Page 32 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“So, a complete coincidence, then? How fascinating. Was that here in Askurg?”

“No,” I reply slowly. “I was raised overseas.”

“Fascinating. Whereabouts?”

She’s trying to get the truth.

How can I give her just enough that she can deduce it? How do I tell her everything without saying anything? Is it even possible?

God, how has this even happened? Half an hour ago, I was lamenting how silly all my ideas of marrying into the royal household are. Yet here I am, having tea with the Queen and Crown Prince.

This is everything I’ve dreamt about since I stepped foot back in this country.

This is my chance.

Can I really throw it away just because of some petty feelings I carry around? Would I be feeling so inadequate and unworthy if the man I was chasing wasn’t the future king?

No.

I know my worth. I know I’m not useless or worthless. Just because my traumas get the better of me sometimes doesn’t change that truth.

I have to do this. I must find a way to tell the Queen who I really am… if she doesn’t already know.

Surely, she suspects it. It’s the only reason I’m here. After all, I recognise her—and from the one photo I have of my mother, I know I resemble her.

I have her hair. Her eyes. Her jaw.

In fact, take away our noses, and we would be twins.

I just… owe this to her. For everything that was taken from us. For the life she and I never got to live together.

“Southeast Asia.” I smile. “I travelled through Europe once I became an adult and ended up back in Askurg where I was born. Thankfully, a family member was willing to let me stay with them, and I’ve been building my business here ever since.”

“Here in St Peters?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Isn’t that interesting, Finn?” she asks, turning to her son.

He smiles at her. “Indeed. I didn’t know that.”

She sips her tea as if I’ve just recited a story worthy of being passed down generations, not a minor fabrication of the truth.

Neither of them speak again for a moment, and I quickly glance at Rowan. He’s standing staunchly at Her Majesty’s side. His expression is completely flat as he stares ahead, as if he’s merely here to listen and remember rather than contribute anything worthwhile to the conversation.

“I have to say, I was very interested in meeting you, Hannah,” the Queen says after a few moments of that horrid silence. “I’ve been begging Finn to choose a photographer and get his portraits done for months, but he always claims to be too busy. Then the two of you happen to meet, and he has you here before I can blink. Tell me—how did you charm my son?”

I sputter on my tea, and the cup clinks against the saucer as I put it down. I reach for a napkin and gently pat away the bit I accidentally spat down onto my chin. “I wouldn’t say I charmed him, Your Majesty. More that he felt bad for his bodyguard frightening me.”

She sighs. “That’s a shame. Did you know he’s single?”

“Mother!” Crown Prince Finley flattens his hands on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Making conversation,” she replies brightly. “Are you single, Hannah?”

The crown prince stares at me, as if he’s warning me not to answer.

“Um, technically speaking, yes,” I reply. “But I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.”