Page 100 of Royal Affair
"This is pathetic. Even for you."
I said nothing. What was there to say? He wasn't wrong.
"Do you know what Mother asked me last week?" Spencer said to Rupert, acting like I wasn't even in the room.
"I'm sure you're going to enlighten me," Rupert replied, still glancing around.
"She asked if James had gone back to Iraq, because apparently, that's the only acceptable excuse for missing three family dinners in a row."
More silence. Spencer could conduct this entire conversation by himself if he wanted. He was good at that.
"I told her James was busy brooding romantically and working." Rupert's voice dripped with disdain. "But that was before I realised he'd turned into Howard Hughes with a drinking problem."
I reached for the Jameson bottle. Spencer was faster, snatching it away before my fingers could close around the neck.
"Fuck you both."
Rupert shook his head, and Spencer stared at the bottle with an unusual expression.
"You know what the genuine tragedy is here?" Rupert continued, settling himself into my armchair like he owned the place. "Our dear brother has become predictably boring. Six months of the same routine—drink, sulk, ignore the world. At least when you were getting shot at in foreign countries, you had some variety in your misery."
Spencer remained standing, still holding the whiskey bottle like evidence in a court case. "Maya went through a phase like this when she found out that Laura was pregnant. Ten years old, locked herself in her room for weeks, refusing to speak to anyone. The difference is that she was a child processing asubstantial permanent change in her living environment. You're a grown man who should know better."
The comparison hit like a slap. Spencer mentioning Maya was rare—he guarded his relationship with his daughter fiercely, keeping her separate from the political circus of his life. And now with Laura as his wife, Maya had finally found stability again. For him to draw that parallel now...
I said nothing, reaching for another bottle on the table.
Rupert chuckled. "He's fucking in love, Spence, so leave the poor bugger alone."
Spencer's laugh was harsh, humorless. "Love? Is that what we're calling this pathetic display? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like cowardice dressed up in romantic bullshit. At least when Maya had her tantrum, eventually found her big girl pants and dealt with reality."
The words hit their mark. My jaw clenched involuntarily, fingers tightening around the bottleneck. Love. Such a simple word for something that felt like being flayed alive every day. Six months of trying to convince myself it was just attraction, just good sex, just... anything but the thing that made my chest feel hollow every time I thought of her name. Evangeline. Even thinking about it felt like touching a live wire.
Rupert leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. "Oh, now we're getting somewhere. Look at that face—he's practically vibrating with suppressed rage. This is the liveliest he's looked in months."
Spencer wasn't finished. "You know what the real joke is? Maya asked me why Uncle James doesn't visit anymore. A ten-year-old showing more emotional intelligence than her grown uncle. Do you know what I told her?"
I didn't want to know, but the bastard was going to tell me, anyway.
"I told her you were working through some things. Because that's what adults do, James—they work through things. They don't just crawl into a bottle and pretend the world stopped existing."
“Speaking of family,” Rupert interjected, his tone shifting slightly, "Andrew's been asking about you too. Well, when he's not cosplaying a Hollywood heartthrob in Los Angeles. Did you know he's filming some action thriller? Apparently, he's been there for two months now, and Mother's beside herself with worry about all of us. One son gallivanting around America getting shot at by stunt coordinators, another son drinking himself into oblivion..."
"She's threatening to come here herself if you miss another dinner," Spencer added, his voice carrying a warning.
Fuck. The mention of our mother sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I'd been carefully managing our phone conversations for months—calling her just often enough, saying just the right things to keep her from getting suspicious.
"Touching family moment," Rupert continued, though his tone had shifted slightly, less amused now. "Really brings a tear to the eye. But perhaps we should get to the real reason we're here? The phone call?"
Something shifted in Spencer's expression—a flicker of something I couldn't quite read. He exchanged a glance with Rupert, and suddenly the air in the room felt different. Charged.
"What phone call?" The words were out before I could stop them.
Spencer straightened his tie, a nervous habit from childhood that his political training had never quite eliminated. "Queen Sophia called me yesterday."
The room went still. My vision narrowed, focusing entirely on Spencer's face. Six months of carefully constructed numbness cracked like ice under pressure.
"What did you just say?"
