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“Thought you’d never ask. You’ve been back a month and I haven’t seen you outside the nursing home even once.”
“Sorry. Been busy.”
“Meet you at the usual place?”
My stomach clenches and I know I won’t be able to eat, but I agree. I make it through the last few hours of work somehow, pack up my things, and head out of the office and away from prying eyes.
22
Silas
The only thing keeping me going this past month has been Jazz. She’s there at the other end of a phone call every evening, giving me pointers on my speeches and helping build up my confidence for the events and reports that fill my days.
It’s been surprisingly easy to be on tour, especially with her help. The crippling self-doubt that made me stumble over every word doesn’t seem so heavy. She has this uncanny ability to figure out my insecurities and build me up again, without even seeming to realize what she’s doing.
Last week I gave a flawless speech, and the first thing out of Jazz’s mouth was a heartfelt congratulations. It wasn’t condescending or false…it was real. I’ve never had someone who knows my history and understands my struggles with reading and public speaking, someone who listens to me and supports me through them.
Every phone call builds me up. Every conversation with her makes me feel like there could be something more to life than the alcohol-fueled haze I’ve existed in. She makes me realize I’m not the dumb, broken person I thought I was. Maybe I have something more to offer to the world.
I hope I do the same for her. I hear the tension in her voice when she tells me about her mother, and whether it’s my imagination or not, I’m not sure, but that tension seems to ease by the end of every conversation.
It’s been four weeks since I’ve seen her, and I still miss her every day. If I thought distance would make my attraction to her fade, I’ve been proven wrong time and time again. If anything, the weeks we’ve spent apart have strengthened our bond to something deeper than just physical attraction. It’s forced us to talk through our deepest insecurities and realize that we understand each other.
I look at those pictures I took of her and remind myself what it felt like to wake up next to her. I’ve all but stopped drinking, haven’t gone out since that last day in Farcliff when I met Liam Birchal, and haven’t so much as looked at another woman.
I don’t miss any of it.
The only thing I need is Jazz. Her voice on the other end of the line, her face in those precious photos. It’s the only reminder I need that there’s someone waiting for me in Nord. A promise of a more meaningful life.
As the days pass and our conversations grow longer and deeper, I feel like we’re forging a real connection. Like all those details about how we’ll be together and when we’ll go public with our relationship—none of them really matter. It doesn’t matter that she’s called for my family to step down from the throne. It doesn’t matter that we’re on two sides of a battlefield. It doesn’t matter that I’d either have to give up my life, or she’d have to give up hers. It’ll work out…somehow.
It has to. I can’t imagine going back to life before Jazz.
I’ve been on the royal tour six weeks, preparing for a Christmas event at the Argyle Palace, when my sister calls.
“Halfway through,” she says by way of greeting. “You haven’t made an ass of yourself.”
“You sound surprised.” I stare out the window at the waving palm trees of the Caribbean kingdom, smelling the fresh salty air of the tropics wafting through my sheer curtains. Jazz would love it here.
Penelope chuckles. “Maybe I am. You’ve done well, Silas.”
I hear the subtext of her words—I’ve done well despite my reputation. Despite the expectations. And I get it, I really do. I know I’ve messed up too many times to count, I’ve failed my responsibilities and created a less-than-ideal reputation for myself.
The party boy image wasn’t just an image—it was me. It was who I thought I was.
Not anymore.
Completing the royal tour properly feels good. Being reliable, being respected, is a revelation. The rooms full of PhDs and multilingual delegates? They don’t scare me anymore. Podiums and microphones don’t make my palms sweat. I no longer feel inferior to the people I’m supposed to charm, because I know I can speak to them just as well as anyone else. My dyslexia doesn’t feel like such a chain around my neck anymore, and I wonder how much I really held myself back from living a rich life.
I know the only person I have to thank for my new attitude is Jazz. She’s the first person to listen to my struggles, understand them, and gently push me toward overcoming them. The only person with the grace and backbone to show me that I can be better.
“It hasn’t been as bad as I expected,” I tell my sister. “And no controversies. What has the media team been doing with all their extra time?”
“Very funny, Silas,” Penelope answers dryly. “You still have six more weeks to go. Don’t get too confident.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I quip, but I can’t quite keep the smile off my face. For once, I feel like I’ve done something right.
A knock sounds on the door, and I tell my sister I have to go.
