Incoming.

Cursing, I leaped out of bed.

Emma groaned and rolled over. "What time is—"

"My parents are on their way," I practically grunted as I yanked on a pair of trousers.

Emma bolted upright, her hair practically standing on end. By the time we had returned to the flat last night, the two of us had barely enough energy to take off our clothes let alone have a shower. Whatever products Trisha had doused Emma's hair with must have been construction grade for her bedhead seemed to defy gravity. "When?"

"Now, love." I shoved my arms through my sleeves and yanked the shirt on over my head. "I'll go make coffee."

Emma rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, further smudging her eye makeup. "I don't understand. What's happening?"

I forced myself to take a deep breath and slow down.

Of course she has no idea what's happening, I chided myself. You made sure she was prepared to attend the PM's dinner, but you never prepared her for the shitstorm that would inevitably come after. Git.

I perched myself on her side of our bed and gently tucked a wild lock of hair behind her ears. "In a few minutes, my folks are going to come barging through the door."

Her wide eyes blinked at me. "Why?"

"To yell at us," I said simply.

Emma shook her head. "But why, Tom?"

I sighed, not knowing where to begin explaining it to her. "Check your phone. I'll start the coffee."

"But—"

"Check your phone," I repeated before planting a kiss on her temple and striding toward the kitchen.

By the time I returned with the two steaming mugs, Emma was leaning back against the headboard with her hair pulled back into a messy bun and her phone cradled in both her hands.

"Derik kept his promise," was all she muttered as I set the coffee down on the bedside table.

I lifted my eyebrows in agreement as I checked my watch.

He certainly had. The photo of us together had gone viral overnight, as had Emma's quote.

The second I read her words, I knew I had been wrong—Emma's dress was not the only thing Cynthia would approve of, though she may never admit it. My sister would, however, make sure Emma's words became the foundation's new unofficial tagline:

Legacy Works helps people—whoever they are, wherever they are. Simple as that.

It was gold so far as my sister was concerned: short and catchy, on brand, and from the mouth of an (unwittingly) up-and-coming influencer to boot.

"They seem really mad," Emma whispered as she dragged her finger across her phone's screen to scroll down.

"Christ, Ems, don't read the comments!" I tried to grab her phone but she held on firmly.

"I should know what they're saying about me!" She rounded.

"No," I countered as I held up her coffee for her to take. "You shouldn't. They're just a bunch of trolls."

She accepted the mug, but still held fast to her phone. "They're not all trolls. Some of them are reporters... genuine reporters, and they're talking about... me."

They were. Just as I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I came across dozens of articles featuring Emma. Admittedly, half were fashion pieces focusing on her gown and predicting its symbolic significance. The other half, however, were political pieces debating the merits of her comments and her right to voice them.

I inhaled deeply, steadying my own rising temper.

"Ems..." I started hesitantly. "We need to talk about what's about to happen. You see—"

Suddenly a pounding at the front door cut me off. I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath. I heard Emma's phone drop with a soft thud on the bed before feeling her hand take mine in a gentle squeeze.

"We're on the right side of this," she whispered quickly. "And we're on it together."

I opened my eyes then and took in the intensity of her gaze. I leaned down and kissed her thoroughly as another round of pounding started up.

Begrudgingly, I pulled away with a groan. "They'll just use their key if I don't open it."

Emma nodded. "I'll change and be out in a moment."

I kissed her once more, took a deep steadying breath, and braced myself for the coming onslaught.

* * *

When Charlie and I borrowed the family plane without explicit permission. Or perhaps, the time we were photographed with a high-class call girl.

I nodded to myself, recalling the look of my mother's pale fury and the angry booming of my father's voice. Yes, that was it.

That was the last time I could recall them being this angry with me. At least this was for a good cause—not that supporting Charlie hadn't been, though my methods had been admittedly questionable.

My eyes flicked up as Emma silently slipped from the bedroom and crept over to where I was leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Morning," she murmured as she slipped past my parents ranting in the living room.

My father at least managed to keep an air of civility in his tone. "Good morning, Emma."

Mum, however, did not.

"What were you thinking?" She rounded.

Emma's eyes doubled in size. "I..."

Dad waved her off. "Not you, dear. Of course, you had no idea what you were doing."

I covered Emma's hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeezed, silently telling her not to correct him.

My mother opened her mouth, but I cut her off.

"Before you start in, Cynthia had nothing to do with last night—and neither did Charlie," I added in for good measure. "I take full responsibility."

"Responsibility," my mother seethed, "is not the description I would associate with last night."

