The Line of Attack
Becoming friends with Eloise felt like slipping into something I didn’t know I’d been missing — soft, steady, and unexpectedly natural. She was quiet, yes, but not fragile. More like a candle in a drafty room: always flickering, always trying to stay lit, always convinced the darkness was her fault.
I wasn’t having that.
Eloise and I had many more, sometimes surprisingly frank conversations about her life and about her relationship and she really was crushing on Philippe — she really loved him — and yet he barely looked at her, which made something inside me rise up like a dragon. I liked him, genuinely, he was funny and charming and entertaining, I’d call him a nice guy, except for dafuq did that man think he was when it came to his own damn wife? Did he not know what year it was? Sorry, not trying to sound all woke and emancipated here but damn! Just … no.
“Oh, hell no! Absolutely not,” I said out loud. “We’re fixing this.”
She blinked at me, startled. “Fixing…what exactly?”
“Your marriage,” I said. “Your confidence. Your entire vibe. All of it.”
Her blush climbed all the way to her hairline. “Briony, I don’t think—”
“Too late,” I cut in. “No thinking needed on your part — that’s my job right now. You married a man who thinks he’s God’s gift to women? Fine. He brings a lot to the table, visually, I’ll give him that. I can see why he has game. But so do you, and I’m going to make him — and the world — see it. We’re done with him treating you like a footnote. We’re going to make him your bitch now.”
Her eyes went wide.
She stared at me like I’d just spoken in tongues. And honestly? Fair. She’d been raised in the conservative Henfordian court—prim, proper, polished within an inch of her life. Hearing me talk like that probably brought her close to a coronary. But it was exactly what she needed.
And I was dead serious. I pressed on.
“And you know what? My uncle Connor and my stepdad Brad have been trying to teach me chess for years. Turns out it’s basically a whole religion of secretive, strategic moves designed to catch your opponent off guard while they try to blindside you. You stay quiet, you stay clever, and then you strike when they least expect it. That is exactly what this is. A game of chess — but for your marriage. Let’s see how much I have retained.”
Losing who I once thought was the love of my life—Beckett Ashby—not once but twice over stupid semantics had taught me more lessons than I ever wanted. And I couldn’t help drawing parallels to my mom’s story with Brad and my dad. I love my dad, I really do, but I’m not blind. Beau disagrees, but I’ve always seen that she and Brad were meant to be. They were kept apart for the dumbest reasons, for far too long. So now? I’m violently allergic to people meddling in relationships and to rules that exist just to make people miserable.
If my girl loved her husband—and she did—and she was already married to him, then she deserved her shot. And if Philippe didn’t bite? Then I’d do everything short of arson to break them up so she could find the right man, and Philippe could go fuck himself and any loose chick who would have him for all I cared. Might even get Eloise some hot-lover then. We’d see.
I knew Beckett loved me. He proved it. But he didn’t pull through when I needed him to, and that hurt in a way I still felt in my bones. I swore I’d never let that happen again—to me or to anyone I cared about. I’d had long talks with my mom over wine, and she’d given me more pointers than she realized. They came in handy when I met Luc.
Because Luc… Luc was different.
He wasn’t the boy I thought I loved at sixteen. He wasn’t a maybe or a someday or a “what if.” He was steady where Becks had wavered, intentional where Becks had hesitated, and real in a way that made everything before him feel like rehearsal. Maybe Beckett had just been puppy love after all—sweet, intense, but fragile. This wasn’t fragile. This was the real deal. I was so crazy in love with Luc, at this point, I’d legit commit murder to be with him. Not even joking. Well, maybe a little, but you get my point.
Luc was my Brad, and I had no interest in taking the scenic dad‑detour route first like my mom did. I wanted him, my Brad-version, and right away, no detours.
And I was going to save Eloise from what Brad’s first marriage had been like. He’d been so heartbroken over losing my mom that he let himself get swept into something he never truly wanted. A girl who’d fangirled over him since sophomore year caught him at his lowest, and—whether by accident or design—ended up pregnant. Brad was too honorable, too devastated, too young to see straight. His father would never have tolerated a scandal, so they married. He was barely older than I am now. Still in college. Too young, too lost, too wounded.
That marriage was awful. For years I thought his first wife was just a bitch, full stop. But as I got older—and especially after Mom made peace with her—I realized it wasn’t that simple. Sometimes circumstances twist people into versions of themselves they were never meant to be. They were both trapped in something cold and loveless for almost two decades before Brad finally had the courage to leave and marry my mom.
