Page 101 of Royal Affair
"She called the office. My private line." Spencer's voice was measured, precisely. "She?—"
I was moving before conscious thought kicked in, crossing the room in three strides. My hands found Spencer's lapels, and I slammed him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures hanging there. His security detail started forward, but Spencer held up a hand, stopping them.
"Tell me everything," I growled, my face inches from his. "Tell me everything right fucking now."
For once, Spencer's composure cracked—not from surprise or fear, but from satisfaction. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of a smirk breaking through his controlled facade. He'd gotten exactly the reaction he was aiming for.
"Well, well," Rupert called out from his chair, "Somebody found the on switch! Should I be taking notes for future reference?"
I didn't take my eyes off Spencer. "The call."
"She called to fill me in on the situation. There are... complications. Security concerns. She said her life and Evangeline's life are in danger, that she thinks she's being watched. She needed to route this through diplomatic channels to avoid suspicion."
The blood drained from my face. My grip on Spencer's lapels tightened, and I slammed him back against the wall again, harder this time.
"What kind of danger? What the fuck do you mean they're being watched?" My voice was raw, desperate. "Who's watching them? What aren't you telling me?"
Spencer's composure flickered for a genuine moment, seeing something in my face that made him realise this wasn't just about getting a reaction anymore.
"She was hesitant to speak over the phone," Spencer's voice was measured, resolute. "Just that she needs your help with a serious matter involving Evangeline. She couldn't discuss details over the phone—diplomatic protocol, she said. But James..." His voice dropped. "It was how she said it. The urgency."
I released him, stepping back. The alcohol fog was lifting rapidly, my mind shifting into operational mode despite myself. Six months of carefully maintained numbness cracked like ice under pressure.
"What exactly did she say?" My voice was steadier now, the professional part of me kicking in. I ran a security firm—I knew how to ask the right questions. "Word for word."
Spencer straightened his jacket, recognizing the shift in my tone. "She said she needed to speak with you urgently about a security matter involving her daughter. That normal communication channels weren't secure, and she was routing this through diplomatic means to avoid suspicion."
I started pacing, my mind already working through possibilities. Threat assessment. Resource allocation. Response protocols. "Suspicion from whom? Internal or external threats? What's the timeline?"
"She didn't specify. But she's calling you tonight with more details."
"When tonight?" I was moving now, months of apathy burning away. My hands found the empty bottles scattered around the room, and I started clearing them automatically, needing to do something with the nervous energy building in my system.
"Nine o'clock. Secure diplomatic channels."
I stopped pacing, turning to face them both. "I should go to Bellavista. Tonight. Get there before?—"
"You’re to fucking hot headed,." Spencer's voice was firm but not sharp. "Think about it logically. If Sophia is concerned aboutsurveillance, about normal communication channels being compromised, what do you think happens when James Banks suddenly books a flight to Bellavista?"
I resumed pacing, running my hands through my hair. Every instinct was screaming at me to move, to act. "But if they're in danger?—"
"Then you going in blind makes it worse," Rupert interjected, his casual demeanor replaced by something more serious. "You know that. You run a security company, for Christ's sake. When did you start making decisions with your heart instead of your head?"
The words stung because they were true. I'd built my career on careful planning, thorough intelligence gathering, measured responses. But this was different. This was Evangeline.
"Six months," I said, still pacing. "Six months of nothing, and now this."
"All the more reason to take the call first," Spencer said reasonably. "Find out what we're actually dealing with before you start booking flights."
I wanted to argue, but the rational part of my mind—the part that had kept my teams alive in hostile territory—was reasserting itself. Going in without intelligence was how good people died.
"Besides," Rupert added, settling back into his chair, "Mother will lose her mind if you disappear to Bellavista without warning. She's already convinced something's happened to Andrew in America—if you vanish too, she'll probably call out the SAS to find you."
That stopped me mid-pace. The last thing I needed was our mother's particular brand of concerned interference.
"Fine," I said finally, the word tasting like defeat. "The call first. Then we assess."
Spencer nodded. "Smart decision."
