Three Weeks After the Masquerade
It had been three weeks since the masquerade ball — three weeks since I fainted in a palace ballroom, three weeks since I learned the truth, three weeks since Luc’s father sat us down for a very strange talk and three weeks since everything in my life quietly rearranged itself into something new. We’d gone back to campus after the royal‑study conversation with Charles, whose words still floated around in my head daily, pretending to be normal students while knowing full well that nothing about our lives was normal anymore.
Somewhere in that strange, steady calm, I realized I needed to tell my family. Not all of them. Not yet. Just Mom and Brad. Of course they already figured out that Luc wasn’t just some random student, but definitely someone with a notable background, but the big bomb about monarchy I had kept to my damn self. No way I’d say that to anyone over the phone.
Before the break, before Bellacorde, Luc and I had been … friends. Nothing had happened between us, aside from one very much interrupted almost-kiss – once. But since Bellacorde everything had changed. Now, it was hard to keep our hands and lips to ourselves and not to stay over at each other places past a certain hour. To not look at each other the way people who had exchanged bodily fluids do. Okay, sounded easier in Charles’ study. In practice this was TORTURE.
Either way, I hated the secrecy, Mom and I had always been too close for me to be able to not tell, so we flew to Brindleton Bay for the weekend. Luc had chosen to come with and tell them together.
Brindleton Bay
The gates were already open when we turned onto the drive — which meant Brad had been watching the cameras. He always does when I’m coming home. Not in a creepy way. In a Brad way. Quiet. Controlled. Protective.
Luc didn’t say anything, but I could feel him taking in the estate again — the long tree‑lined drive, the stonework, the house that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread about Old Money Coastal Estates. He’d been here before, but this time was different. This time, the truth was out.
Mom and Brad were waiting at the top of the steps. Not hovering. Not frantic. Just… composed. Which is how I knew they were nervous.
Mom hugged me first. Brad hugged me second. Luc got polite smiles — the kind you give someone you like but are still evaluating.
Dinner was easy. Comfortable. The kids didn’t interrogate him this time; they just accepted him like he’d always been part of the house. It was the adults who were different.
Mom kept glancing at him. Brad kept glancing at me. Luc kept pretending not to notice.
After dinner, when the kids scattered, Mom said lightly, “Why don’t we all go sit somewhere quieter?”
Mom‑speak for: I know something is going on and I’m not waiting another minute.
Brad didn’t argue. He led us to his study — the room reserved for serious conversations, medical calls, and the occasional bourbon‑fueled existential crisis.
The door closed with that soft, heavy click that means privacy.
Brad poured bourbon for himself and Luc. He offered wine to Mom and me, but we both declined. I needed my head clear.
“Oh God. What is happening? I KNOW something is happening.” Then louder: “Briony, sweetheart, if you’re pregnant, I swear—”
“WHAT?! Mom!” I choked. Luc nearly inhaled his bourbon. If an accidental pregnancy ever would have been the worst possible thing, it would be for us. Especially him.
Brad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bri, relax, baby.”
Mom snatched his bourbon, took a long sip, grimaced, and handed it back. “Okay. Good. Then what is it? Because you two are vibrating.”
Luc glanced at me — the silent Are you ready? I nodded.
“Mom,” I said, “there’s something you need to know. And I need you to stay calm.”
She did not stay calm. She slapped her hands over her mouth. Brad rubbed her back — which usually works. Not this time.
“Briony Rose Cameron, you better start talking!”
“Mom!”
“Did you elope?!”
“Mother!”
“Might I?” Luc asked.
“Oh, please do,” Brad muttered, already exhausted.
“He’s a prince,” I blurted before Luc could even open his mouth. He was going to take too long.
Silence.
Mom blinked. “He is what?”
Brad emptied his glass and refilled it — and Luc’s.
“Luc is the… um…” I stumbled.
Luc stepped in. “Prince Héritier de Bellacorde, ruling over the Triune Realm of Ondarion. And soon to take my father’s place as Sovereign Prince.”
Mom screamed — a Briar Rose scream. High. Musical. Dramatic.
“Oh my GOD,” she gasped. “BRAD. BRADDY! DID YOU HEAR THAT?”
“Yes,” Brad said calmly.
“WHY ARE YOU NOT EMOTING?!”
“I keep current with world leadership news,” he said. “After he was here last time, I looked him up. Congratulations, Your Highness.”