I’d always known Brad, but I’d never seen him the way he became after that divorce—lighter, warmer, fully himself. A real role model. Honestly, he’s the reason I survived the whole Clementine/Dominique betrayal without losing my mind. My dad would’ve punched his way through the problem, my mom would’ve blown up the entire situation, but Brad taught me something different: that calm is a weapon. That composure is power. That you don’t have to let chaos dictate who you become.
And now I was using every lesson I’d learned—from Beckett, from my parents, from Brad—to help Eloise avoid the kind of heartbreak that leaves scars you carry for years.
And that’s how it started.
I dragged her out the next afternoon — literally dragged, because Eloise had never “gone shopping” in the way I meant it. Most of her clothing was tailored by some de Villeneuve seamstress. Cool, and I am sure that seamstress could have worked wonders with the right instructions, but I didn’t need Philippe’s nose rubbed on what I was trying to do since he had to sign off on the bills – don’t get me started on that part. The seamstress could continue all this in future, after I had turned his wife into my vision.
We hit the boutiques first. Dresses that fit her like they’d been sewn onto her bones. Elegant and tasteful, but in the sense that I knew, the type that still managed to remind people of your best features. Maybe a slightly daring neckline, or just formfitting enough to make men sweat when you turned around. Silks that made her alabaster skintone glow. Colors that brought out her eyes. She kept whispering, “This is too much,” and I kept saying, “Your body is too much, girl you got some spicy curves hiding under all those gowns all the time. The hubby needs to see those. These clothes are catching up to your va-va-voom. Look at yourself and tell me that doesn’t look good, and still classy!”
She couldn’t. Cos I was right.
But the real test was yet to come.
The lingerie shop.
An upscale, velvet‑draped, soft‑lit place where everything whispered luxury.
Eloise froze in the doorway. “Briony… I can’t—” She looked around as if I was trying to drag her into a strip club dive to sell our bodies to buy drugs.
“Yes, you can,” I said, tugging her inside. “You’re married. People just assume you have sex and most people our age wear lingerie, for themselves and for their partner. You’re allowed to own things that make you feel like a goddess.”
She touched a piece of lace like it might bite her. “Scandalous!”
“Yup – and perfect. Try it,” I urged.
She reluctantly did.
And when she stepped out of the fitting room, cheeks pink, eyes wide, wrapped in something elegant and delicate and hers — she didn’t look like a ghost anymore. And she knew it. She couldn’t get enough of herself in the mirror.
She looked alive. She was starting to see herself. And to love herself.
“Eloise,” I breathed, “Philippe is going to pass out. Lucky for him his third leg will be fully extended into a kickstand.”
She covered her face with her hands, laughing. “Briony -ssshhhh! Oh my goodness, people can hear you!”
But she bought it.
She bought several.
The Refinement Phase
Back at her home — which, by the way, was stupidly beautiful, Philippe wasn’t lying when he tried to invite me before — Eloise and I practiced.
Not anything inappropriate. Just presence. Seductive movements. Eye contact. Tone. Timing. The art of being warm but not available, sweet but not eager, present but not predictable. A little flirting. A little mystery. A little “maybe I want you, maybe I don’t — figure it out, big boy.”
“Men like Philippe,” I told her, “want what they think they can’t have. So don’t be rude. Don’t be cold. Just… be a little less attainable. Keep him guessing.”
She tried. She failed. She tried again. We repeated this cycle for days. I was so invested right now as if my life depended on her getting Philippe all hot and bothered by her. I mean, that dude was such a flirt, shouldn’t be THAT hard to get him in the right mood, right?
We practiced walking into a room. Turning her head slowly. Lowering her voice. Letting silence do the heavy lifting. Smiling like she had a secret she’d never tell. Nonchalant arm movements.
She giggled through half of it, blushed and looked near collapse for the rest.
But she learned.
And every night after dinner, she’d call or text me her little report:
“I said goodnight before he did. I could feel him looking at me as I walked away. I did that hip sway! I felt perfectly scandalous.”
“I left the room first. He was utterly confused.”
“I didn’t ask him how his day was — and he asked me instead. And he looked at me while I told him.”
“He looked at me at dinner. Really looked. Started to make me nervous.”
And every night, she glowed a little more.
Eventually, I had to start talking to her about what to do if all that was working — how to drive him crazy without actually doing anything explicit. And what shocked me wasn’t her age – she was Luc’s age so quite a few years older than me – or her sweetness, or even her shyness.
It was how no one had ever taught her anything.
