Chapter 2
By the time Louis reached Pacific Hall, his mother was waiting under the east portico with the expression of someone who had already rehearsed her disappointment. Judith Collins stood beneath the white stone overhang with one glove removed and folded neatly in her left hand. In the garden light she looked indecently young for a woman with a grown son old enough to be mistaken for her younger brother—blonde hair swept back, pale eyes steady, the softness of her face sharpened by the fact that she was angry. She wore a black sequin dress and high heels that tapped against the marble as Louis stepped out of the car.
“Where were you?” she asked, as if the night were a private affair between them.
“Vesper Row.” Louis kissed her cheek, then leaned back, smiling easily. “With a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“The kind that isn’t invited to the reception tonight.”
Judith sighed, stepping away from the entrance. “Your father has guests. Important guests. And you are late.”
Louis fell into step beside her, his hands in his pockets, unbothered. “I wasn’t planning to be here. I’m not in the government.”
“Of course you are. You’re his son. That’s the only qualification that matters.” She glanced at him, her mouth pressed into something that was almost a smile. “And you look like you spent the night crawling through bars.”
“I did,” Louis said brightly. “It was a good one.”
“Get dressed.” She stopped at the door to the residential wing, the guards moving aside without a word. “And for the sake of appearances, try not to smell like a nightclub.”
Louis saluted her lazily and disappeared into his room. It was exactly as he had left it—expensive, immaculate, impersonal. The bed was made. The mirrors were clean. The closet was a seamless wall of dark suits, soft shirts, and shoes that had never seen rain. He peeled off the jacket , threw it onto the bed, and headed for the shower. The water turned on the moment he stepped in, hot and steady, and he stood under it with his eyes closed, letting the noise of the night dissolve into steam.
When he came out, a valet was already waiting with a pressed shirt and a suit that fit like it had been tailored ten minutes ago. Louis let himself be dressed, barely paying attention, until the valet stepped back and nodded. Louis caught his reflection in the mirror—blond hair forced back into order, blue eyes still carrying too much night, a face too pretty to look innocent once the family name was placed around it. He looked like exactly what he was: the well-fed, well-dressed heir to a dynasty that had won.
“Good enough,” he said, and the valet bowed slightly and left. As the door opened, Serana slipped in. Her face still had the clear softness of childhood, pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair combed too neatly for any ordinary girl her age; but the way she watched Louis was too sharp.
“The reception started twenty minutes ago,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Louis raised an eyebrow. “Are you my shadow now?”
“I’m your sister. And Mom sent me to make sure you weren’t going to embarrass us.”
He laughed, adjusting his cuffs. “Did she think I’d show up naked?”
“I think she was more concerned you wouldn’t show up at all.”
He smiled at her. “And you? What did you think?”
“I think you are a spoiled brat,” Serana said. “And you only do what you want, even when you should care about the big picture. Uncle Philip is here. Dad wants him to be close to us. This is important.”
“Philip has been close to us for years. You talk about him like he’s some visiting dignitary.” Louis moved toward the door. “I’ll behave. Don’t worry.”
“Behave like you are a Collins.” Serana walked beside him as they headed toward the grand hall. “Not like some bar prince.”
“I’ll try,” Louis said. “But no promises.”
They passed through the private corridor into the heart of Pacific Hall. The ballroom had been built before the Dominion even existed, a remnant of the old California State House, expanded under Constantine’s vision into something both beautiful and intimidating. White stone rose into dark panels of imperial purple, each one edged in muted gold. The chandeliers were warm and heavy, casting soft light over a floor packed with the kind of people who arrived in armored cars and private jets.
Constantine Collins stood at the center of it all, a figure impossible to overlook. He looked too young for the amount of power gathered around him. His face still had the clean symmetry the cameras had loved long before he ruled anything, blue eyes bright under the ballroom lights, brown hair and sideburns perfectly cut. He wore a white double-breasted jacket, the violet-and-gold Dominion pin bright on his lapel. Philip Bourbon stood beside him in black evening dress. Silver at the temples, white waistcoat, composed severity. Another Dominion pin rested on his chest, marking him as more than a friend.
