Page 25 of The Royal Art of Revenge

But I have nothing.

Thanks to the Sinclairs, I’m completely isolated.

Despite my bravado and willingness to burn the entire family to the ground, my means of doing so are woefully limited. Marrying Crown Prince Finley as is my childhood agreement is the most extreme, most difficult of all the options available to me.

The most satisfying.

But it isn’t necessary. It isn’t the only way—at least in the future.

After all, if I must, I’ll simply wait.

Wait until Jasmine has married him.

Wait until I have full access to what belongs to me.

Wait until I can build my own life without their interference, where I can make contact with people who can fuck them up from the inside out.

I don’t care who it hurts. Not my father, not his mistress, not his daughter, not even the Royal Family.

I just want the Sinclairs to burn.

And I know that someone, somewhere, will protect me while handing me the match to do it.

It would simply be sweeter if it were the person Jasmine fancies herself in love with.

Oh, how I dream of her expression if that were to happen.

She’s not in love with him. She’s in love with his position and the power it would give her. She’s in love with the title, the attention, the fact she’d one day be the most powerful woman in the country.

So am I.

The difference between us is that I’m happy to admit it. To his face, too.

“We’re here, miss.”

The driver’s voice pulls me out of my reverie, and I blink, sitting up straight.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, grabbing my bags. I let myself out of the taxi with my things, and the moment he pulls away, I add a tip to the total on the app and rate him.

After all, the man never said a word.

That makes for the perfect companion, if you ask me.

No sooner have I done that than a sleek black car that practically screams wealth pulls up in front of me. The back door opens, and a tall, brown-haired woman dressed in a sharp black suit steps out and eyes me.

“Hannah Porter?”

“That’s me,” I reply.

“Do you have the agreement with you?”

I pull the envelope from my bag and hand it to her. She takes it without a word, then slides the agreement out and scans each page. After a couple of minutes, she nods and pushes it back into the envelope.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to hand over your phone for security reasons. Please turn it off before doing so.”

Ah.

I hesitate, but ultimately, I turn off the device that’s still in my hand and give it to her.