Page 102 of Royal Affair
"We?" I looked between them.
"You think we're letting you handle this alone?" Rupert's grin was sharp. "James, this is the first interesting thing to happen in months."
Spencer's expression was more cautious but equally determined. "If the Bellavistan royal family is requesting help through diplomatic channels, it becomes a matter of state interest."
I stared at them both—my brothers, who'd spent the last hour systematically tearing down my defenses and forcing me back into the world of the living.
For the first time in six months, I felt something other than emptiness.
I felt like myself again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Evangeline
Three days had passed since the confrontation in my mother's study, three days of tense silence between us while the palace handled the media aftermath of our return from Sicily. When Mother's private secretary had requested my presence for an urgent medical consultation in London, I'd assumed it was routine—another specialist opinion about her multiple sclerosis that she preferred to keep private from the Bellavistan court physicians.
The private medical clinic in Harley Street was exactly what I'd expected—all polished brass nameplates and hushed voices, the kind of place where discretion was as carefully cultivated as the exotic orchids in the waiting room. I sat beside Mother in the elegant reception area, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, trying not to think about what the specialist might tell us about her condition.
Multiple sclerosis had been progressing faster than anyone had anticipated. What had started as occasional fatigue and mild confusion had escalated into episodes that left Mother disoriented and weak. The royal physicians in Belavista haddone their best, but Mother had insisted on seeking a second opinion from Dr. Harrison, supposedly one of Europe's leading neurological specialists.
"I still don't understand why we couldn't have him come to the palace," I said quietly, watching Mother fidget with her handbag—an unusual display of nerves from someone who'd faced down world leaders without blinking.
"Some consultations require specialized equipment," she replied, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. “Frankly, I needed to get away from the palace for a few days. The constant hovering of the medical staff was becoming suffocating.”
I nodded, understanding the sentiment even if something about this trip felt off. The secrecy, the last-minute arrangements, the way Mother had insisted we tell the staff only that we were visiting London for routine diplomatic meetings—it all seemed excessive for a simple medical consultation.
But then again, everything felt off these days. Six months of living with the ghost of James Banks had left me perpetually on edge, jumping at shadows and seeing his face in every crowd. The numbness I'd cultivated so carefully had developed cracks lately, letting in unwelcome feelings I wasn't ready to confront.
"Mrs. Evans?" The receptionist's voice broke through my brooding. Mother had insisted we use false names—another layer of secrecy that seemed unnecessary for a medical appointment.
"Yes," Mother replied, standing with the careful precision of someone fighting not to show weakness.
"Dr. Harrison will see you now. Room three, just down the hall."
I started to rise as well, but Mother placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Actually, darling, I'd prefer to speak with the doctor privately first. You know how I hate having an audience when discussing medical matters."
"Mother—"
"Please, Evangeline. Just wait here. I won't be long."
There was something in her tone—a finality that brooked no argument—that made me sink back into my chair. I watched her walk down the hallway with measured steps, her spine straight despite the tremor I could see in her hands.
Thirty minutes passed. Then forty. I tried reading the carefully curated magazines on the coffee table, but the words blurred together meaninglessly. I tried checking my phone, but there were no messages worth responding to. I tried not to think about James, but that was like trying not to breathe.
Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I approached the receptionist. "Excuse me, but my moth—Mrs. Evans has been with Dr. Harrison for quite some time. Is everything alright?"
The woman's smile was professionally sympathetic. "These consultations can be quite thorough, Miss Evans. But actually, Dr. Harrison asked me to send you to room five when you were ready. Just down the hall, opposite direction from room three."
Room five? Why would they need a different room? A cold dread began spreading through my chest as I walked down the corridor, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Something was wrong. The secrecy, the separate rooms, the way Mother had been acting lately?—
I knocked softly on the door marked with a brass "5" and entered without waiting for permission.
The first thing I saw was Dr. Harrison—silver-haired, distinguished, exactly what I'd expected from a Harley Street specialist. He was standing beside his desk, professional smile in place, but there was something in his eyes that looked almost like sympathy.
The second thing I saw sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
James Banks stood by the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind him in that familiar military posture I'd oncefound so comforting. 26 weeks. 4,417 hours since he'd looked me in the eye and told me I meant nothing to him. 26,297,460 heartbeats since he had walked over mine and vanished completely from my life.