“Thank you,” Luc said with a small bow.
Mom stared at Brad like he’d betrayed her. “And you didn’t think to mention it?!”
“It wasn’t my place, baby.”
She realized he wasn’t wrong, then turned back to me, grabbed my hands. “Sweetheart… are you okay? Are you happy?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Really good. I just hate that we have to keep everything secret. And please — don’t tell anyone.”
They both nodded.
Mom’s eyes filled with happy tears. Then she grabbed Luc, kissed his cheek, hugged him, and immediately dragged me outside for air and a thousand questions.
The door closed behind us.
Brad poured more bourbon.
“Here, son. You’ll need it.”
Luc straightened. “Yes, sir. Briony is quite something.”
Brad chuckled. “She is. I would know, she has it from her mother. The most intoxicating woman, which can be good or bad.”
Then the man‑to‑man conversation began.
Brad didn’t sugarcoat anything. He talked about my impulsiveness, my need to finish school, my rough year, my need for stability. Luc didn’t flinch. He agreed with all of it.
Then Brad asked the question that mattered.
“So. What does involvement with someone of your status actually entail for her?”
Luc told him the truth — the same truth the palace told me.
Six months private. Ascension after graduation for him — and me alone on campus without him. A few weeks or months later, the quiet acknowledgment of our involvement by the Crown. Training for me. A proposal after I graduated. A year after that for marriage. And yes — heirs. Two, ideally three.
Brad flagged that he’d never heard me talk about marriage or kids. Luc told him we’d had several conversations and that I was on board. Which was… sort of true. I wasn’t sure I was, but I wanted the man, and this was what it took to have him. In reality, I was not the type who counted the days until I could run — not walk — down an aisle and start popping out kids, and I doubted I’d ever morph into her. Oh well.
Brad listened. Really listened.
And when Luc finished, Brad set his glass down and said, with quiet finality:
“Then keep being honest with her. That’s the only way this works.”
Luc nodded. “I intend to.”
Brad studied him for a long moment, then said:
“Well, Luc… is it still alright to call you that?”
“Of course.”
“Alright. Call me Brad. And welcome to the Cunningham family. And, by proxy, the Cameron family as well. That will be another wild ride you’ll have to prepare for when the time comes. Take it from me — this will be an experience unlike any other.”
Luc straightened — respectful, steady.
“Thank you, sir,” he said softly. “That means more than you know. And knowing Briony and her mother, I believe I have a fairly good idea of what the rest of the family will be like.”
Brad chuckled. “Oh Luc, with all due respect, no you do not. It’s not a bad thing — just… a thing. I was raised very conservatively, and I’ll admit I often sought out the Camerons because they were so refreshing compared to what I was used to. But it can become overwhelming at times. However, I have no regrets. That much I can say with certainty.”
Nineteen Candles
The following weeks and months flew by. And then before I knew it, another milestone was here.
The flight home felt longer than it should have. Maybe because my brain wouldn’t shut up. Maybe because I kept imagining Luc in San Sequoia — in my world — and wondering if he’d fit. How he’d fit. Would he want to fit in? Could he?
It would be a long time before I knew the answer. Even after meanwhile four months of sneaking around as a couple that had to pretend to be platonic, everything still felt fragile. Luc was preparing for graduation, while I had taken on an insane class load — partly to make up for the lost semester after the Beckett/Cody incident, partly because I was hoping I could handle it and graduate sooner than expected. I was motivated. Desperate, even. And maybe also because I knew I would miss Luc on campus, and burying myself in work felt like the only way to numb the ache of being without him.
Luc wasn’t supposed to meet the rest of my family. Not yet. Not for a long while. We had already bent the rules by telling Mom and Brad. Brad could keep a secret — he was basically a vault with a medical degree — but Mom? She was a twin and therefore we took a chance on her. I knew what being a twin meant. Sharing was instinct. Keeping something this big from her own twin sister had been torture for her. I felt it too. I couldn’t tell my twin or my dad, and it gnawed at me every day.
But she respected the boundary. She understood that until we went public, the circle had to stay small.
And that timeline was already accelerated — at least by royal standards. Luc and I had whined at Charles enough that he finally sighed, muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t polite, and agreed to the absolute minimum: six months. But not a day less.