Not about desire. Not about being wanted. Not about how to read a man’s attention or how to hold it. Okay, fair enough. I knew some women weren’t wired like that, not seductive, sensual. All cool. But then came the moment she admitted the real truth — the one she’d been circling around for weeks.
She didn’t know what to do next.
Not like… “I’m shy.” Not like… “I’m nervous.” No. I mean she genuinely had no idea what to do with a man once the clothes came off.
I stared at her. She stared at me.
It felt like giving “the talk” to someone who somehow skipped the entire chapter of life where you learn how attraction works. And this woman already had a child.
She was eight years older than me, a year older than Luc — but I swear to God, I felt like the older sister here. The one explaining the world. The one saying, “No, honey, that’s not how men work,” while she blinked at me like I was revealing state secrets just by explaining how to stimulate her own husband. It went against every Cameron and Kershaw grain in my body. Note to self: if this was how aristocrats rolled, and Luc and I ever had kids, I’d be handling the sex‑ed talks personally. I was not about to raise wallflowers who nearly fainted at the mention of nookie. What the hell?!
“Eloise,” I said slowly, “sweetheart. You have a whole child. How did you make it if you didn’t know how?!”
She turned pink. “Well, yes, but that was… different.”
“Different how?” I demanded. “I genuinely do not understand how you arrive at a baby without—yeah, girl, I’ve got nothing here.”
She twisted her fingers together. “I just… no one ever explained anything. Not really. And Philippe knew what to do and was always so… quick. He did things and I just… laid there. And then it just… stayed that way.”
I stared at her. Hard. Probably with my mouth open. Couldn’t tell you.
It felt like I was being pranked. Was she serious? I almost understood Philippe’s complaints now — almost — but why had he never tried teaching her? Or had he, and she’d burst into tears, and he was one of those men who short‑circuited at female emotion? Good grief, this whole situation was one giant construction site.
It might’ve been hilarious in another universe, but right now I wasn’t laughing. I was furious on her behalf. This was a conversation her mother should’ve had with her years ago. And why was Philippe such a limp biscuit about his own marriage? He could complain to his best friend about it, but not actually fix anything? What the hell?!
“Okay,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Then we’re fixing this. Not the… mechanics. I’m not giving you bedroom playbooks here, no aspirations to be some sort of porn script author or whatever here. I mean, even I have my limits. But a few pointers, hints how to get his blood boiling and then knowing what to do once the panties drop, that I can teach.”
She nodded, wide‑eyed. Oh boy. I was nineteen years old and in way over my head. I mean, not like I had all the deetz on all that yet. I mean, I could tell you a few things, but 90% of me in the bedroom with Luc was going with the flow and just randomly trying out things to see if it felt good.
But this wasn’t about technique. This was about a woman who had been raised to be quiet, obedient, decorative — and who was finally learning she was allowed to be alive. How to have fun with her body – ideally by utilizing her husband’s.
And if Philippe didn’t know what to do with that?
Good. Let him sweat. I’ll get the popcorn.
I said it before, I liked Philippe, genuinely, but I also loved watching arrogant men like him squirm.
The Checkmate in Motion
I think it was maybe a week later, give or take a few days, Luc and I were having breakfast with his father and stepmother which meant the atmosphere was formal even if the food was simple. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the porcelain gleamed, and the staff moved with quiet precision.
Luc kept brushing his knee against mine under the table, pretending it was accidental. It wasn’t. And every time he did it, my pulse jumped.
The double doors opened.
A footman stepped inside, bowed, and announced:
“Her Grace, the Duchess de Villeneuve.”
Luc raised an eyebrow. His father and Geneviève exchanged startled glances.
Eloise entered.
And she looked… transformed.
Radiant. Flushed. Breathless. Like someone who had just discovered a new universe and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
She stopped short when she realized who was present.
“Oh—Your Serene Highnesses,” she gasped, dropping into a deep curtsy so fast it was almost a stumble. “Pardon—please forgive me. I know it is highly improper to interrupt your breakfast, I would never—truly, never—but I was told Lady Briony was here and I—” Her composure cracked. “—I must speak with her. At once.”
Sovereign Princess Geneviève — her aunt — blinked in elegant, startled surprise. The Sovereign Prince lifted a brow. Luc looked like he was trying not to laugh.
I shot to my feet so fast my chair scraped loudly.
“Your Serene Highnesses,” I said quickly, “may I be excused?”
Geneviève gave a small, amused nod. “Of course, my dear.”
The Sovereign Prince waved a hand. “Allez.”
Luc smirked at me like he knew exactly what was happening.
