I had been right, the dress Trisha had picked for the gala was black. A deep black, in fact, that hugged my curves, dramatically accentuating them. A ring of silk roses clustered along the gown's off-the-shoulder neckline, and the brilliant color of the petals vibrantly juxtaposed against the velvety darkness of the gown's bodice. I was adorned with little other jewelry—save the ring Tom had given me—and my hair had been tamed into a sleek-looking French twist.

I folded and unfolded my hands in my lap in an effort to stop myself from fussing with my hair and inadvertently ruining it. Trisha had spent more than an hour on it, and I would be racked with guilt if I caused somehow destroyed the product of all her herculean efforts.

My chest inflated with a mixture of pride and adoration as I looked over the tuxedo-clad men sitting opposite me. My smile faltered, however, when I noticed Youssef tugging at his stiff collar.

"You're sure about this?" I asked for what must have been the hundredth time that evening.

"There'll be no going back after this," Tom murmured from the seat beside him.

Youssef smiled patiently and responded with a solemn nod. "I know the risks of what I am doing, Emma, and I know they're worth it if it means convincing those of influence in Britain to help people like me, like my family."

"You're very brave," Tom said. From the tone of his voice, I could tell the compliment was sincere. The corner of my lips tugged upwards.

Youssef rejected Tom's endorsement with a curt shake of his head. "They can't hurt me anymore. And it's thanks to your government."

"Our government," I cut in.

Youssef signed. "I haven't received my official UK citizenship yet, but when I do... yes it'll be our government."

I leaned forward and stole his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. "Thank you for doing this."

The previous afternoon, while sitting with Matilda in her parlour, I had been lamenting the gag rule and its increasingly tight muzzle on what I was and was not permitted to say and to who I was or was not permitted to say it. It felt as if I were being torn in two, presented with Sophie's Choice and cruelly forced to pick one life over another: one with Tom but without my independence, or one with my voice in tact but my heart aching without him.

Over the last several months, I'd finally begun to feel the chords of my voice coming back to me after so many years of neglect and now to imagine myself willingly giving it all up as it was just now returning to me...

Throughout all of my internal struggling over our future, my love for Tom had never come in to question. Though I'd never said the words so explicitly to him, there was no doubt in my mind that I was unconditionally in love with him and would be for the rest of my life.

The only resounding question was how to make that unconditional love work within the confining conditions of his title and all that came with it. It would be impossible for him and I to have our cake and eat it too. Something—or more precisely someone—would have to give. And since I would never and could never ask it of Tom to give up his life and his family, I would have to ask it of myself.

But would I be able to do it? After coming so far, would I be able to sacrifice my voice and my opinions to simply differ to those of others in authority?

Sitting there on Matilda's settee, fully embracing self-pity, I was suddenly struck by two life-altering realizations. The first was how utterly narcissistic I had become. It was not my precious voice that needed to be heard, and with that realization came the second, the solution to my entirely self-imagined dilemma: I didn't need to speak, I needed to pass the mic.

Youssef grinned toothily. "Anything for a friend..." he said before smirking in Tom's direction. "And for the bloke who nearly punched me in the middle of the street."

Tom opened his mouth, seemingly to defend himself, but then closed it in surrender. "Yeah, that's fair."

My back stiffened into a near rod as the car smoothly rolled to a stop. "We're here," I announced more to myself than the rest of the car.

Tom offered me a reassuring nod, which I returned before directing the rest of my attention on Youssef. He had turned paler somehow with his hands balled into tight fists in his lap. I shifted in my seat so that I could lean across and cover his hands in my own. At the contact of our skin, his eyes met mine and his panic-stricken irises immediately began to soften.

"The lights from the flash will be obnoxiously bright," I told him, my voice low and steady. "Still, try not to squint. One of us will be by your side the whole night, and if you ever want to leave or stop giving interviews—"

"My publicist would have my neck," he managed to tease. He hesitated a moment and glanced between Tom and I. "You'll stay with me?"

"The whole night," I assured him. "I promise."

With Youssef's nod, Tom tapped the screen to signal for the chauffer to open the door.

* * *

The lights weren't just bright—they were blinding. The press galley was thrumming with strobes and hardly recognizable shouts. Cynthia had warned me that tonight's media coverage would be insane given the prestige of the gala, but even this seemed extraordinary.

"Remember your promise," I vaguely heard Youssef mutter from my left.

"Don't squint and try to smile naturally," I reminded him as I looped my hands through his and Tom's bent arms.

I inhaled a deep breath as I felt the breakneck clicking of shutters accelerating my own heartbeat. We posed for several seconds in front of the car, and then an aide directed us toward the next photo spot.

I stood on the tape-marked X on the floor with Tom and Youssef flanking me on each side. At one point, I glanced up to check on Youssef and smiled as I noticed a calm veneer had fallen over the broad features of his face.

After a minute, the aide shuffled over to us again. "And now one just with Miss Henderson."

The pressure of Tom's hand on my lower back fell away, but I shook my head resolutely as I clasped each of their hands tightly.

"No, we're in this together."

"The society magazines will be disappointed," Youssef teased.

"Then you better give them a devastatingly impactful quote," I quipped back as I grinned triumphantly at the wall of flashing lights and anonymous shouting voices.

❤️❤️❤️