So the plan was this:
Luc would graduate. There would be a small celebration in Bellacorde. Then, once he’d settled back home, a few weeks later, the ascension would take place — a massive event, another reception, a grand ball with world leaders. I would be invited with Mom and Brad as “guests of the royal family,” nothing more. No labels. No hints. No spotlight.
Mom’s cousin — Queen Aria‑Grace Cromwell of Henfordshire — would be there, so we could blend in as her and King Maximilian’s tag‑alongs. Luc wanted me there. And because he knew how much this meant to Mom, he invited her and Brad too. Luc’s request had triggered a fresh stream of unflattering French from Charles — the kind that made Geneviève pinch the bridge of her nose — but after a long sigh and an even longer look at me, he finally relented.
Then, a few weeks after the dust settled and Luc had found his footing as Sovereign Prince, there would be another event — a gathering of allied Houses. A feast. A dance. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I would be announced as the woman at Luc’s side. No more hiding. Still no PDA in public, but I could handle that. I think.
Followed by a press release the next morning.
And then everything would explode.
I’d have to survive college without Luc there — but with everyone knowing. I’d have to juggle my overloaded class schedule with frequent trips to Bellacorde to learn everything they expected me to know: court etiquette, Bellacorde and Beaumont history, how to dress, walk, talk, breathe. My Uncle Connor and Brad were the history buffs, not me.
The car turned off the main road and onto my grandparents’ estate — the one I’d grown up in almost as much as Mom’s house. The driveway was a clever design Grandpa had insisted on: a drive‑in, drive‑out square loop that connected back to the main road. Guests and deliveries could pull in, park, or pass through, then exit the other side without ever lingering.
Grandpa hated long driveways. When they lived in Brindleton Bay — where Mom and her siblings were born — the long drive had been a magnet for paparazzi, reporters, and fans. A choke point. A trap. A place where people could camp out and wait.
Here, anyone trying that would be escorted away by the cops in under five minutes — not because we were Camerons, but because blocking a public road in San Sequoia was a public nuisance. Grandpa always said, “Privacy isn’t luck. It’s design.”
And he designed the hell out of this place.
The estate itself was modern celebrity wealth, not old‑world aristocracy. White‑washed brick. Clean lines. Glass everywhere. A recording studio off to the left. A huge outdoor entertainment area with a stage, lights, and a sound system that could wake the dead. Two guest houses. The ocean glittering behind it all like a backdrop someone paid extra for.
And the view — God, the view. Red Bridge on one side. The San Sequoia skyline on the other.
Grandpa had been the one to pick me up from the airport, where Brad’s private jet had dropped me off from Henfordshire. Looking at his shaggy hair and eternal youthfulness, I was reminded of the other secret I was carrying.
Vampires.
My maternal grandparents. My mom. My aunt and uncle. Their spouses — except Brad. How do you explain that to anyone, let alone someone like Luc?
Another problem for another day. In the far distant future unless I couldn’t help it.
I stepped out of the car and breathed in the salt air.
Home.
This was the place I grew up. The place that felt most like home, even though I’d never had a normal childhood. I’d always had three homes. My second home had always been Brad’s estate in Brindleton Bay — I still had a room there. And then at my dad’s. I barely spent time at my dad’s horse ranch, not until recently, and now that had stopped again. Officially because of college.
Unofficially because of Luc and my future plans — which Dad still knew nothing about.
I couldn’t be groomed to be a monarch’s companion while romping around with the spitting, cursing, sweaty, dusty cowboy crowd.
I hated keeping secrets from Dad, Beau, and Cody. But I wanted this to work, and I wasn’t going to screw it up by talking too much. And I knew Dad — he would hate the idea. He’d know it meant seeing me even less. He’d try to talk me out of it. He was the wide‑open‑spaces type. Even Mom’s life had been too constricting for him. Palace life was next‑level.
He might never see me unless I came home to San Sequoia.
I already knew that loving Luc came with a steep price.
The crown knew it too.
Which was why they insisted on all those timelines. Luc and I both had lots of time to figure out if we could do this, and together.
The front door opened — not with chaos, not with shrieking, not with Beau tackling me like a golden retriever (because he would never). Instead, Beau stepped out first, hands in his pockets, expression softening just a little when he saw me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” I said, smiling as he pulled me into a quiet, warm hug. Beau hugs were rare. Beau hugs meant he missed me.