I said nothing so she steamed ahead. "A political gathering, Thomas? Really? And don't you dare try and tell me this was some serendipitous accident when you're shaking hands with MPs and Emma is photographed with the Prime Minister's wife and giving bloody interviews!"

"Derik—H-he was an old friend," Emma bravely cut in. "I didn't think—"

"He's a part of the press, and so long as you're part of this family you'll think of them as the enemy."

Emma flinched at the serrated edge of my mother's tone.

"Mum!" I exclaimed indignantly as I tightened my grip on Emma's hand.

"Is that how you saw me when Tom and I first stepped out together?" Emma asked barely above a whisper.

My mother laughed cruelly. "We all know what I saw when the two of you stepped out—"

"That's enough!" I shouted, pulling Emma's hand behind me as I stepped in front of her.

"Don't you ever speak to her that way again," I growled.

My father stepped between us then.

"Alright," he called with his hands raised in the air as if approaching a wild animal. "Now everyone just calm down."

"I-I'm sorry," Emma stammered from behind me. "I-I didn't realize—"

"Don't apologize," I told her through gritted teeth.

Emma said nothing more but squeezed my hand tightly.

"Don't tell her what to do!" Mum suddenly snapped. "Especially when you—"

"Alright!" Dad called again, louder and more forcefully this time. "I said, everyone calm down."

He looked pointedly between my mother and I, as if daring one of us to test him. Neither of us did.

The flat was silent though thick with tension vibrating through the air.

After several moments, my father took an audibly deep breath and then smiled kindly toward Emma.

"It was an accident," he stated with renewed calm. "Emma didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know... our family's peculiar limitations when it comes to politics."

He glanced at me pointedly, silently laying the fault for that glaring omission at my feet, before softening his gaze toward Emma again.

"Emma dear, from now on, it'd be best if you didn't speak to the press. Even off the record, just till this... drama all dies down."

"She isn't beholden to the gag rule."

My father closed his eyes and let out a short breath, clearly losing his dwindling patience. "Thomas—"

Still, I doubled down. "She isn't. It's in our contract."

"Tom!" Emma hissed from beside me.

My father blinked. "What contract?"

Mum nearly exploded then, her eyes wide with pent up rage. "Your contract—"

"Is a legally binding agreement," I continued, giving Emma's hand a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed back. Hard. "And in it, it states very clearly—"

Dad glanced between Emma and I and then turned to my mother. "What bloody contract?"

My mother's eyes narrowed as they locked on mine. "Do tell us all, Thomas, what exactly this contract entails."

"I-it's a cohabitation agreement—nothing more!" Emma practically squeaked as she stepped beside me. "I swear."

I could feel my mother's fury emanating off her in waves.

Not only had I made myself a liar, her glare seemed to say, but with my secrets I'd now made Emma one too.

My father's face flushed red as he blustered. "And who's idea—"

"Mine," I said quickly before Emma could say anymore.

After our disastrous tea, I knew Cynthia had worked some sort of miracle to convince Mum to welcome Emma to dinner with open arms. But I also knew just as surely that my parents were both fond of Emma, and I had a feeling they would grow more than fond with her the more they got to know her—if they would be willing to get to know her after the stunt we pulled.

Yesterday afternoon, accepting the invitation to the Prime Minister's dinner seemed like a risk worth taking for the long-term benefit of the foundation. But now, in the blaring light of the morning, I realized I hadn't considered the long-term risks to Emma or our relationship. And while I loved my work, it was Emma—not Legacy Works—I dreamed of growing old with.

I felt Emma beside me take a breath to speak, and on instinct I knew what she'd say. She'd repeat what she'd declare earlier in her whispered yet sure tones: We were on the right side of this. And we were on it together.

I closed my eyes, unable to let her do it. She didn't know what she was getting herself into because I hadn't told her. Because in trying to protect the foundation, I'd miserably failed her.

"All of this—including attending dinner—was my idea." I rushed in. "Emma only went along with it to support me."

When I opened my eyes, I found Emma glowering up at me, my mother rolling her eyes in disbelief, and my father dragging his hand over his face clearly exhausted.

"Your intentions are honorable, Thomas," he conceded after a heavy sigh. "But you must know, you can't save the world."

"But I can make a start," I said quietly feeling like a small boy again in the face of my father's disapproval.

"Leave it to others," he muttered before sighing again and turning to Mum. "Come on, Eliza. We've said our piece."

By the still raging glint to my mother's eyes, I knew she'd barely even begun.

Still, she nodded stiffly before following him toward the door. She hesitated there for a moment, and then turned on her short heel and gave one more command.

"You at least tell her about the Gag Rule. Or I will."

Perhaps it was a threat.