Constantine saw Louis. His smile changed by one degree.
“Louis,” he called, raising his glass. “Good of you to join us.”
Louis moved through the crowd, accepting smiles and bows like they were inevitable. He stopped in front of his father, who clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, voice low. “You’re late.”
“I had business,” Louis said, just as quietly. “Someone was misbehaving in our capital.”
“Ah.” Constantine’s eyes glinted. “I trust you handled it.”
“Of course.” Louis glanced at Philip Bourbon, who was watching him with polite interest. “Congratulations, Philip. I didn’t think you’d accept the job.”
Philip inclined his head. “I didn’t expect your father to offer it.”
“Don’t be modest.” Constantine chuckled, his hand still on Louis’s shoulder. “Philip has been running half my diplomatic back channels for years. I’m just making it official.”
“It is an honor,” Philip said smoothly. “Especially in a time of uncertainty. The world has become less predictable than ever.”
“That’s why we need good people.” Constantine turned, addressing the crowd with the effortless ease of a man who had never been nervous in his life. “Ladies, gentlemen. A toast. To His Majesty, King Philip Bourbon of Navarre. The new Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Dominion of the Pacific.”
The applause was immediate, warm, and just a little too enthusiastic. Louis raised his glass along with everyone else, sipped, and let his eyes wander over the room. There were old Hollywood faces, tech moguls, university presidents, generals in civilian suits, and diplomats from countries that had once been part of a union that no longer existed. He lasted seven minutes before boredom began to itch under his skin. He excused himself with a nod to his father, moved through the crowd, and slipped to the bar at the far end of the hall, where a server stood resetting glasses on a mirrored tray. She was young, dark-haired, and striking in the clean, bright way certain faces became under event lighting. Her attention was on her work. Louis leaned against the bar beside her and watched.
“You’re very efficient,” he said.
She looked up at him, startled, and then recognized him. Her cheeks colored faintly.
“Oh my, Mr. Collins,” she said, smiling. “What can I get you?”
He rested one elbow on the bar and watched her hands move among the bottles. Her wrists were neat and pale against the black of her uniform. Up close she was prettier than he had realized.
“What do you think I should be drinking?” he asked, his voice casual, curious.
“That depends, handsome.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to look important or do you want to enjoy yourself?”
He laughed. “I’m always important.”
She smiled, reaching for a bottle of bourbon. “Then you can afford to enjoy the drink.”
She poured with steady hands, the glass catching the light, and when she passed it to him, her fingers brushed his. “Thank you,” he said, and took a slow sip.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” She turned back to her tray.
Louis was just about to answer when a movement to his right caught his eye. Someone had come to the bar and stopped three places down from him. He turned his head slightly and saw dark curls, loose around a face with the quiet weariness of someone who had already spent too long smiling at important people.
“A cocktail,” she said to the bartender. “Something dry. Nothing sweet.”
Louis watched her. Her skin was warm and sun-touched, and her eyes were dark enough to make the ballroom light seem shallow. She had a straight, composed gaze, full lips held just short of softness, and the kind of stillness that made people unconsciously quiet around her. He thought he remembered her—something old and half-buried stirred at once in his memory.
It was not her name that returned first. It was wet grass.
A fenced field in Oregon. A sour spring sky. The small chestnut pony with the bad temper and the white blaze down its nose. Louis, years younger, deciding within minutes of arriving that anything belonging to the Bourbons could probably be made to belong to him for a while. He had climbed up without asking, dug in his heels, and lasted perhaps ten seconds before the animal had thrown him into the mud.
He remembered the shock of the ground. The pain in his arm. The humiliation of hearing someone laugh. Then her, standing at the fence in riding boots, younger than he was and somehow already looking at him as if she found him both ridiculous and tiresome.
That’s my pony, she had said.
He had glared up at her with grass stuck to his sleeve and mud on his cheek. She had taken the reins from his hand and walked away, leaving him in the dirt with all the broken ego.
The Angelique in his memory had been a furious girl with no patience for fools. The woman at the bar was harder to look away from. The old impatience was still there, but it had grown quieter, settling into her posture and the cool way she watched the room.