Behind him came the rest of the welcoming committee:
Mom — already misty‑eyed. Brad — calm, steady, smiling. Jackson — my dad — came out now in long strides and pulled me into a tight hug, kissing the top of my head, holding me like I had been lost at sea for years. Cody — arms crossed, sunglasses on under his Stetson, looking like trouble. Uncle Connor — grinning like the sun, because of course he was. And the younger kids — Nate, Savannah, Eden, and Charlotte — who immediately swarmed my legs like adorable, chaotic barnacles. My aunts, other uncle and the rest of all of them were inside.
It was loud. It was warm. It was perfect.
Mom finally pulled dad off me and hugged me so tight I squeaked. Brad kissed my forehead. Cody flicked my shoulder. When I turned to hug him he stepped back. “Ya know, after ev’rythin’, thinkin’ we put that on hold a while longer.”.
I hated that. Cody and I had gotten so close, it felt safe to be near him and now we were close but through a glass wall. And all because of one panicked mistake. All this did was reaffirm my decision that I could do this royal life. I had never really been free to do as I please. I just hadn’t noticed it so much as mom and Brad and Gramma and Gramps were always there shielding me. Uncle Connor lifted me off the ground in a bear hug that cracked my spine.
“Birthday girl,” he said. “Ready for the circus?”
“Always.”
A few hours later, the Camerons and Kershaws had shown up in full force — loud, musical, chaotic, and perfect. Someone was always singing, playing an instrument, someone else was always laughing, and the pool lights cast everything in a soft blue glow that made the whole backyard feel like a summer concert.
Beau and I had unwrapped our birthday gifts earlier, and now everyone was sprawled around the pool or the firepit, full from dinner and dessert, drifting into that warm, lazy evening haze.
I was curled up on a lounge chair when my phone buzzed.
Once. Then again.
I glanced down.
Luc: Je suis là.
Luc: Front gate. Left side of the house. Five minutes.
My heart nearly launched itself into the pool.
I stood, stretching casually. “Gotta use the can and am gonna grab a cardigan,” I said, because the night air had cooled and no one would question it.
Mom nodded. Cody was arguing with Uncle Connor about who had the better singing voice. Beau looked half‑asleep in a pool float.
Perfect.
I slipped through the sliding door, crossed the hallway — weaving through cousins, siblings, peeking into the living room at a very intense game of charades — and headed for the front door. The house was loud enough that no one noticed me leave.
Outside, the night was quiet. The ocean breeze brushed my skin as I hurried down the front steps and around the left side of the estate, past the oleander bushes and the shadowed stone path Grandpa had designed to keep paparazzi guessing.
And then I saw him.
Luc.
Standing under a tree, hood up, hands in his pockets, the faint glow of the driveway lights catching the edges of his face. For a second, I froze — breath gone, brain gone, heart gone, everything gone.
Then I ran.
He caught me instantly, arms wrapping around me, lifting me off the ground as I kissed him like it had been years instead of weeks. His accent slipped immediately, warm and soft.
“Mon cœur… I missed you so much.”
I laughed against his mouth. “I missed you more.”
He set me down but didn’t let go. “I cannot stay,” he said, the French lilt thickening. “I diverted the plane after some official business. But I had to see you. Even for a moment.”
He lifted a small gift bag — elegant, lavender ribbon.
“For later,” he said. “Open it when you are alone.”
Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small velvet box.
“This one now.”
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
A necklace — a thin gold chain with a tiny lavender‑quartz teardrop pendant.
“It is simple,” he said softly. “So you can wear it without anyone noticing. But you will know. And I will know.”
He hesitated, then added, “Pour toi. For you.”
He took the necklace from the box and stepped behind me, brushing my hair aside. His fingers were warm against my skin as he clasped it.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
I turned, kissed him again — slow, deep, grateful.
A car passed on the main road. We both froze.
He exhaled. “I should go.”
“I hate this,” I whispered.
“I know.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “But one day, you will walk through the front door with me. No hiding.”
“One day,” I echoed.
He kissed me once more — soft, lingering — then stepped back.
“Joyeux anniversaire, Briony. And to Beau as well.”
My chest tightened. “Thank you.”
He smiled — that soft, private smile — then slipped into the shadows toward the car parked just beyond the trees.
I held the gift bag to my chest and hurried back toward the house.
Inside, Beau was standing by the hallway, arms crossed.