I hurried to Eloise, took her hand, and practically pulled her out of the room. The moment the doors closed behind us, we both burst into giggles that echoed down the marble hallway like we were teenagers sneaking out of class.
We didn’t stop until we reached my suite. I shut the door, and Eloise immediately pressed her hands to her cheeks.
“Briony,” she whispered, voice trembling with excitement, “it happened.”
I froze. “What happened?”
She was breathless, glowing from the inside out.
“Last night,” she said, “Philippe. He… he came to me last night. Knocked on my door, gave me a rose. He has never given me a flower, Briony, let alone a red long-stemmed rose!”
My jaw dropped. “Duuuuude – What?”
She nodded, eyes wide, overwhelmed. “And Briony… more! He … we … well, the thing you explained … it happened and I remember what you said and did all that and … oh it worked. So well! Oh Briony, I didn’t know it could feel like that. I didn’t know I could feel like that. And Philippe looked so … I don’t have the words but … very content. Passionate. Like in the films – but absolutely positively real.”
She broke off, laughing and crying at the same time. She sank down on the chaise by the window.
I sat beside her, grabbed her hands, and shook them like a madwoman. “Eloise! Oh my God! How was it?”
“It was amazing! He looked at me,” she whispered, “like he’d never seen me before. Like he wanted me. Really wanted me. I have never been looked at like that! I have never been wanted like that. I wanted to bottle up that feeling. It’s incredible!”
My heart swelled so hard it hurt.
“Eloise,” I said, my voice thick with pride, “you did that. You. You little vixen!”
She laughed, wiping her eyes with trembling fingers, cheeks flushed with a happiness I’d never seen on her before. “I am a vixen! I feel so … devious. I feel … like a … real woman. I could have never done this without you. Absolutely positively never!”
She leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Briony… you should have seen his face when he undressed me and saw that lingerie you helped me buy. I was wearing it last night. Thank goodness!” Her blush deepened, blooming all the way to her ears. “Oh, Briony, I thought he lost his mind. He has never looked at me like that before. Never. Passionate, dark, losing control. Nobody ever has. I have never seen him like that. Almost scary, but also … not scary at all, exhilarating. And I did those things you said and oh my God, I couldn’t recognize my own husband anymore! Or myself for that matter!”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to scream. “Oh my God, I bet he was thinking the same. He definitely didn’t recognize you anymore.” I giggled.
“Oh, I know. And then—” She broke off, laughing breathlessly. “He fell asleep in my bed afterwards. He didn’t leave like he used to. He stayed. With me. And when we woke up this morning… he kissed me. Really kissed me. And then he—” She pressed both hands to her cheeks, overwhelmed. “He wanted me again. Briony, that has never happened. Not even on our honeymoon.”
My jaw dropped. “What?! Are you serious, woman?!”
She nodded, half‑laughing, half‑crying. “I didn’t know it could be like that. I didn’t know he could be like that – with me. I didn’t know I could be like that! I don’t want this to end. Briony, help me make this last!”
Her joy was so pure it hit me like sunlight.
I grabbed her hands and shook them like a madwoman. “You can do this. You know how now. I gave you the tools and the pep talks. But I wasn’t in that bed with you, that was all you. You can do it again. Drive him mad and he forgets there are other women.”
We collapsed into each other, hugging, laughing, breathless with triumph — two women from different worlds, united by the same fierce hope.
And in that sunlit room, with Eloise glowing like dawn, I realized something:
Helping her wasn’t charity. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t obligation. It was friendship. Real friendship.
The kind that changes you.
She was changing.
And so was I.
Duet in Steel
A few days later I learned more news.
I had known Luc was athletic — he carried himself like someone who’d grown up training — but I had not known he was a swordsman. I know he had said something about it but I thought he was just kidding. He was not.
As I found out that morning.
We were in the palace’s exercise hall, a long, sunlit room with polished floors and mirrored walls. After breakfast Luc had offered to “show me something I had not seen yet”, which I assumed meant some Gallery or more vineyards or sightseeing or whatever. I knew it wasn’t another covert booty call because there was not an inch left on that man I hadn’t seen yet. Sorry, TMI, I know.
Anyway, he led me through the courtyard into a separate building I hadn’t been to yet, took off his shirt, and picked up a sword.
A real one. And then he moved. God help me. I swear I was drooling. I mean, for real.
He wasn’t just good — he was art. Fluid, precise, powerful. Every strike was controlled, every pivot effortless, every muscle in his back and shoulders working in perfect harmony. I stood there like an idiot, mouth open, applauding myself internally for somehow being allowed within ten feet of this prime specimen of manliness — even if we weren’t officially dating.
