Page 19 of The Royal Art of Revenge

Dad simply holds up a hand and walks out, leaving us both staring silently after him.

What the fuck was that about?

Oscar’s right. He does. My father looks like he’s seen a ghost.

And not just any ghost.

More like a poltergeist.

“He recognised her,” Oscar says the moment the door clicks shut, jerking his head around to look at me. “Did you see how white he went?”

“Yes.” I stare at the closed door. “Why wouldn’t he say that, though?”

Oscar shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.” He pulls my laptop back towards him. “I don’t know her at all. How could he? Didn’t you ask your mum and dad?”

“No, Mum’s been busy the last few days. I haven’t seen her,” I explain. “And it never crossed my mind that Dad might know.”

Oscar frowns, but it’s an expression he swiftly straightens when my mother walks into the room. “Aunt Bea,” he says, bowing his head.

“If you’re going to bow, at least address me properly, you scoundrel.” Mum smiles at him, then looks over at me. “Your father tells me you’ve found someone you’d like to take your birthday portraits, and I need to take a look. You’re cutting it a bit fine, son.”

“Yeah. I met her by chance, but her work is incredible. I thought spotlighting an up-and-coming photographer for my thirtieth would be a good idea,” I answer, giving her the same line I just gave my father.

“Mm. You have been championing entrepreneurial groups recently, so that would make sense. Who is it?”

“Her name is Hannah Porter,” Oscar says for me, holding onto the laptop.

Mum raises her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of her. Does she have a portfolio? Has she been doing it long? Photographed anyone notable?”

Oscar’s eyes flitter over to me.

I wave my hand, and he turns the computer screen towards her.

“Her website is—” Mum stops, and just like what happened to Dad, recognition flitters across her face. Except her reaction is much more violent. All the colour drains from her face, leaving her deathly pale. She takes an unsteady step backwards, and Oscar jumps to his feet, grabbing her arm to stop her staggering.

She knows her.

Who the fuck is this woman that she’s rendered my mother—The Queen—speechless?

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her like this. When her best friend’s daughter went missing; when her best friend died shortly after; and when the republican faction attacked the palace twenty-two years ago and I temporarily went missing.

“Oh.” Mum brings a shaky hand to her mouth. “What… What did you say her name was?”

“Hannah Porter,” I reply hesitantly.

“And you met her recently?”

“Last week. By chance. She was in the park with her camera and Michael thought she was photographing me,” I explain. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Did she recognise you?”

“No, but I met her again two days ago in Greenwood Bay, and I think she was lying.”

Her bright blue gaze snaps to me. “She knew who you were?”

“She didn’t say. It’s a feeling.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Honestly, I really do admire her work, but I also feel as though we’ve met before. I cannot place her.”

Mum rests her hand on her chest and looks back at the photo. “Do you think she would come if you contact her?”