Page 29 of The Royal Art of Revenge

And I have met a lot of photogenic men.

I don’t think Crown Prince Finley takes a bad photo. Even in the one where he’s scratching his nose, he’s smiling as the sun’s rays filter in through the window, almost as if the sun itself is blessing him.

I take photo after photo of him. He’s such an easy subject to work with, and he knows all the cues as if he’s done this a thousand times before. He probably has, the more that I think about it, but he’d give professional models a run for their money.

He’s sickeningly perfect.

And I can’t help but realise this is the Crown Prince.

This is the man I told myself I could marry.

The man I thought I could convince to marry me.

If there wasn’t an agreement between our families, would he ever look at Jasmine as a wife? Never mind me. Legitimacy aside, she was raised to be his wife.

And I…

Well.

I was raised a million miles away from any of this. While she took etiquette and riding lessons in expensive clothes, I was desperately trying to survive, to prove my worth, to show I was worthy of being kept and educated and not sold.

And now, I doubt.

I doubt I can do this.

Doubt I can marry this almost ethereal, untouchable man before me. Doubt I can convince him I’m worth a chance, even if that’s what I’m good at.

Proving myself. Proving my worth. Proving I can be accepted.

Looking at him… he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s the one person I could never talk into believing that a chance is all I need.

“Look at the camera,” I say, positioning myself just right.

He does.

He looks right at me with those bright blue eyes that could enrapture an entire nation, and a smile crosses his face. A big, broad smile that’s the polar opposite of every expression he’s made during the last hour.

For a moment, I can almost kid myself into believing that it’s for me.

That he sees beyond the camera, beyond the bravado, into who I really am.

Just for a moment, though. One so fleeting I don’t even know why I acknowledged it.

Because there’s no way he did. Nobody has ever seen past the camera.

There isn’t a single person alive who knows who Harriet Sinclair truly is.

And here, in this room full of people, I’m reminded of just how lonely I truly am.

I swallow, lowering the camera, and avert my eyes. “I think we have enough for now. I’ll load them onto my laptop quickly for review, and if there are any that you’d like to retake or any we’ve missed, we can get that done.”

Something flashes across Crown Prince Finley’s expression—a tinge of uncertainty that I catch out of the corner of my eye as I turn away.

I hope to God I’ve nailed this. If I have, it means I can leave.

Because this place? The Royal Palace, the one place I’ve wanted to be since I arrived back in Askurg, now feels suffocating.

This isn’t a place for me. How could I ever have considered that he’d marry me? The little no-name girl who was kidnapped twenty years ago and fought for her life doesn’t belong amongst this exquisite, timeless wealth.