At one point he spun the blade, caught it behind his back, and smirked at me over his shoulder.
I nearly fainted.
“Briony,” he said, amused, “you’re staring.” As if he didn’t put on that show to MAKE me stare!
“I’m allowed,” I said. “I’m your—” I stopped. We weren’t dating. Not officially. Not in the manner that I could say it out loud. “—former classmate,” I finished weakly.
Luc laughed — that low, warm sound that made my knees weak — and handed me a practice sword.
“Come. I’ll teach you.”
I took it. Bad idea. The thing was heavier than it looked, and I nearly dropped it on my foot.
Luc moved and prevented the worst.
“Attention—!” he snapped, pure instinct, catching the blade mid‑fall with one hand and steadying my wrist with the other. “Doucement, Briony.” Careful.
He was suddenly close — too close — his chest brushing mine, his breath warm against my cheek, his hand still wrapped around my wrist as if he wasn’t entirely convinced I wouldn’t fling the sword across the room.
My brain short‑circuited.
Luc stepped behind me again, adjusting my grip, guiding my stance, his hands warm on my hips. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’re too tense.”
“Yah, I wonder why,” I muttered. “Maybe because you’re doing the whole Prince of Bellacorde meets Zorro thing while groping me in a way that shuts down my brain and I’m supposed to function like a normal human being?”
He laughed again — about to kiss me, even though he wasn’t supposed to, and then the doors opened. He snapped back and stiffened.
A footman bowed. “Your Serene Highness, His Grace the Duc de Villeneuve.”
Philippe entered.
And he looked… different.
Sharper. More alert. More alive than I’d ever seen him. His eyes flicked from Luc to me to the swords, and something like suspicion — or amusement — sparked.
“Ah,” he said, strolling in with that lazy, aristocratic swagger. “Am I interrupting?”
Luc lifted his sword in greeting. “Philippe.”
“Your Serene Highness, good morning. And to you, Mademoiselle.”
“Your Grace,” I said, dipping my head politely.
Philippe gave me a very pointed look.
Luc raised an eyebrow. “You’re early. I thought you were meeting with the Minister of Culture before coming over to annoy me with your insolence.”
“I was,” Philippe said. “But I stood the good minister up due to a sudden and mysterious illness that inflicted me, luckily, I am much better now and came here instead. I found myself… curious.”
Luc smirked. “About?”
Philippe’s gaze slid to me. “About what, exactly, you have done with my wife.”
I choked on air.
Luc burst out laughing. “Oh, something wrong with Eloise?”
Philippe crossed his arms, expression half‑accusing, half‑impressed. “You can say that again. She is glowing. Radiant. Practically floating through the halls. She dresses differently — in ways I cannot help but notice. And well—” He stopped, cleared his throat, looked away. “Let us say much about her is… different.”
Luc’s smirk deepened. “Different how?”
Philippe shot him a glare. “None of your business.”
Then he turned back to me.
“But you,” he said, pointing a finger, “you know exactly what I am talking about, and I know you are absolutely involved.”
His gaze sharpened. “That was you, wasn’t it, Mademoiselle Cameron?”
I lifted my chin, trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.
“Umm… peut‑être,” I said — then added, with my best beginner‑French confidence: “…un peu.”
Maybe a little. At least I hoped that’s what I said. Fingers crossed.
Luc snorted. Philippe blinked. I felt like a menace.
Philippe sighed dramatically. “I knew it. I knew the moment she started smiling at me like— well, like that. She changed. And it changed something—” He stopped again, flustered. “Well. You know. I know you two chickens spend a great deal of time together lately, and I know she told you things. I can hardly recognize Eloise at all. And for once I cannot even be upset. She is like an entirely new person. If I were superstitious, I’d suspect black magic.”
Luc leaned on his sword. “Briony has that effect. She’s certainly magical.”
Philippe narrowed his eyes at me. “What did you do with her? What have you told her?”
I shrugged. “I taught her confidence.”
“And lingerie,” he muttered.
Luc coughed, trying not to laugh.
“Not directly,” I said. “I just showed her what she really looks like by swapping some of that matronly crap for something appropriate for her age. Look, I know I have a lot to learn about court, but if it has to do with fashion, I learn fast. That and music are second nature to me. So I combined the way society dresses where I come from with what you all do here and — voilà — Eloise shines. She had to learn to love herself, so you can.”