“Cardigan, huh?”
I lifted the bag. “One of my girls stopped by. Dropped off birthday stuff.”
He stared at me. Then sighed. “Yer a crappy liar.”
“I know. Can you just let it go? It’s our birthday. Please?”
But he didn’t push. He just shook his head and walked back toward the pool.
I darted upstairs, into my room, straight to the window overlooking the driveway.
Luc was still there.
He looked up at the exact moment I opened the window. I waved. He smiled — that soft, private smile — and I blew him a kiss.
He pretended to catch it, pressed it to his cheek, then slipped into the car.
The headlights swept across the driveway, and he was gone.
I closed the window, heart pounding, and finally opened the gift bag.
On top was a lavender dress — soft, flowing, with delicate lavender‑flower embroidery at the hem. A card lay on top.
Wear this when I take you home again. Soon. Another secret trip. Just us.
Underneath were a few more small gifts — thoughtful, personal, so very Luc.
I pressed the dress to my chest and sat on the edge of my bed, smiling like an idiot.
He came. He couldn’t stay away. And even in the shadows, he chose me.
And I chose him right back.
Back to Bellacorde
Three weeks back on campus felt like slipping into an old costume — familiar, comfortable, and utterly false. Luc and I played our usual game of just friends, and somehow, miraculously, no one at the university had caught on. Not the students. Not the faculty. Not even the nosy girl from my brand‑new French class — yes, that’s right, I was taking French now — and that chick watched Luc like he was a limited‑edition collectible whenever he picked me up after class.
But today, we weren’t pretending.
Today, we were flying home.
To his home.
To Bellacorde.
Luc sat beside me on the plane, reading something on his tablet, but every so often his knee brushed mine and he’d murmur, “Désolé,” with that soft Bellacorde accent that made my stomach flip. He wasn’t sorry. Neither was I. If it took too long for him to “accidentally” graze me, I would do it myself and give him that look — the one that made him smirk like he was two seconds from forgetting protocol entirely.
When the plane landed, the air smelled like lavender and sea salt — Bellacorde’s signature perfume. The car ride to Domaine Beauvigne was quiet, peaceful, and then—
The front doors opened.
And warmth hit me like sunlight.
Charles Beaumont stepped forward first, dignified but smiling, the kind of smile that made you feel chosen. Geneviève followed, elegant and warm, kissing both my cheeks. Leontine, red hair glowing in the afternoon light, hugged me like we were old friends. And Henry Montfort‑Yates, tall and handsome with those deep blue Henfordian eyes, shook my hand with a kindness that felt genuine.
Then a tiny voice squealed.
“Lulu!”
A toddler barreled toward Luc — curly auburn hair, chubby cheeks, and the most chaotic energy I’d ever seen. He scooped her up effortlessly.
“This,” he said, turning to me, “is Cordelia. My lovely niece‑monster.”
He kissed her cheek while she giggled and made monster sounds. Something in my chest twisted — not in a bad way. Just… new. I’d grown up with siblings and nieces and nephews, but I’d never had that maternal‑switch‑flips‑on moment over a guy holding a kid.
Until now.
Cordelia blinked at me, then grabbed a fistful of my hair.
“Pretty,” she declared. “Like the princess from the movie on the plane, Mummy.”
“Elsa,” Leontine said, amused. “From Frozen.”
I laughed. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Luc smirked at the princess part, then leaned in. “She is very much a princess, but unlike Elsa, Bree‑oh‑nee isn’t much for ‘letting go.’”
He said my name the French way — Bree‑oh‑nee, the soft r brushing through it like a secret — and I stuck my tongue out at him.
Okay, so here’s the backstory to that comment: the girl from my French class realized Luc’s mother tongue was French when he explained something to me after picking me up yesterday. That was her invitation to pounce, and Luc was too polite to tell her to beat it.
I was not.
I tried to be patient, but then she dared to touch MY MAN (!!!) — in public, when I wasn’t allowed to — which flipped my bitch‑switch, and my outburst finally sent her off. And then I bitterly complained about her audacity the entire walk home… until he walked me into my rental townhouse, shut the door, and shut me up with a deep kiss.
We settled into a light lunch — simple food by their standards, soft conversation. Cordelia sat on Henry’s lap, smearing mashed potatoes on his sleeve while he pretended not to notice, dismissing the nanny every time she tried to intervene.
