Page 1 of The Royal Art of Revenge

CHAPTER ONE – HATTIE

I still remember the day I was kidnapped.

To this day, nothing has been as terrifying. It still cripples me sometimes—the fuzzy memories of darkness, of not knowing, of wondering who those people were and where they were taking me.

I remember how I whispered to myself that Daddy would find me because he’d never let anyone take me away. That Mummy would move heaven and earth to find me and bring me home. That if they failed, the Askurg Royal Family would do everything in their power and then some to bring the future crown princess home.

I remember how I sat in the darkness with my eyes covered and limbs bound in nothing but the dress I’d been wearing. How they’d taken my stuffed rabbit so I couldn’t throw it out to leave it as a trail.

How a rough, smoky voice had cackled in my young ear about how much money I was worth.

How I, at the tender age of seven, was taunted about how I would never see my family again.

Sometimes, I can still smell the stale cigarette smoke and brandy that clung to my kidnappers.

And sometimes, I wake up curled into a tight ball, cradling my head in my hands so nobody can hurt me again.

Like now.

My heart pounds in my chest, pumping adrenaline through my body. An impending panic attack darkens my peripheral vision, and I uncurl my head from my arms and choose a spot to focus on.

The clock.

The movement of the hands.

The steady rhythm as they make their way around the face.

I inhale.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Hold the breath.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Exhale.

I repeat this several times, holding each stage of the breath for a count of four. The clock’s hands tick over, helping me keep count, an unknowing ally in my war against my own mind.

I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m at home—as much of a home as this accursed place can be to me.

But they can’t hurt me here. Those people, the ones who took my hand and promised to help me find my parents, who bound my hands, covered my eyes, gagged me, and stole my life from me... They can’t hurt me here.

I unclench my fists and draw in a deep, controlled breath. I let it out in the same slow, steady manner, and force my eyes open. Sunlight edges in through the tiniest gaps in the curtains, and I blink as I adjust to today’s reality.

I’m in my bedroom.

The closest thing I have to ‘home’ here, in this monstrous building filled with its nauseating displays of wealth.

And it makes me sick.

Every inch of this vile mansion, from the bricks in the walls to the gaudy golden chandeliers hanging in every room, the parquet floors and panelled walls, makes me want to throw up.

Just like it has from the moment I stepped foot back into this vile place two years ago.

The fact I wake up and fall asleep here every day is soul-crushing. It’s always the same old bullshit. My father’s hesitance to show too me too much care and attention, my stepmother’s hatred hidden behind her welcoming smile, my half-sister’s nauseating innocent act... Then me, the good, obedient daughter grateful for having been accepted back into this powerful yet dysfunctional family.

As far as my father is concerned.