Philippe ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “She certainly is… different. Bold. Mysterious. Impossible to read. I find myself thinking about her constantly. I can hardly focus. I cannot sleep if she’s not—” His eyes snapped to Luc, who looked smug. Philippe cleared his throat. “Well. I suffer some light insomnia on account of you, Mademoiselle. I—” He stopped, realizing he was confessing too much. “This is your fault.”
I grinned. “Yup. I am a disruptor. You’re welcome.”
Luc laughed so hard he had to set his sword down.
Philippe glared at both of us. “Laugh it up, my friend. I see now why it had to be her, when everyone told you it would be difficult to adjust a commoner to this life. I get it. But this one is trouble, mark my words. Aren’t you afraid it could backfire?”
“Not even a little,” Luc smirked.
“Your Grace, do you want a few pointers on how to treat your wife right?” I asked, intentionally saccharine. “Because I already upgraded her. If you want the husband glow‑up package, I can squeeze you in. Results may vary, though. Some men are… harder to modernize. And you’re giving very vintage‑1600s‑chauvi‑misogynist vibes right now. Just say the word — I’m basically a walking update patch at this point.”
There was a beat of silence.
Philippe froze. Then he made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh — the sound of a man who had just been roasted, blessed, and spiritually assaulted by a 19‑year‑old mainlander in a lavender toned Ralph Lauren dress.
Luc absolutely lost it. Even Philippe cracked a laugh.
He sighed, defeated. “You,” he pointed at me, “…you.”
Then he looked at Luc’s sword, then at mine.
“Do you mind if I join?”
Luc tossed him a practice blade. “Not at all.”
Philippe caught it effortlessly.
And suddenly I was standing between two aristocratic demigods, both armed, both gorgeous, both smirking like they knew exactly what they were doing to my blood pressure.
Luc leaned toward me. “You’re staring again. Just remember to stare at the right man, mon cœur. Jealousy is a vice of mine. We have that in common.”
“Shut up,” I whispered.
Philippe smirked. “Oh, stare away at me, Briony. I don’t mind.”
Luc: “I do!”
Philippe: “I know!”
They both laughed.
And then they sparred — fast, fierce, beautiful — and I stood there thinking:
My God. I am living in a romance novel.
Checkmate
Practice ended in a blur of steel and adrenaline. Luc and Philippe were still catching their breath, still laughing, still arguing about who cheated more to win each round. I slipped out first, grateful for the cooler corridor and the chance to stop feeling like my bones were vibrating.
I could still hear them behind me — Luc teasing, Philippe complaining about his wrist, the clatter of blades being set aside. I kept walking toward the little antechamber where the palace kept water for guests.
I filled a glass. Drank half of it. Tried to get my pulse under control.
By the time I headed back down the corridor, the hall was quiet. They must have finished putting things away. I assumed they’d gone to shower or change.
Then I passed the study.
The door was half‑open.
And I heard my name.
I stopped so fast the water in my glass sloshed.
They weren’t speaking English.
Of course they weren’t.
I slipped my phone out of my pocket, opened my translation app, and held it low at my side. The little waveform pulsed as it listened.
Philippe was pacing. I could hear the restless rhythm of his boots on the marble.
« C’est temporaire. Ça doit être temporaire. Rien d’aussi bon ne dure. » It’s temporary. It has to be temporary. Nothing that good lasts.
Luc made a low, unimpressed sound. The app translated it as: You’re spiraling. (Probably not exact, but close enough.)
« Je ne panique pas, » Philippe snapped — then immediately lowered his voice. « Je… réfléchis. » I’m not panicking. I’m… thinking.
Luc snorted. The app offered: You’re terrified. (Again, probably not exact.)
There was a long silence. Then Philippe exhaled sharply.
« Elle est différente, Luc. Eloïse… elle vit. Elle brille. Elle a confiance. Et moi— » She’s different, Luc. Eloise… she’s alive. She’s glowing. She’s confident. And I—
He stopped. Then mumbled something. The app struggled. Then spat out:
I don’t know what to do with that.
Philippe resumed pacing.
« Je n’ai jamais voulu… ça. Une femme qui me plaît. Une femme que je regarde. Une femme que je… remarque. » I never wanted… this. A wife I actually like. A wife I look at. A wife I… notice.
Luc’s tone softened. « Et alors ? » And?
Philippe laughed — short, bitter.
« Et alors je suis en train de dire à ma maîtresse de trouver quelqu’un d’autre. » And now I’m telling my mistress to find someone else.
Luc choked. The app translated his response as: You absolute disaster. (Probably not literal, but spiritually correct.)
Philippe ignored him.
