Page 22 of The Royal Art of Revenge

You undercharge for your talents.

From: Hannah Porter ([email protected])

To: Flynn ([email protected])

Subject: re: Services Required

I haven’t taken your photos yet. For all you know, you could look like an ogre in them.

If that’s all, I’ll await the signed contract.

Your driver can collect me from outside the KLS building on St Peter’s Square at 8:30am, if that’s enough time.

From: Flynn ([email protected])

To: Hannah Porter ([email protected])

Subject: re: Services Required

Making me look like an ogre would be a talent in itself, Miss Porter.

The contract is attached. My driver will be there at 8:15, if you could make it. They’ll know who you are, so don’t worry.

From: Hannah Porter ([email protected])

To: Flynn ([email protected])

Subject: re: Services Required

I’m getting in an unknown car to be taken to an unknown location to take unknown photographs of a gentleman I’ve met twice.

Why on Earth would I be worried?

CHAPTER FIVE – HATTIE

“Where are you going?”

I pull my matcha latte from the fridge and look over at Jasmine. “To attend my weekly tap-dancing class with the gnomes in Troy Forest. Where else?”

She huffs and walks over, reaching over me to grab the milk. “You’ve been secretive lately.”

“Aw, Jas, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”

“I don’t. I wish you’d just leave.” She hands the milk to one of the housemaids. “Get my breakfast. Eggs and toast. Maybe some sausage.”

“Yes, Miss Sinclair,” the housemaid replies softly, almost dropping the milk.

I snort. “Is making toast and eggs above you now, Your Future Royal Highness? Even saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ is too much for you?”

Jasmine glares at me. “Why do you care?”

“Because not everyone is a rude piece of shit like you,” I snap. “Saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are the most basic of manners. Toddlers do it, even ones that can’t form entire sentences yet. The least you can do is use those same manners to the people you boss around like you’re queen of the world.”

“I will be one day. Of this country, at least.” She sits down and fixes me with a dark look. “You should remember that.”

“Ah, but you aren’t yet,” I remind her, silently passing the eggs to the housemaid with a quick smile. “And believe me, if that ever happens, I will be nowhere near this poor country. God only knows how you’ll ruin it.”

“Good morning,” Dad says, strolling into the kitchen. “Oh, Amelia, are you making some breakfast?”