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“I’m not a royal, either,” I point out, setting the record down.
“You’re my daughter. That’s good enough,” he says firmly. “And should you want it, I could—I would—issue a letters patent to style you Her Royal Highness The Princess Evangeline.”
For a split second, the room seems to tip sideways as the weight of his words settles over me. A princess. He wants to make me an actual princess, and when I suck in a stunned breath, I damn near choke.
“That,” I wheeze, “is an excellent way to start an uprising and end the British monarchy for good.”
He chuckles, even though absolutely none of this is funny. “Yes, well. You’re worth it.”
This is almost sweet of him, minus the threat of anarchy, and I take a sip of my cooling hot cocoa to ease the sudden block of ice in my stomach. “Are you only offering because I almost died?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Though I suppose the whole incident did help…clarify a few things for me. And it certainly made me see that you deserve far better than what I’ve offered.”
I shrug. “You’ve given me a family. I don’t need titles or jewels or—or all the rest of it. Besides, it really would cause a riot, and Maisie would literally murder me if she never got to be queen.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” says Alexander, who doesn’t sound the least bit surprised.
“Absolutely, unequivocally, emphatically no,” I say. “I’m not really into the whole princess thing anyway.”
He laughs again, a quiet rumble that only carries between us. “And being a working royal? Is that something you’d be interested in? You’d receive a generous allowance, and you’re already doing the majority of the work, with the appearances you’ve been making with Maisie and me. Your education would take top priority, of course, and you may step back whenever you’d like. But you could do a great deal of good for many people, and the country would be lucky to have you.”
That last part is bullshit, but I study him for a moment. “What does my mom think?”
“Your mother is incredibly proud of you no matter what, and she wouldn’t dream of taking away your choice in the matter,” he says. “But I’m certain she would feel infinitely better if you had the protection that comes with the job. We both would.”
“You could just hire private security for me, too,” I say, even though the thought of being followed around all the time makes my skin crawl.
“I could,” he says slowly, “and I will, if you decide this isn’t for you. But if you’ll excuse my candor…I’m sick of the media acting like you mean less to me because your mother and I aren’t married. It’s absurd. You’re every bit as important to me as your sister, and if you won’t accept a title, then this is what I have to offer instead. An official place in this business we call a family.”
I toy with a loose thread on my sling. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m sick of it, too. I’m sick of my legitimacy—or lack thereof—being brought up in every article. I’m sick of being sneered at by royalists and media commentators who’ve never met me. And I am really, really sick of everyone treating me and my mother like something disgusting Alexander stepped in and now can’t get rid of.
“Do I get paid time off?” I say at last. “And what are the benefits like? I can’t agree unless I know what kind of pension and health-care plan you’re offering.”
This time he laughs loud enough for my mom to stir beneath her quilt, and we immediately fall silent again until she stills. “All excellent, I assure you,” he teases in a whisper. “I’ve no doubt we can come to a satisfying arrangement.”
“Then I suppose I could consider your offer,” I say. “As long as Maisie isn’t my boss.”
“Not for a very long time.” He leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “I have one more gift for you.”
Alexander stands and fetches the jacket of his tuxedo, which he’s long since discarded. He pulls a small package from the inner pocket, and as he sits back down, he offers it to me.
“What is it?” I say suspiciously, already tucking the slim box between my knees and untying the gold ribbon with my good hand.
“A necessity,” he says. “One you can’t turn down this time, I’m afraid.”
As I rip away the rest of the wrapping and see the logo, I groan. “Seriously?”
“You need a mobile, Evie,” says Alexander. “If Kit hadn’t brought his yesterday, you would have bled to death. You don’t need to use it, but you do need to have it on you—charged—at all times.”
“But I’ll already have protection officers,” I say. “Isn’t this overkill?”
“No,” he says simply. “It’s not.”
Even though I’ve used plenty of smartphones before, I listen closely as he shows me how it works. This one has a few features I’m pretty sure don’t come standard, including a tracking app that can’t be turned off, and after my father has me repeat the sequence to trigger my panic button—two short presses of the volume keys, followed by a lengthier one—he seems to breathe a little easier.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says. “Our family leads a complicated life of service to this country, but it can be good, too. If you let it.”
“It already is,” I promise, briefly taking his hand. “Are you going to stay?”
