"I'm disgusted by Viktor Kozlov," he replied, his voice hard. "By a system that would force you into a marriage with someone like him. But you? Never you."
Relief washed through me, so powerful it left me lightheaded. For five years, I'd carried this secret. In one conversation, James had lifted some of that burden.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For understanding."
He squeezed my hand once more before releasing it. "Thank you for trusting me. It helps me understand what we're facing."
And just like that, we were back to security concerns, back to professional territory. The moment of connection ebbed away, leaving our careful distance.
But something had shifted between us. A door had opened, if only a crack.
By early February, the penthouse felt more like a shared home. I still immersed myself in studies, but made time for evening conversations with James. Sometimes about security or Sicily, other times about books, travels, memories.
He remained reserved, but occasionally I glimpsed the man beneath the professional exterior—like his admission about Sicily and his grandfather's farm, or when he actually laughed at my story about trying to bathe a palace corgi.
Then Frederick called.
I was preparing dinner when my phone rang. James was in the living room reviewing security plans. My ex's name surprised me when I saw it on the screen.
"Frederick," I answered, keeping my voice casual. "This is unexpected."
"Evangeline," his smooth voice replied. "I heard about your sister. I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. It's kind of you to call."
"I'm in Luxembourg for a business conference. Perhaps dinner tomorrow? For old times' sake."
I hesitated, aware that James was listening. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Just dinner, as friends," Frederick insisted. "I have information about Viktor Kozlov's family that might interest you."
My blood ran cold. "What did you say?"
"I recently did business with Mikhail Kozlov. He mentioned his son's connection to the Bellavista royal family. Said something about unfinished business."
I gripped the counter for support. "What kind of business?"
"Not something to discuss over the phone. Tomorrow night? Seven o'clock? I'm staying at The Royal."
I weighed my options. Information about the Kozlovs could be crucial, but meeting Frederick alone seemed unwise.
"I'll meet you in the restaurant," I said finally. "But my security detail will be with me."
"Ah yes, the formidable Mr. Banks. Looking forward to it."
After hanging up, I turned to find James in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"You heard?" I asked.
He nodded once. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I, but if Frederick has information about the Kozlovs?—"
"He could be lying to get you to meet him," James said, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his shoulders.
"I know. But what if he's not?" I shook my head. "I need to know, James."
After a long moment, he nodded. "Fine. But we do this my way. I'll be at your table. And at the first sign of trouble, we leave."
