Page 39 of The Royal Art of Revenge

That familiarity I felt whenever I looked at her makes sense now. I’ve grown up surrounded by stories and pictures of Francesca Sinclair, and aside from one or two small things, Harriet looks exactly like her. I just couldn’t place her.

The door to the room Rowan led her to is ajar, and I pause outside for a moment to peek through the gap. She’s sitting calmly on the sofa with her laptop on her thighs, and she has a small mouse resting on it. She’s clicking away, busying herself with something I can’t see, and it gives me time.

Time to look at her.

Her blonde hair is pulled to one side and cascading over her shoulder, and the wispy bits that make up her long fringe tickle the apple of her cheek as she tilts her head to the side. Her dark green, almost moss-coloured eyes are fixed firmly on the laptop screen—eyes that have shown a myriad of emotions over the past couple of hours.

What else is behind them? What other secrets is this woman hiding? Would she ever tell me, of all people, what she keeps locked away?

And why the fuck do I care so much? Is it her beauty? Am I that captivated by her looks that I would throw everything away just to find out more about her?

Is it that she’s a complete enigma to me? A mystery to be unravelled? After all, she’s someone who disappeared without a trace twenty years ago, only to reappear and cross my path seemingly by accident.

Who wouldn’t be intrigued by that?

Who wouldn’t have questions?

Who wouldn’t need to know more?

Maybe it’s both. Both her beauty and her presence.

Maybe it’s just her.

Because, fuck, there’s something about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.

That makes her dangerous. I don’t do the unknown. I do things I can control. People I can control. Everything around me has to be just so. My life is so carefully controlled that anything else is unfathomable.

There’s no room for a wildcard like Harriet Sinclair.

Yet here I am. Welcoming her into my life like her very existence won’t make it implode.

“Are you going to join me, or are you going to stand there peeping all afternoon, Your Royal Highness?”

Shit.

So much for that time.

I push open the door and slip into the room, closing it behind me. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Mm. Perhaps, next time, you should quietly slip in and not stare a hole in the side of my head, then.” She peers up from her laptop. “If you’d like, I can send you a photo of me so you can look at it to your heart’s content.”

That’s the woman I met before. Not the shy, reluctant, reserved woman who presented herself in front of my mother.

So, who is she really?

Which is the real her?

Both?

Or neither?

“Why did you lie about recognising me?” I ask, walking over to the sofa opposite her.

“Because I didn’t think anything good would come of admitting the truth,” she answers, turning back to her computer.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be honest.”

She pauses, staring at the screen. “You’re an excellent subject to take photos of; do you know that?”