Another bartender set Angelique’s cocktail in front of her. She took a sip and seemed to come slightly back to life, then, as if she had sensed the weight of his attention, she turned and looked at him. For one suspended second they simply held each other’s gaze. He saw the exact moment recognition moved across her face. The slight narrowing of her eyes. The tilt of her chin. Then the cool composure returning over it, tighter now, edged with curiosity.
Louis smiled. He set his glass down, gave the server a soft murmur of apology, and moved along the bar toward Angelique. When he reached the empty space beside her, he leaned in, close enough that the noise of the crowd no longer reached them.
“Does your pony still kick people?”
Her lips curved into something that was almost amused.
“Yes,” she said. “He just doesn’t let guests steal him anymore.”
Louis laughed, real amusement loosening something in his chest. “I wasn’t stealing. I was borrowing.”
“If you fall off something, it’s not a borrowing.” She looked him over, once, deliberately, from the shoes to the face, and nodded. “You look better than you did covered in mud.”
He leaned a little against the bar. “That’s the advantage of being older. You learn how to stay upright.”
She studied him again, and this time something in her expression softened by a fraction.
“Louis,” she said, as if trying out his name after years of not using it.
“Angelique.” He said her name with the same small smile. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” His eyes flicked briefly to her dress. “You don’t seem to be in the mood for celebrating.”
She took another drink, then set the glass down. “I think one Bourbon in the spotlight is enough for one evening.”
He tilted his head. “Your father doesn’t look uncomfortable with it.”
“That’s my father,” she said, with a faint edge. “I inherited the less political parts of the family.”
Louis smiled. “That makes two of us.”
She let out a short laugh. “I doubt that.”
They fell into a comfortable pause, the noise of the ballroom around them distant and unimportant. Then the tranquility broke as a voice behind them said, “Angelique.”
The change in her was immediate. The softness that had begun to gather at the edge of her mouth vanished, and her posture returned to the room before her eyes did.
Louis turned.
Malcolm Lancaster, the son of the Minister of Finance, stood a few feet behind him with a glass in one hand and a smile arranged with surgical care. He was Louis’s age. Tall, clean, pale-eyed, handsome in the polished way of boys raised by important families. His hair was neatly combed, his jacket immaculate, his tie set exactly where it belonged.
His eyes touched Louis, with the exact degree of respect owed to a man whose father could end a ministerial career before breakfast.
“Louis.”
“Malcolm,” Louis said.
Malcolm smiled as if they had been friends for years. “I didn’t realize you were attending tonight. Angelique and I assumed you would find the formal part of the evening intolerable.”
“Clearly I have been misjudged.” Louis’s voice was light.
“So I see.” Malcolm glanced once toward Angelique. “You always leave after the second toast, I thought I’d find you here.”
She gave him a calm, cool smile. “I didn’t know I was so predictable.”
“Only to me.” Malcolm’s tone made it sound like a compliment. His smile warmed by one careful degree. “May I get you another drink?”
“Thank you, Malcolm,” she said. “You are very considerate.”
“Anything for you.” He glanced to the bartender and raised a hand to signal for a refill, then looked back at Angelique with the air of someone who knew exactly what she liked. “No orange peel,” he told the bartender. “She hates it.”
The bartender nodded.
Louis watched the exchange with the calm detachment of a man who had seen far more interesting performances. Malcolm turned back to Angelique with a satisfied expression. She met his gaze with perfect composure.
“You spoil me,” she said softly.
“I try.” He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough to seem private. “You look tired.”
She gave a small shrug. “It has been a long week.”
“Perhaps we could take a break from the noise.” He nodded toward the terrace doors. “There’s a garden walk outside. It’s quiet.”
She hesitated. Then her eyes flicked to Louis, a quick, assessing glance, before returning to Malcolm. “That would be nice.”
Malcolm extended his hand. Angelique took the drink first, then allowed him to take her elbow. They moved away together, disappearing into the crowd toward the terrace.
Louis lifted his glass and took another sip. The bourbon had gone flat in his mouth.
