Page 145 of The Unlikely Pair

The Serjeant-at-Arms, the official guardian of the Commons, walks slowly to open it.

There stands the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, dressed in his traditional black-and-gold uniform, holding the black rod. He comes into the Commons Chamber.

“Mr. Speaker, the Queen commands this Honourable House”—he nods to both sides of the Chamber—“to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.”

The Speaker stands in his ceremonial robes and makes his way to follow the Black Rod, the prime minister falling into place behind them, with Harry, as leader of the opposition, at her side.

There’s the usual jostle from MPs to get a place in the procession because if you’re left at the back, you often don’t even make it inside the House of Lords.

Seemingly out of respect for me and what I’ve recently been through, a path seems to clear for me to be among the cabinet ministers, and I join the procession near the front.

Harry’s blond head is only a few feet ahead of me, and my eyes remain fixed on Harry’s back. The distance between us feels both minuscule and vast.

Watching him, memories of his touch, his lips on mine, the way our bodies fit together come rushing back, threatening to overwhelm me.

And that’s when it happens. He glances back over his shoulder and catches my eye. For a brief second, his eyes crinkle in a secret smile. It’s a glimmer of the Harry I know.

You’re still there. You still exist.

And I still want you so much.

The realization knocks my breath away. I still want Harry. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

And I don’t know how to stop wanting him.

Fuck. I thought I could leave it all behind. I thought all those confusing and overwhelming feelings for Harry were simply a matter of circumstance, arising out of being stuck together and having to rely on each other.

That theory has well and truly proved to be flawed.

As we make our way through the ornate corridors and halls of the Palace of Westminster, my mind is a whirlwind.

I’ve participated in this ceremony for so many years and never thought deeply about it. But having now experienced anattempted kidnapping, still assumed to be by people intent on disrupting our democracy, it takes on special meaning.

Democracy is a fragile thing. As Harry and I discussed in the wilderness, it is imperfect. But it is still better than the alternatives.

Every nation does it slightly differently. And the fact we’ve managed to blend both a monarchy and a democracy is a curious thing, a paradox that embraces tradition and progress.

Members of the House of Commons arrive at the Bar of the House of Lords, standing shoulder to shoulder as we face the throne. Queen Katharine sits there, resplendent in the Imperial State Crown and robe of state, with Prince Callum on the throne beside her. Oliver, as the Prince Consort, stands to the right. I can’t help flicking my gaze to him. He used to attend the State Opening of Parliament as the prime minister. Now, he’s here purely as a ceremonial role.

The Lords Chamber is fancier than the Commons Chamber, the stained-glass windows offering a kaleidoscope of colors, their intricate designs telling stories from British history. The room is filled with grandeur, from the elaborately carved wooden screens to the soaring arches.

Harry is two rows in front of me, standing side by side with Prime Minister Rosalia Norsman, his back ramrod straight, his attention focused on the throne.

The Lord Chancellor hands Queen Katharine the speech. As she reads the government’s agenda for the coming year, I try to focus on her words. But my gaze keeps drifting to Harry, the way the light glints off his hair.

I know Harry will be listening intently to the Queen’s speech because it’s his job as leader of the opposition to provide the first critique of the government policies she’s outlining.

It’s a good reminder that Harry and I belong to different teams now.

When the Queen finishes speaking, the Lord Chancellor retrieves the speech using a velvet cushion and the royal procession departs. Then, it’s the MPs’ turn to leave. Harry and the prime minister lead the procession back to the Commons Chamber.

It’s more informal now, everyone chattering as we head back.

I’m surrounded by Labour MPs. Harry is surrounded by Tory MPs. The brief moment of unity that came with the Opening of Parliament has passed. Now we’re all preparing to do battle in the debate that’s about to happen.

When I was in the wilderness, all I wanted was to return to real life.

But what is real life? Is this actually real life? The pomp and ceremony of the ancient rituals, the political scheming, and the constant jockeying for influence and control? Is this more real than Harry and me in a cabin in Finland?