Page 70 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
I had to steady myself against the wall for a moment as a dizzy spell threatened to bring me to my knees. The fallout would be massive. The king made no empty threats, so I had to count on truly being disowned, all my titles and privileges stripped away. That should’ve felt awful, should’ve made me question my decision… but it didn’t.
The thought of losing everything didn’t make me scared. Not anymore. It made me sad. Not because I’d be losing wealth and a lifestyle I’d never be able to afford on my own. No, it made me sad because I’d be losing my family. Well, most of them anyway. Charlie had made clear where she stood.
But above all, it made me feel free. I didn’t need any of this. Not the title, not the wealth and the privileges, not the fame and the connections. All I needed was Bash.
But when I wanted to tell Bash what had happened, he was gone.
26
BASH
The summons came without warning.
I was pretending to review security protocols while anxiously awaiting news of whatever urgent meeting Eddie had been pulled into, when one of the British agents appeared at my shoulder. “Special Agent Puller? You’re needed immediately.”
There was something in his tone—not hostile, exactly, but final in a way that made my gut clench with sudden dread. I’d been in law enforcement long enough to recognize the sound of a professional dismissal, even when it was dressed up in polite language. “What’s the situation?” I asked, automatically reaching for my secure phone.
“I’ll need that,” he said, extending his hand. “All communication devices, credentials, and security equipment. Standard protocol.”
Standard protocol my ass. This was a termination, swift and efficient and completely without explanation. Where was Eddie? What had happened in that meeting with his father and the king?
“Where is Prince Gregory?” I asked, handing over my phone and security badge with hands that remained steadier than I felt.
“That’s not your concern anymore, Special Agent Puller.”
The words hit like a physical blow, but I kept my expression neutral. Whatever had gone down in that private study, the consequences were immediate and decisive. I was being removed from the equation with the kind of military efficiency that left no room for argument or appeal.
Twenty minutes later, I was seated in the back of a black sedan, watching Sandringham House disappear in the rearview mirror with a growing sense of unreality. No explanation had been offered beyond “immediate repatriation required”. My belongings had been packed with professional speed—nothing missing, nothing damaged, just the complete erasure of my presence from the estate.
The drive to the private airfield passed in tense silence. I kept expecting someone to provide context, to explain what had triggered this sudden exile, but the British agents maintained professional distance throughout the journey. They were doing their job, nothing more, and their job apparently included treating me like a security risk to be neutralized rather than a colleague who’d served by their side.
The plane was waiting on the tarmac—not commercial, but a smaller government aircraft that suggested someone with serious authority had arranged this transport. As I was escorted aboard, one of the flight attendants approached with a clipboard.
“Special Agent Puller? We’ll need a US destination for filing the flight plan. Where would you like to go?”
The question caught me off guard. In all the scenarios I’d imagined for how this assignment might end, being asked to choose my own exile destination hadn’t come up. Cascade Bay wouldn’t make sense without Eddie. I thought about my apartment in DC, empty and impersonal. What other options did I have?
“North Carolina. Asheville Regional Airport.”
If my world was falling apart, I needed to be somewhere that felt like home. I needed my parents. Besides, I had some things I needed to tell them.
The flight gave me too much time to think, too many hours to replay the events of the past few days and try to understand what had gone wrong. Eddie had been hopeful that morning, determined to find a way to tell his family about us on his own terms. The fact that I was being expelled without warning suggested that conversation hadn’t gone according to plan.
But I refused to believe—couldn’t let myself believe—that Eddie had thrown me under the bus to save himself. Whatever had happened in that meeting, whatever pressure had been applied, I knew Eddie well enough to trust that he wouldn’t have betrayed what we’d built together. The man who’d risked everything just to give us a chance wouldn’t have sold us out to protect his own position.
Which meant he was probably facing consequences as severe as mine, possibly worse. The thought made my chest tight with worry and helpless rage. I’d been trained to protect him, and now when he needed me most, I was being flown three thousand miles away.
By the time we touched down in North Carolina, evening was settling over the familiar mountains, and I felt like I’d lived through several different lifetimes in the space of a single day. A rental car was waiting—apparently, someone had been thorough in arranging my repatriation—and I drove the familiar roads to my parents’ house on autopilot, my mind still trying to process the magnitude of what had just happened.
My career was over. That much was clear, even without official confirmation. One didn’t get dismissed from a royal protection detail and quietly reassigned to other duties. The Secret Service would want a full debriefing, would need to understand exactly what had compromised the assignment, and I’d have to decide how much of the truth to reveal and how much to protect. I wasn’t sure what the Brits would tell them, but regardless, my early dismissal would send a signal all on its own. My chances of coming out of this unharmed were close to zero.
But underneath the professional disaster was a more fundamental crisis: I had no idea when or how I’d see Eddie again. No way to contact him, no means of knowing what he was going through, no ability to offer support or comfort when he was probably facing the worst crisis of his life. The separation felt like losing a limb—sudden, traumatic, and leaving me fundamentally altered.
My parents’ porch light was on when I pulled into the driveway, the warm yellow glow cutting through the mountain darkness like a beacon. I sat in the rental car for several minutes, trying to summon the energy to face their questions and concern, knowing that everything was about to change for them too.
When I hauled myself out of the car, the front door opened before I could knock, my mother appearing. She took one look at my face and immediately pulled me into the kind of fierce hug that could temporarily fix almost any crisis.
“Basil,” she said, using my full name the way she only did when she was worried or proud or overwhelmed with emotion. “What’s happened, honey?”
