuinely interested in what I’d learned, what I’d experienced, how the time away had changed me. “It’s been tremendously educational?—”
“I’m pleased to hear it’s been worthwhile,” he said, not looking up from his newspapers. “Though I trust you understand that this experiment in normalcy is precisely that—an experiment. Your real obligations await your return.”
The dismissive tone made me ball my fists under the table. He wasn’t asking about my experiences because he cared about my growth or happiness. He was simply confirming that I hadn’t forgotten my place in the grand scheme of things. “I’ve learned a great deal about American educational systems and cultural approaches to?—”
“I’m sure you have. Marcus will want those insights documented for potential diplomatic use.” My father turned a page, still not looking at me. “More importantly, your absence has reminded certain quarters that you’ll soon need to take on more substantial responsibilities. The engagement with Lady Margaret would be well-timed in that regard.”
Engagement. The word hit me like cold water. “I beg your pardon?”
He looked up now, his cool blue eyes meeting mine as he studied me with clinical assessment. “Nothing formal has been discussed, naturally. But the Pembertons are excellent people, Margaret is suitable in every respect, and the union would be advantageous for everyone involved. I trust your time in America hasn’t given you any romantic notions about choosing your own path in such matters.”
The way he’d delivered that line suggested the answer was obvious. Of course my time in America hadn’t changed anything fundamental about my obligations. Of course I understood that personal preference was subordinate to duty. Of course I would accept whatever marriage would best serve the Crown.
Except that wasn’t true anymore. Not after months of experiencing what it felt like to choose my own path, to wake up each morning excited about the day ahead, to fall asleep each night wrapped in the arms of someone who saw me as Eddie rather than Prince Gregory.
“I understand my obligations.” I had to force the words out.
“Good.” He returned to his newspaper with finality. “The car will be here in twenty minutes.”
And that was it. Months of growth, discovery, and transformation dismissed in favor of duty and expectation. He hadn’t asked about my classes, my friends, my experiences with American culture. He hadn’t inquired about what I’d learned or how I’d changed. The entire conversation had been about confirming that I hadn’t forgotten my place in the predetermined script of my life.
The ride to Harrods was conducted in relative silence, my father reviewing briefing papers while I stared out the window at London’s familiar streets. The city looked exactly as I’d left it—gray, proper, and utterly predictable. I missed the wild beauty of the Pacific Northwest, the casual energy of campus life, the joy of not having to worry about making a public faux-pas.
The photo opportunity at Harrods had been designed to look spontaneous—Prince Gregory doing his Christmas shopping like any other young man, purchasing thoughtful gifts for family and friends. The reality was a carefully choreographed performance, complete with pre-selected items, briefed shop assistants, and photographers positioned to capture the most flattering angles.
“Remember to smile naturally,” the PR representative said as we approached the store entrance. “We want this to feel authentic, like you’re genuinely enjoying the Christmas shopping experience.”
Authentic. The irony was suffocating.
For thirty minutes, I performed the role of the contented prince, examining cashmere scarves and leather goods with theatrical interest while cameras captured every manufactured moment. The shop assistants had been briefed on exactly which items to recommend, and I dutifully admired each one with the kind of polite enthusiasm that would translate well in tomorrow’s papers.
