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My head is spinning as the adrenaline finally leeches from me, leaving me with limbs that are too heavy and a body that doesn’t feel quite right. I take one more deep breath before forcing myself to stand, and then, like I’m going through the motions, I wash the makeup off my face, change into a cozy sweater and leggings, and head back into the corridor.
Ingrid is waiting outside my apartment, and when I open the door, she greets me with a nod. “All right, Miss Bright?”
“Just tired,” I mumble, echoing the same reply I gave Jenkins, and I hesitate. “I’m sorry about today. I really thought that man had a gun.”
Ingrid regards me for a long moment, her light blue eyes studying me like she’s not sure what she’ll find. “Years ago, a sniper almost killed me in Afghanistan,” she says, and I blink. “It took me a long time before I felt comfortable out in the open again, even after I came home. Our brain exists to try tokeep us alive, and it’ll take yours a while to realize there isn’t a bullet with your name on it lurking around every corner. In the meantime, be kind to yourself. No one blames you for a thing.”
I should say something—tell her I’m sorry she went through this, too, or thank her for putting herself in harm’s way again just to protect me. But when I open my mouth, no words come out, and a lump forms in my throat.
She doesn’t seem to expect a response, but as we make our way down the long gallery toward Maisie’s apartment, Ingrid walks a little closer to me than usual, a comforting presence now rather than an unwanted shadow. And when we reach the turn near the dining room, I pause, still a couple doors down from Maisie’s.
“Could you do me a favor?” I say, my throat still tight. “Will you ask the other protection officers to keep an eye out for that man in the scarf? He was at the protest outside Sandringham, too, and…I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling.”
“Of course, Miss Bright,” she says, and even though I know this is part of her job, I’m absurdly grateful that someone else will be on the lookout for him, too.
As we approach Maisie’s suite, I hear the sound of rising voices echoing from inside, and I pause, not entirely sure what to do. But as I’m reaching out to knock, the door opens, and to my surprise, Kit appears.
“There you are,” he says softly, and he slides his arm around me. “Gia and Rosie are here, and—”
“—sent you roses?”
Gia’s incredulous voice rises from somewhere inside the sitting room, and Kit grimaces. “We should—” he begins, but Maisie cuts him off.
“I didn’t bloody ask for them. I didn’t even know they were coming until they were already here, and what was I supposed to do? Reject them?”
“Are you texting him?” demands Gia.
“I—yes, a little, but only as friends—”
“Does he know about me? Did you tell him you have a girlfriend?”
Silence.
“We should go,” Kit says to me, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Your sandwich should be arriving from the kitchen soon, and I can ask them to deliver it to your room instead—”
“Is that Evan?”
Gia’s voice is much closer now, and Kit steps aside to reveal her standing only a few feet inside the door. She’s in a purple leotard and sweatpants, with her hair pulled into a tight bun, and it’s obvious she came straight from ballet practice.
“Kit and I were just leaving,” I say, but Gia steps toward me, her eyes blazing.
“Did you know about this?” she says, and over her shoulder, I see an anguished Maisie standing beside Rosie, who’s picking nervously at the end of a single blond curl.
“About the flowers?” I say slowly. “Or the texts?”
“About how she’s trying to replace me with a cocky American boy,” she spits out, and Maisie immediately protests.
“I’m not replacing you! Gia, please, be reasonable—”
“I’m being perfectly reasonable,” she snaps, though her furious gaze is still fixed on me. “You’re accepting flowers—roses—from someone who’s very clearly interested in you, and you haven’t bothered to tell him you’ve been in a relationship for the past three years.”
Rosie gasps. “You’ve been together that long?” she says in an injured tone, but both Maisie and Gia glare at her, and she falls silent.
“I really don’t want to get in the middle of whatever’s going on between you,” I say, taking half a step back, but Gia closes the distance between us, grabbing my wrist and lowering her face so it’s only inches from mine.
“Did you,” she says, “or did you not know that she’s planning on dating that American narcissist in front of the entire world because she’s ashamed of me?”
“I’m not ashamed of you!” cries Maisie, her voice thick with tears. “I’m trying to protect you. Gia, please, that’s all it is, I swear—”
