Page 90 of Royal Affair
"Or someone at the palace leaked our location."
The suggestion hit me like a physical blow. That someone in my mother's household might have deliberately exposed us was almost too awful to contemplate, but I couldn't dismissit entirely. Palace politics were Byzantine and often cruel, and there were plenty of people who might benefit from my public embarrassment.
"I need to see what they're saying," I said, reaching for my laptop.
"Evangeline—"
"I need to know, James."
With trembling fingers, I opened the browser and searched for my name. The results made my stomach lurch. The first headline read: "PRINCESS EVANGELINE'S SECRET SICILIAN LOVE NEST" with a subheading that made me feel sick: "Exclusive photos show royal heir in intimate embrace with bodyguard."
"Oh God," I whispered, clicking on the article. There, in full colour, were photographs I'd never seen before—images of James and I that should have been impossible to capture. Somehow, they had pictures of us on the villa's private terrace, James's hand on my face as we talked over dinner. Another showed him helping me down from a farm gate during one of our days at the various practices, but the angle made it look like an intimate caress rather than simple assistance.
But the worst was a video clip embedded in the article. It showed James watching me work with one animal at Dr. Vitale's practice, and even I could see what the cameras had captured—the way he looked at me wasn't professional observation. It was raw, unguarded affection. Love, even.
"Fuck," James said quietly, reading over my shoulder. "Someone took those with a telephoto lens from a significant distance. They have been watching us for days."
I scrolled through more articles, each one worse than the last. The speculation was wild and increasingly invasive:
"EXCLUSIVE: Palace sources confirm Princess Evangeline has been 'living in sin' with her protection officer in a Sicilian villa"
"BREAKING: Queen Sophia 'furious' over daughter's secret romance"
"Royal Crisis: Princess Evangeline's bodyguard romance threatens succession"
"They're making it sound sordid," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Like we're having a tawdry affair."
James moved to stand behind my chair, his hands settling on my shoulders in a gesture of comfort and possession. "What we have isn't tawdry."
"I know that. You know that. But this—" I gestured at the screen "—this is how the world will see it. The Princess and her bodyguard. It's like something out of a cheap romance novel."
More articles appeared as I refreshed the page. Someone had clearly been feeding information to multiple publications simultaneously. There were quotes from "palace insiders" claiming the Queen was considering removing me from the line of succession, speculation about James's military background being fabricated, even suggestions that our relationship was part of some larger security breach.
The memory from weeks ago still haunted me—the lifeless kitten, the note. It had been the beginning of everything unraveling, the reason James had been so protective, so determined to keep me safe. Even here in Sicily, far from Bellavista's politics and threats, I knew someone was still out there, still watching.
"I need to call my mother," I said, reaching for my phone. "I need to explain before this gets completely out of hand."
But when I tried to call, the line went straight to voicemail. I tried again, and again, with the same result. My mother's privatenumber, the one that was supposed to be answered no matter what, was being ignored.
"She's not taking my calls," I said, panic beginning to creep into my voice. "James, she's not taking my calls."
I tried calling Aunt Margaret next, then my mother's private secretary, then even the main palace switchboard. Each call either went unanswered, or someone politely and firmly told me that Her Majesty was unavailable.
"They've shut me out," I realised with growing horror. "The palace has completely shut me out."
My phone buzzed with a text message from a number I didn't recognise: "Princess—we're offering £100,000 for an exclusive interview about your relationship with James Banks. Call us."
Then another: "Evangeline—tell your side of the story before someone else does. We can protect you."
And another: "URGENT: Palace preparing a statement about your removal from succession. Comment?"
"They're circling like vultures," I said, showing James the messages. "And if that last one is true?—"
James was silent for a moment, his jaw working as he processed what we were facing. When he finally spoke, his voice was deadly calm.
"We're leaving," he said, standing abruptly. "Tonight. There's a safe house in the mountains I can access."
"James—"
