Page 103 of The Royal Art of Revenge

As if I’ve summoned it, there’s a gentle knock on the door. Hattie stirs but doesn’t wake, and I rush across the room to open it before Rowan knocks again and accidentally wakes her up.

“I’ll call you later,” I say to Alec, then hang up the phone. I shove it in my pocket, and with one last glance at Harriet, step outside with Rowan, closing the door behind me. “Are they here?”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” He presses his lips together as we walk. “They’re waiting for you. Her Majesty instructed me to come and get you. Will Miss Harriet be joining you?”

“No, she’s resting. Yesterday was a lot for her, and I’m not sure this is a conversation I want her to be a part of anyway.”

“I agree. Especially after William’s behaviour yesterday.”

I can practically feel the irritation buzzing off him. Over the past couple of weeks, he’s become increasingly fond of Harriet, and I’m not even sure she realises she’s obtained two very powerful father figures in my father and Rowan.

They’ll never replace the piece of shit that is her biological father, but that’s a good thing.

If William Sinclair is the standard for a father, then nobody needs that in their life.

“Good luck,” Rowan mutters, knocking twice at the door before straightening up and opening it. “His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince.”

The weight of the impending conversation is evident the moment I step into the room. The air is thick with the myriads of emotions and things left unsaid, all of which are skin-crawlingly negative, if the way my stomach clenches is anything to go by.

This is the last place I want to be.

Jasmine is the picture of wronged innocence. Her shoulders are drooped, her lips downturned. Her eyes are wide and shiny, almost as if she’s desperately trying to hold back tears.

Tears of anger, perhaps.

Any genuine upset she may feel comes from nowhere other than pure selfishness.

I wonder if she has any idea that her little act won’t work on me or my mother.

Rosalyn is staring at the table with her hands clenched in front of her, and that’s probably the best position she can take right now. Act the demure, wronged mother, as if she hasn’t been lying through her teeth for years.

The only one actually daring to look at me is William. His bravado clearly outnumbers his brains, given how we ended our conversation last night. At least he looks suitably concerned, but I won’t be falling for it today.

I don’t need to see the future to know how this conversation will go.

“How is she?” Mum asks, her gaze momentarily softening on me.

“Sleeping.” I sit down on the sofa opposite the Sinclairs. “She ate breakfast then went back to sleep shortly after.”

William looks between us. “Is something wrong with Harriet?”

I look at him darkly. “Yes. She’s exhausted from exerting herself last night and having to deal with the emotional fallout of her father moving to raise his hand against her.”

“I—” He stops when Rosalyn puts her hand on his knee.

“William was emotional last night,” she says, looking between both me and my mother. “We all were, given the situation. I hope you can forgive him.”

“His transgression is not ours to forgive,” Mum says firmly, her eyes narrowing at the other woman. “And if he wishes to apologise, I should hope he’s capable of doing it himself, not using his wife’s words for his benefit.”

“Of course, I’ll apologise,” William says, cutting Rosalyn off before she can say another word to piss off my mother. “I was hoping to do so at this meeting, but I understand if last night was overwhelming for her.”

Do you? is what I want to ask. Do you really fucking understand?

Do you even know her at all?

“Indeed,” my mother says, crossing her legs at the ankles and reaching for her tea. “I’m sure you have questions about what has occurred. Ask away.”

William and Rosalyn share a look, and the one he gives her is almost a warning to keep her mouth shut.