« Je ne comprends pas. Je n’ai jamais voulu ma femme. Je n’ai jamais voulu… ce genre de femme. Je voulais la liberté. Le choix. Le changement. » I don’t understand. I never wanted my wife. I never wanted… this kind of woman. I wanted freedom. Choice. Change.
He stopped pacing.
« Mais maintenant… je veux elle. » But now… I want her.
Luc went silent.
Philippe groaned like he’d confessed to a crime.
« C’est ridicule. Je suis ridicule. » It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
Luc finally spoke, voice low and steady:
« Ce n’est pas humiliant. C’est humain. » It’s not humiliating. It’s human.
Philippe didn’t respond.
Luc continued — not lecturing, not sentimental, just honest in that rare way he only ever is behind closed doors:
« L’intérêt, l’admiration, l’affection… ça existe encore. Pas souvent. Pas longtemps. Mais parfois, oui. Mon père aimait ma mère. Vraiment. Et il n’a jamais été le même après sa mort. Pas avant Geneviève. Alors ne me dis pas que l’amour n’existe pas. Même pour nous. Peut‑être surtout pour nous, puisque contrairement aux hommes ordinaires, nous ne pouvons pas sortir librement et divorcer quand nous faisons un mauvais choix. Surtout dans ton cas, quand un enfant est déjà en jeu. » Interest, admiration, affection… they still exist. Not often. Not long. But sometimes, yes. My father loved my mother. Truly. And he was never the same after she died. Not until Geneviève. So don’t tell me love doesn’t exist. Even for us. Maybe especially for us, since unlike regular men, we cannot date freely and get divorced when we choose poorly. Especially in your case, when there is already a child involved.
Philippe didn’t answer.
Luc’s voice softened even more:
« Tu peux choisir. Retourner à tes habitudes… ou choisir ta femme. Elle a fait l’effort. Elle a changé. Elle essaie. Elle mérite un homme qui la voit. Qui la veut. Qui la respecte. À toi de décider si tu veux devenir cet homme‑là. » You can choose. Go back to your habits… or choose your wife. She put in the effort. She changed. She’s trying. She deserves a man who sees her. Who wants her. Who respects her. It’s up to you to decide if you want to become that man.
Another long silence.
Then Philippe whispered, quieter, almost scandalized by himself:
« Je veux qu’elle reste comme ça. Je crois que… je veux ma femme. Et peut‑être que je deviens vieux. » I want her to stay this way. I think… I want my wife. And maybe I’m getting old.
Luc didn’t let him hide behind the joke.
« Tu ne deviens pas vieux, mon frère. Tu deviens adulte. Il était temps. » You’re not getting old, brother. You’re growing up. It was time.
Philippe huffed — the sound of a man offended by the accuracy of the statement.
Then, almost too quietly for the app to catch:
« Je crois que je veux être cet homme‑là. » I think I want to be that man.
Luc let out a breath — not triumphant, not smug, just relieved.
« Alors deviens‑le. Et donne‑lui une raison de rester comme elle est maintenant. Briony et Eloïse se portent l’une l’autre. Et Briony ne la laissera jamais échouer. Si cette version d’elle te plaît… fais en sorte qu’elle ait envie de rester. » Then become him. And give her a reason to stay the way she is now. Briony and Eloise hold each other up. And Briony will never let her fail. If this version of her is the one you want… make sure she wants to stay.
I slipped away before either of them could hear the faint shift of my shoes on the marble, my pulse racing, carrying their words like a secret I wasn’t meant to hold — but would never forget.
The Crown’s Surrender
I was halfway to my suite when I heard fast footsteps behind me.
“Luc?” I turned— Too late.
He plucked the glass of water right out of my hand, handed it off to a startled footman without breaking stride, and caught my wrist.
“Luc—what the hell?” I hissed as he pulled me down a long hallway I’d never been down before.
He didn’t answer.
He pushed open a heavy carved door, tugged me inside, shut it, locked it—
And then he kissed me.
Hot, urgent, consuming.
My back hit the wall, his hands framing my face, his mouth claiming mine like he’d been holding himself together all morning and finally snapped.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, I giggled. I couldn’t help it.
“What was that for?”
“You being you.” His forehead rested against mine, his breath still uneven. “What you did for Eloise was exactly what a future Sovereign Princess would have done. You saw someone who needed guidance and nudged her—gently, respectfully—teaching her to stand on her own instead of meddling in her marriage. No judgment. No overstepping. It was perfect, Briony.”
My cheeks warmed.