Then Leontine dropped the news.
“So,” she said casually, slicing her pear tart, “one reason Luc insisted on flying home — and bringing you — is because we wanted you here for the party Papa decided to throw for the happy occasion.”
I paused, glancing at Luc. “What occasion?”
Henry grinned. “We’re expecting again.”
My jaw dropped. “A baby?!” Realizing how dumb that sounded, I cleared my throat. What else would they be expecting that warranted a feast? A tax audit?
“A boy,” Leontine said, glowing. “Charles‑John. After both our fathers. The Montfort‑Yates line will continue in name. For generations, heirs have been sparse. John is the only child, so is Henry. Now we have Cordelia and soon Charles‑John. And maybe another, eventually. Children are such a blessing, n’est‑ce pas, Père?”
Charles pretended not to wipe his eye.
Then Henry added, “And you’ll meet my family tonight, Briony. My father just retired from the Henfordian Royal Navy — Admiral Montfort‑Yates. And my stepmother, Baroness Clara… she raised me after my mother died. She’s wonderful.”
Something in his voice softened — the same softness Luc had when he talked about losing his mother. A thread connecting them.
The afternoon passed in a blur of warmth and laughter.
As usual, Luc and I had separate rooms. I got ready in mine, in a new dress they gave me — lavender this time. Luc had told me tomorrow I would wear the dress he gave me.
The Party
Bellacorde knew how to celebrate.
Music drifted through the gardens, lanterns glowed in the trees, and guests mingled in elegant clusters. I stayed close to Luc at first — not clingy, just… anchored. He introduced me to diplomats, nobles, artists, and Henry’s family, who were all surprisingly normal.
As a co‑student. Yeah. Urgh.
I honestly felt like everyone knew it was BS, but nobody poked or probed. Just smiled and greeted me, polite small talk, saying nothing with a lot of words.
At some point, I excused myself to find the bathroom.
It took maybe three minutes.
Five, tops.
When I returned, everything inside me froze.
A woman — tall, stunning, dark hair in a perfect chignon, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Uncle Connor’s car — was standing very close to Luc. Her hand rested on his arm. Her body angled toward his. Her voice low and intimate.
And Luc…
Luc was smiling.
Not politely.
Not awkwardly.
But warmly. Familiar. Like he knew her. Like he liked her.
Before I could move, she slipped her hand through his arm and said something in French — fast, fluid, too quick for me to catch — and he laughed.
Laughed.
Then she tugged him gently.
And he let her lead him into the gardens.
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might be sick.
I turned blindly and nearly collided with Leontine.
“Who is that with Luc?!” I demanded, my voice too sharp, too panicked.
She followed my gaze, sighed, and said quietly:
“That is Viscountess Dominique Fleur de Villeneuve‑Gauthier.”
“Who?”
“Oh.” Leontine said it in that certain way — the oh honey way — then gave me one of those looks she covered with a polite smile. “She and Luc were… close. Years ago. It ended.”
I swallowed hard. So that was noble code for his ex. Yikes.
“He looks happy to see her.”
Of course she was beautiful. Of course she was noble. Of course she spoke French and sounded like honey and silk. Of course she could touch him in public without anyone questioning it.
Of course.
Leontine didn’t lie. “They go way back. It seemed serious for a while, but then things got tense and emotions high and… it fell apart. But that does not mean—”
I didn’t hear the rest.
Because Dominique had just touched Luc’s chest.
And he didn’t flinch.
My heart cracked cleanly in two, both halves on fire.
The Champagne Spiral
I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
Then another.
Then another.
The bubbles went straight to my head — warm, dizzying, traitorous. I told myself I wasn’t jealous. I told myself I had an ex too. I told myself Luc loved me. I told myself I was being dramatic.
But every time I glanced toward the gardens, I saw Dominique’s silhouette beside his — tall, elegant, perfectly composed. They were laughing. Touching. Leaning in close.
And every time, something inside me twisted.
My vision blurred. My legs felt unsteady. The music grew louder, the lights brighter, the air too warm. The champagne tasted sweeter, then bitter, then like nothing at all.
Someone said my name.
I turned.
The world blurred.
And then—
Everything went black.
I don’t remember falling.
One second I was standing in the ballroom, champagne buzzing in my blood, Dominique’s perfect laugh slicing through me like a blade from the gardens. The next, the world tilted sideways. My stomach lurched. My knees buckled.
