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“I don’t think I’ve really changed,” I say at last, keeping my voice mild as I avoid his stare and feign interest in my bracelet instead. There are only two charms on it—a music note that was a gift from a classmate, and a tiny tiara that Kit gave me formy birthday—and I roll the latter between my fingers. “I’m still me.”
“And I’m still me, underneath the politics and the workouts and the curated wardrobe,” says Thaddeus. “But we can’t let the public know that, can we, Your Royal Highness?”
No, we can’t. I let the tiara charm drop, more shaken than I want to admit that someone I met five minutes ago understands part of my life better than I do. “I’m not a princess,” I say, grasping onto this instead of letting myself linger on the rest. “Didn’t your handler tell you that?”
“But you’re the King’s daughter,” he says, as if this somehow supersedes a thousand years of history and royal protocol.
“Illegitimate,” I point out. “I’m a mutt in a family of purebreds, and I definitely don’t have a title.”
Thaddeus blinks. “Well, that’s rude.”
I let out a breathy laugh, because no one has actually said that before, even though it’s probably true. I don’t care about the title, not really—but I can’t pretend not to care about the respect and legitimacy that would come with it. And that is not a conversation I want to have with anyone, let alone Thaddeus Park.
“You know,” he says slowly, “princess or not, you and I could send the internet into a feeding frenzy, if we wanted to.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think we already have.”
He shrugs. “That picture’s too formal to be a showstopper. But if I post a selfie of us together, maybe of you kissing me on the cheek…”
He leans in closer, and even though it’s probably an innocent move, my skin crawls as I jerk away, and every muscle in my body tenses, ready to bolt. My panic must show on my face, because Thaddeus straightens instantly, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping.
“Shit, I—that was creepy, I’m sorry,” he says, and to his credit, he sounds genuinely contrite. “I just meant, you know…a cute picture. We could make finger hearts or funny faces. Something like that. Nothing suggestive or—I know you have a boyfriend, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I think Evangeline has had enough photographs of her taken tonight,” says a voice from the doorway, and relief rushes through me as I look up to see Tibby standing there, hands on her hips and her expression deadly.
“Right,” says Thaddeus sheepishly, and I’m on my feet before he can even shift his weight. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. But that’s not completely his fault. Jasper Cunningham is the real reason for my racing pulse, and why I’ll never again feel safe with a boy I don’t fully trust. “We’re not allowed to take selfies in the royal residences anyway. It’s a security thing.”
“Oh.” His face falls, and I’m halfway to Tibby by the time he stands. “It was truly an honor to meet you, Evangeline. If you’re ever in the US and want to see the White House library…”
“I’ll look you up,” I say, even though I have absolutely no intention of doing so. As I reach Tibby, however, something tugs at me—some long-ingrained irrational need to make sure he, a stranger I’ll probably never see again, doesn’t feel bad about how this went. Or maybe the small connection we made is stronger than I think it is. And so, despite having every reason to march out of here without so much as a goodbye, I glance over my shoulder and add, “Maybe we can take that selfie there.”
His grin returns, and Tibby loops her arm in mine as we disappear into the maze that is Windsor Castle.
CHAPTER THREE
@thaddeusapark Living it up like royalty at Windsor Castle tonight. Huge thanks to Their Majesties King Alexander and Queen Helene, Her Royal Highness Princess Mary, and my very special new expat friend…
—Instagram user @thaddeusapark, below a selfie of Thaddeus Park in a tuxedo, the background dark and indistinct, and his left thumb and pointer finger pressed together to make a finger heart, 18 December 2023
“THADDEUS IS USING YOU, YOU know,” says Tibby as we cross an empty state room with red fabric walls. Though it isn’t dusty, it looks like it hasn’t been used in years, and our footsteps sound hollow against the thin carpet.
“I sort of worked that out for myself,” I say as she pulls on the frame of a giant ornate mirror, which swings open to reveal another lavish state room—this one with green walls, gilded furniture, and massive portraits hanging in gold frames. “Thanks for jumping in back there. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do.”
“He wouldn’t have tried anything,” she says, even though she can’t possibly be certain. “He’s the son of the American president, and surely someone’s taught him manners. But you have ten times the number of followers he does, and he clearly wanted a candid photo to boost his own profile. May I have my mobile back now?”
I hand it over, even though I’m still hopeful Kit might call again. “Is it always going to be like this? Is everyone I meet going to want something from me?”
“Yes,” says Tibby, and the word sinks to the pit of my stomach like a brick. “You might get lucky and meet the rare individual who’s interested in you as a person, or who believes you can’t offer them anything they don’t already have, but most people are always going to want something from you. You simply have to be careful who you trust.”
I sigh inwardly. A year ago, no one knew who I was, and only a handful of my classmates even bothered to talk to me on a semi-regular basis. Now millions of people follow an Instagram account I don’t even personally use, and based on the endless sea of comments I saw the one and only time I explored Tibby’s handiwork, a disconcerting number seem to think this means they know exactly who I am. And the thought of so many strangers having a fully formed opinion of me still makes me break out in a cold sweat.
We step into an area I recognize now—the antechamber to the Windsor throne room. I can hear the faint murmur of voices filtering in from the Waterloo Chamber beyond, and I stop beside a bust of one of the Georges. “Do I have to go back to the party? I have a headache, and I lost my shoes hours ago.”
“Your shoes are on their way to the royal cobbler, where they’ll either be fixed or burned to ash. I haven’t decided yet. But you’ve done your time tonight,” adds Tibby, angling away from the crowded ballroom and instead leading me toward the secret passageway into the throne room. “As long as you sit still long enough for a picture while the jeweler removes your tiara, we can return to your apartment now.”
The throne room isn’t completely empty, but I only have to smile and say a few words before we escape into the Grand Reception Room and the more restricted areas of Windsor Castle beyond. It’s a relief to be away from all those curious stares, and I drop my aching shoulders as we head back toward the private apartments.
