Page 24 of The Royal Art of Revenge

I swallow back the annoyance bubbling up inside my throat and give him my best effort at a smile. “Thank you.”

Before another word can be said, I escape the choking tension of the kitchen and rush through the house. I open the front door and scoot outside without encountering anyone else, and the moment it shuts behind me, I scoff.

No wonder the man thinks Jasmine is practically perfect.

He’s as dumb as they come.

Thank God he has a head for business, because it’s really all he has going for him.

I shake my head and walk through the front gardens. They’re completely foreign to me, nothing like the blooming, gorgeous space I remember from my childhood. Rosalyn ripped out everything my mother loved the moment she married my father, and that included her beloved gardens.

Now, despite the numerous blooms, I can’t help but hate it. Hate how the flowers are all in the wrong places, all the wrong colours, all mixed with the wrong greenery. Hate how it’s all just… wrong.

Like that whole house. The curtains, the rugs, the cushions, even the very tile in the kitchen.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

My taxi pulls up outside the gates, and I let myself out through the smaller side one. I lock it behind me and get into the back seat of the taxi, give the driver my destination, and settle back to look out of the window.

I’m not a fool.

I know exactly what kind of photos Crown Prince Finley wants me to take today—formal portraits to be released to the public. At least, I’ll be taking the portraits. I have no control over whether they’ll be released to the public, and I have to say, I don’t much care either way.

What I care about is the location.

The secrecy leads me to believe he’s having me taken to the Royal Palace. Even though it’s the one place I’m desperate to go, I feel sick. What happens when I get in there? What are my chances of seeing the Queen, the one person who would likely recognise me with a mere glance?

I will never get this opportunity again. It’s truly an act of God that it’s even a possibility I can consider right now, and lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. The chance to enter the palace under the name Hannah Porter won’t swing my way a second time.

But once I’m in there, nothing is guaranteed. I did some high-profile portraits before I moved back to Askurg, and I know how it goes. I’ll be escorted by security from the moment I step foot into the waiting vehicle. I won’t even be able to use the bathroom without someone waiting outside.

Slipping away in the hope of seeing Her Majesty is impossible.

There’s only one other option: once Crown Prince Finley has admitted who he really is, I can do the same. I can tell him my true name.

If only it were that simple. If only telling the truth wouldn’t blow up my entire life in a way I can’t afford.

I signed a contract. An iron-clad, airtight, unbreakable contract. I cannot say the words, “My name is Harriet Sinclair,” or any variation of them, or I forfeit my trust fund. Without it, I have nothing—no safety net, no monthly stipend, no means of hiring legal assistance. I also won’t have the Sinclair name, as to reveal my identity before the agreed upon time means I willingly walk away and disinherit myself.

Which my father knows.

That’s exactly why he made me sign it.

I don’t even know if it’s legal. Not that it matters. When this amount of money is involved, legality is a small matter. A mild inconvenience. Something to be swept under the rug.

And God only knows how corrupt the upper echelons of Askurian society are.

That’s why I need someone to recognise me. Someone to look at me and see my mother.

Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile.

Something.

Anything.

My resemblance to her is my only hope.

I sigh, drawing a glance from the driver, but he turns his attention back to the road without saying anything. Maybe this would be easier if I were smarter. If I had any idea how to manipulate my way into seeing the Queen. If I had friendships or connections that could help push me in front of her.