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Yes, she does, and even though the shooting wasn’t my fault, guilt slices through me anyway. A footman brings me a plate identical to my father’s, and I thank him before stabbing the scrambled eggs with my fork. “How long before the press finds out she’s still here, and that she didn’t just fly over for Christmas?”
“A few months, if we’re lucky,” admits Alexander. “By then, I hope Helene will agree to announce our separation.”
“And turn my mom into the bad guy all over again?” I say, and he sighs.
“I’m afraid that can’t be helped at this point. But I promise you, I will do my very best to set the record—”
“Your Majesty.”
Both of us turn. Jenkins stands in the doorway with a tablet in his hands, and while he’s always been a master of worried looks and concerned frowns, he seems uncharacteristically apprehensive.
“Yes, Jenkins?” says my father in a voice that makes it clear he sees it, too.
“My sincerest apologies for interrupting, sir. But I’ve just received word that there’s been an article published on the Daily Sun’s site, and…” He glances down at the screen. “I believe you may want to see the accompanying photographs.”
I freeze, my heart pounding as Jenkins brings the tablet over to Alexander, who accepts it with the air of someone being handed a live snake.
“What is it this time?” I say, my mouth dry and my forkful of eggs forgotten. “Was someone taking pictures at the hospital? Were you and my mom photographed together? Did Maisie and Gia—” I stop and resist the urge to look guiltily at the footmen still in the room with us. Their relationship isn’t a secret in the family anymore, but I’m not about to out my sister to the entire damn world.
Alexander swipes the screen methodically, his expression unreadable. The passing seconds are agony as a dozen possibilities flash through my mind, each worse than the last, but eventually his hand stills, and to my shock, he starts to chuckle.
“It isn’t you or your mother or Maisie,” he says. “It seems Helene and my wayward brother were caught together in a hot tub in Switzerland.”
I gasp and scramble to his side, ignoring the protest from my healing shoulder. Sure enough, there are more than a dozen photos taken last night that show Helene and Nicholas in a private hot tub together, and there’s no mistaking their steamy kisses and intimate touches for anything short of a hot and heavy affair.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, and I look at Alexander, my eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
He laughs again, a strangely dignified sound that carries two decades of relief with it, and he hands the tablet back to Jenkins. “Well, then,” he says. “This will certainly be interesting.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past six hours, the Daily Sun has obtained pictures taken last night that show Queen Helene in a very compromising position with her brother-in-law, Prince Nicholas, the Duke of York.
While we can hardly fault the Daily Sun for posting the risqué series of exclusive photographs—we’ve been known to do so from time to time as well, after all—one must wonder if it might be considered high treason to do so of one’s beloved Queen.
After all, who can blame Her Majesty for finding comfort in the nearest pair of exceptionally handsome arms, considering the decades of turbulence and humiliation she’s suffered in her marriage to His Majesty? Not only has Queen Helene had to endure the knowledge that her husband was involved in an extramarital affair that produced a child he refused to denounce, but eighteen years later, she’s been forced to accept his illegitimate issue into her home and treat her like family—and host the King’s mistress during what should have been a private Christmas gathering.
Frankly, Her Majesty deserves a bit of fun, and we at the Regal Record congratulate Queen Helene and His Royal Highness on their affair. We very much hope this turns out better for both of them than their marriages.
For more fascinating royal relationships that might be more than they appear, click through our gallery below.
—The Regal Record, 4 January 2024
FOR ONCE, IT’S NOT MY name in the headlines, and even though I feel bad for Helene and Nicholas and the sudden white-hot scrutiny of their relationship, I can’t pretend it isn’t nice to get a break from all that attention.
What worries me, however, is the fact that the photographs were clearly taken by someone inside their private château. A member of the staff, maybe, but Alexander confirms that Helene and Nicholas brought their own personnel with them—all of whom have known about their affair for ages. Which means that if there is a mole, it’s someone in the royal party. And while I can’t pinpoint a motive, the part of my mind that’s fixated on Ben tries to come up with a way that he could be responsible for leaking this, too.
I text Maisie twice that morning, but she doesn’t respond. By the time noon rolls around, I’m on the verge of actually calling her when the protection officer now stationed outside my room—a no-nonsense woman in her thirties named Ingrid Straw—informs me that Her Royal Highness has returned to Windsor.
I pause just long enough to scribble a note for Kit, who’s showering in his own suite, before I sprint down the long gallery. I’m at my sister’s door fifteen seconds later, my shoulder aching and my lungs burning, and taking a deep breath, I knock with all the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb, not entirely sure what I’ll find on the other side.
Silence. I scowl.
“Maisie, it’s me,” I call through the thick wood, glancing atthe burly protection officer standing outside her room—a development I’m sure she’s as thrilled with as I am. “I know you’re in there. You can’t text me nonstop and then decide to ignore mewhen—”
The door flies open, and a hand reaches through the crack, grabbing my good arm and yanking me through the tight space. As soon as I’m inside Maisie’s apartment, which is easily twice the size of mine, the door slams shut behind me, and my sister faces me with a mixture of annoyance, fury, and very real fear mingling on her features.
“I can’t believe Daddy’s allowing someone to stalk me all bloody day,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about the protection officer.