I didn’t hit the ground.
A steady hand caught my arm, another guiding at my back. “Steady on,” he murmured — calm, warm, familiar.
Henry. Not Luc. Not the man I wanted.
Luc was too busy having his hands on that other woman.
Henry’s face swam into view — concerned, gentle, steady. “Steady, love. You’re all right. Up you get — that’s it. This way.”
I heard him speak to someone else — a guard? a footman? — but it all faded into cotton wool.
I tried to breathe. Failed. Everything spun.
“Let’s get her to the main wing,” Henry said quietly, and I felt myself being guided — not carried, not fussed over, just… supported. The way someone does when they’ve done this before. When they know what it’s like to fall apart in public.
Cool palace air hit my skin. Then the soft lamplight of the sitting room.
Then nothing.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
Waking
I woke to the faint scent of lavender and the soft glow of a single lamp.
The sitting room.
Again.
I groaned and covered my face with my hands. “Oh God. Not this room again.”
A low laugh came from beside me.
“Mon cœur… you need to stop doing this.”
I froze. My head snapped to the side.
Luc.
He was sitting on the floor next to the sofa, elbows on his knees, watching me with that mix of worry and amusement that made my chest ache.
His accent was thicker — the way it got when he was tired or emotional. Or scared.
“I didn’t faint,” I muttered. I could hear myself slurring. Dammit.
“You did,” he said, smiling. “Very dramatically. Encore.”
“I was … light-headed.”
“Tipsy.”
“Semantics.”
He reached for my hand.
I pulled it back.
Luc blinked. “Briony?”
Something hot and stupid and champagne‑fueled surged up my throat. I sat up too fast. The room tilted. Which only made me angrier.
“Oh, don’t ‘Briony’ me,” I snapped. “Go back to your little garden walk. With full body contact!”
His brows drew together. “What?”
“You heard me.” I jabbed a finger in the general direction of the gardens. “Your ex. Lady… whatever. Fleur‑de‑Ville‑something‑Golly‑Fancy‑French‑Name.”
“Dominique?” he said carefully.
“Oh, Dominique,” I mimicked, dripping venom. “So elegant. So fluent. So allowed to touch you in public.”
“Briony—”
“And she can speak French without sounding like a toddler,” I continued, voice rising. “And she can touch you without waiting half a year. And she’s noble. And local. And perfect. And—”
“Briony.”
“—and you were laughing with her. Laughing. Like you regretted things. Like you missed her. Like—”
He moved before I could finish.
His hand slid to my jaw.
The other to the back of my neck.
And he kissed me.
Not gently.
Not politely.
But deeply, fiercely — the kind of kiss that knocks the breath out of your lungs and the sense out of your brain. The kind that makes you forget every insecurity you’ve ever had.
When he pulled back, I was dizzy for an entirely different reason.
Luc rested his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Do not,” he whispered, “ever think I regret anything with you.”
My throat tightened.
He brushed his thumb across my cheek. “Dominique and I ended years ago. It was mutual. It was right. And she is married now.”
I blinked. “She is?”
“Yes,” he repeated softly. “To a diplomat. They lived abroad for a while, but just recently moved back here. She was telling me about all that and about her husband. About their home. We were catching up. That is all. Her husband is here at the ball as well.”
“Oh.”
He tilted my chin up. “Look at me.”
I did.
His eyes were steady, warm, unshakably sure.
“I love you, Briony.”
My breath caught.
He said it again, slower, firmer, like he was anchoring me to the earth.
“I. Love. You.”
My eyes stung. “Luc…”
He kissed me again — softer this time, tender, grounding.
“You are the one I want,” he murmured. “The one I choose. The one I will wait for, aussi difficile que ce soit, the one I hide for… until one day, I may walk beside you openly.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I got jealous.”
He smiled. “I am not. It means you care.”
“Guess I care too much.”
“Good,” he whispered. “So do I.”
He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle now.
“Now,” he said, voice warm, “let me get you some water before you faint in front of my father again.”
I groaned. “Please don’t remind me.”
He laughed softly. “Impossible. It is already my favorite Bellacorde anecdote. Twice now at gala balls. Maybe you’re allergic?”
I smacked his arm.
He caught my hand.
And kissed my knuckles.
EchoesOfLegacy 