Page 52 of Royal Affair
The room seemed to tilt around me. Viktor Kozlov—the name from the kidnapper's threat, the ghost from Evangeline's past that had made her face drain of colour. Harrison had found almost nothing on him during our investigation—just fragments of information, deliberately obscured records. Now I knew why.
"Sources close to the investigation have revealed a shocking development," the reporter said.
"Sources say Kozlov was legally married to Princess Evangeline Romanov of Bellavista in a private ceremony five years ago. They suggest the marriage was arranged to cover up a scandal, but it was reportedly annulled shortly after," the reporter said.
A collective gasp filled the room. My mother's hand flew to her mouth, my father leant forward in his chair, and Rupert muttered a string of profanities.
But I heard nothing except the roaring of blood in my ears. The shock hit me like a physical blow—my chest tightening, vision narrowing, the careful control I'd maintained for three days cracking apart. Married. A cover-up marriage. Evangeline had been married to Viktor Kozlov—the man whose name had terrorised her, the secret she'd kept buried. What scandal had been so damaging that marriage was the only solution? And why hadn't she trusted me with the truth?
"Son, did you know anything about this?" my father asked, breaking the stunned silence.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. My carefully constructed world was crumbling around me as pieces fell into place—the threats, the dead kitten, the kidnapper's taunts about "what happened that night five years ago."
"Bro, so Evangeline didn't tell you any of this before?" Rupert asked, studying my face with concern.
"No," I finally managed, my voice rough. "I had no fucking clue."
Without another word, I pulled out my phone and dialled Evangeline's number. It went straight to voicemail, and her lilting voice instructed me to leave a message. I hung up without speaking and tried again; with the same result.
It could be anything—phone battery dead, switched off for a meeting, poor signal in the palace. Rational explanations. But something cold was settling in my gut. I tried the palace switchboard next. Engaged. Then, Dara's direct line. No answer.
Now my training has kicked in. Two points of contact down, principal unreachable. Not a coincidence.
"I have to go," I announced, already moving towards the door.
"Go where?" Spencer called after me. "James, wait!"
But I was already grabbing my coat and keys, my mind racing ahead to logistics. "I need to get to Bellavista," I said, pulling up flight schedules on my phone. Something's not right."
"Because of this Kozlov person?" my mother asked, her voice confused. "What does this have to do with you?"
I paused, looking at my mother—looking at her for perhaps the first time in years. "Because she needs me," I said simply. "And I need to be there."
Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed by a soft smile. "Then go. Call when you land."
Within two hours, I was on a business class flight to Luxembourg, the closest international airport to Bellavista. From there, I could drive or arrange ground transport. The questions swirled in my mind like a gathering storm—who was Viktor Kozlov to her? Why had she never mentioned a marriage,even a fake one? And most urgently, was she safe now that he had been found dead?
I stared out the window at the darkness beyond, one certainty crystallising through the chaos of my thoughts: I would protect her. Whatever secrets she'd kept, whatever ghosts haunted her past, I would stand between her and harm.
Even if she sent me away again afterwards. Even if she never forgave me for leaving in the first place.
Because somehow, without warning or permission, Princess Evangeline Romanov had become essential to me—as necessary as air, as inevitable as gravity.
And I was done fighting it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Evangeline
Three steps to the window. Four steps back to the bed. Five steps to the bathroom door.
I'd been pacing my royal suite for hours, wearing an invisible path in the plush carpet. Outside my window, camera flashes, like lightning, punctuated the darkness as journalists and photographers all clamored for a statement or a glimpse to feed the frenzy.
Viktor Kozlov. My husband. My nightmare.
The marriage had been my mother's solution to the scandal five years ago—arranged hastily six months after the initial incident, a private ceremony with only the palace chaplain and two witnesses present.
"A Russian businessman with excellent connections," she'd said. "This union will make people forget the photographs. It will save your reputation."
