Page 3 of The Royal Art of Revenge

I am so, so close to the moment I can rip the Sinclair family façade to shreds with my own two hands.

I take a deep breath and leave the birds to their concert outside. Some of us must earn a living around here, so I busy myself by going through my morning routine. A fifteen-minute yoga session to wake up my muscles and work out any sleep-induced kinks, a hot shower where I dream of revenge and freshly baked pastries, and I finish off by turning myself from a sluggish, wet mess into a respectable member of adult society.

By the time I make my way downstairs, my stomach is already churning. The sound of my stepmother and half-sister’s voices titter out from the kitchen, and I brace myself before I get any closer.

Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.

It’s the only way to describe the way they sound to me. Nails on a chalkboard, needles in my eyes, daggers piercing my skin…

Pick your poison.

“A little over a month?” Jasmine, my half-sister, says somewhat forlornly. “Mum…”

I pause outside the door, hovering to the side of the doorframe, just out of their view. What’s the little princess whinging about today? A new necklace not arriving on time? A pair of shoes being out of stock?

My stepmother, Rosalyn, reaches across the table and lays her hand on top of Jasmine’s. “Patience, darling. We’ve always known the engagement would be announced on Prince Finley’s thirtieth birthday. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But Harriet—”

“Knows better than to use the Sinclair name. She’s still going by Hannah Porter, as she promised she would. Besides, she has no standing in Askurg. Nobody would believe her if she claimed to be the long-lost daughter.”

Which is exactly why I haven’t told anyone.

Yet.

There’s one person who’ll believe me… Or at least care enough to not dismiss me. Someone who’ll hopefully see the resemblance between me and her oldest friend and demand an investigation into my claims.

Reaching her is the problem.

Especially since these rotten, lying motherfuckers won’t let me go anywhere near the Royal Palace, lest my existence destroy their carefully laid plans.

After all, I can see how the discovery of the legitimate eldest daughter of the Sinclairs would ruin Jasmine’s chances of becoming Crown Princess.

As if the position belongs to her in the first place.

As if the engagement is hers.

As if Crown Prince Finley was always destined to be her husband, as if she was always meant to one day be Queen.

I smirk, tucking my chin into my chest.

If Jasmine hates me now, she’s going to really wish I were dead soon.

She will not be the fiancée announced at that birthday banquet.

She will not be the future Crown Princess.

It’s the only thing left in my life I can stop them stealing, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure her dreams shatter at her feet. I’ll go to Hell and back if it means making my presence known to the Askurg Royal Family.

Crown Prince Finley—and his crown—belong to me.

He’s mine.

No matter what.

“Mum, you have to make sure she doesn’t. She looks just like her mother. If Queen Beatrix sees her, she’s going to ask questions,” Jasmine replies, her slightly whiny tone belying her true fear. “If she orders a paternity test—”

“The queen has better things to do than chase after the ghost of her dead friend’s missing child, much less order a DNA test for a random woman,” Rosalyn interrupts her. “With the birthday banquet and the announcement of the Crown Prince’s engagement, combined with the wedding planned for six months’ after, it won’t matter.”