“And,” he added, brushing his thumb along my jaw, “you helped my best friend. I’ve tried to guide him before, but he was unteachable. Turns out I was using the wrong angle. Not that I needed proof, but you just proved to me that you are absolutely perfect for the role I want you in.”
“Aww,” I teased, “and here I was thinking you wanted me for me.”
“You know I want you for you.” His voice dropped, rich and low. “I’ve bent and broken so many rules because of that. And I’m doing it again. Right now. This… should not be happening. C’est un scandale.”
I glanced around the room. “Yeah, scandalous… because nobody knows about us, oh I’m sure, because we’ve been so frigging covert. Where even are we? Some kind of… separate living room?”
“My suite,” he said simply. “Where you are absolutely not supposed to be. But I cannot seem to care anymore. I needed you. In private. Now.”
“So making Philippe happy gets you hot and bothered? Hmm, noted.” I smirked.
“No,” he said, stepping closer, eyes darkening. “You do. Always. But especially now. You watching me practice—had Philippe not interrupted, I would have forgotten myself. You’ve always done this to me.”
He cupped my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“I know I am… presentable,” he murmured, “but many women have looked at me and seen only the crown. The future. The power. Not the man. You have always made it clear that it is me you want — because you do not need the rest. That is… rare. And it means more than you know.”
My heart fluttered. I leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer—
And just when he leaned in to take it further, I pulled away.
His eyes narrowed, amused and dangerous.
Practicing what I preached to Eloise.
I turned toward the fireplace, running my finger along the mantle, picking up a small carved figurine. I smirked over my shoulder.
Luc stood there, arms crossed, wearing that wicked grin that said he knew exactly what I was doing.
The moment he moved, I ran.
I squealed as he caught me, lifted me effortlessly, and carried me through the doorway into the bedroom—another room tucked inside his sprawling suite—before tossing me onto his bed. He followed, kissing me, hands exploring, heat rising—
A sharp knock shattered the moment.
“QUOI?!” Luc barked, furious.
The doorknob rattled, found locked, and someone called through in rapid French—urgent, insistent.
Luc snapped back, voice clipped and royal:
« Une minute! »
More French followed—sharper, more insistent, unmistakably authoritative.
Luc’s jaw clenched. He snapped again, harsher:
« C’est bon ! J’ai dit que j’arrive ! » That’s enough! I said I’ll be right there!
He groaned, collapsing slightly on top of me.
“Luc, what is it?”
“My father wants to see me. Now.” He swore under his breath. “Putain! I am sorry, mon cœur. I have no choice. Forgive me.”
He climbed off the bed, clearly annoyed—furious, even—and disappointed. He stepped to the mirror to straighten his clothes. I joined him, smoothing his collar, brushing a wrinkle from his shirt, and gently pushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. His shoulders eased under my touch, the tension in him softening just a little.
His eyes met mine in the reflection—dark, hungry, frustrated, impossibly tender. He kissed me—quick, urgent, almost desperate—then pressed his forehead to mine.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “Whatever you do… do not leave this suite. Not the hall. Not the door. Stay here.”
His hand slid to my cheek, thumb brushing my skin as if memorizing it.
“There,” he nodded toward a side door, “is the bathroom. Draw a bath. Take your time. I will return as fast as I can. Something about a political call with some boring minister—likely to introduce me as the soon‑to‑be leader. It shouldn’t take long. But do not leave. Promise me.”
I nodded, breathless.
He hesitated—actually hesitated—at the door. His hand on the lock, his body angled toward duty, his eyes still on me.
A deep sigh escaped him.
“You drive me absolutely out of my mind,” he murmured. “And I love you all the more for it. Never change, Briony. C’est parfait—absolu.”
My heart stopped.
Then the door opened, and he slipped out. A final look—dark, hungry, frustrated, tender—and the door shut behind him.
Silence.
I stood there in the middle of a prince’s private suite, pulse racing, lips still tingling, the echo of I love you ringing in my skull like a cathedral bell.
I turned slowly toward the windows—tall, arched, spilling pale winter light across the room. The palace gardens stretched below, quiet and impossibly beautiful.
My knees felt weak.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, then to my chest, trying to hold in the feeling swelling there—too big, too bright, too much for a nineteen‑year‑old girl who had absolutely not planned on falling in love with a prince. Not since I was six and played with Barbies.
I exhaled shakily.
Then, because he offered, and because it sounded really good right now, I walked toward the bathroom to draw a bath in his private bathroom—warm water, marble, steam—and wait for the man who derailed everything in me with one whispered sentence.
EchoesOfLegacy 