Page 40 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“You mentioned it,” I reply dryly. “I’d like you to answer my question.”

“I did. You didn’t ask another one.” She clicks a few times, her eyes darting across the screen, then pauses. The fans in her laptop whir a few times before quietening, and she closes the lid before sliding it into her bag with the mouse.

“Why admit it now?” I ask.

She zips up her bag with a sigh. “Because lying about it serves no purpose. Yes, I recognised you. Of course I recognised you. You’re the Crown Prince. Everyone knows who you are. Your face is everywhere.”

A good point. One that points out how ridiculous it is that I thought she was telling the truth for even a second.

“I’d have to be blind and deaf to have a chance at not knowing,” she continues. “Not to mention I live with your darling future wife who prattles on about you every second she gets. By the way, are you moving her into the palace anytime soon? She’s driving me positively insane wondering why you aren’t calling.”

The inflection on the word ‘darling’ held a hint of disgust, and I haven’t missed the hatred that briefly flashed through her eyes when she referenced Jasmine.

Things really aren’t all rosy in the Sinclair household, it seems.

“Stop changing the subject,” I say, staring at her. “Why lie?”

She sighs. “You didn’t look as though you wanted to be recognised the first time. The second… Well, you were running from people, and I thought it might be my only chance to threaten a member of royalty without getting arrested. I’m a bit of a thrill seeker like that, you see.”

I laugh flatly, then rub my hand down my face. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Harriet.”

She blinks at me, but her face otherwise shows no emotion. “How is Her Majesty?”

“Furious,” I reply slowly. “Not at you. She’s thrilled you’re home, and I suspect you’ll hear from her soon. She wants to do whatever she can to help you.”

“That’s very kind of her.”

“I thought you might reject it.”

“Why would I reject an offer of help from the Queen?” She twirls a thick lock of hair around her finger. “She’s the only person who’s spoken of Francesca Sinclair kindly for as long as I can remember. I… can’t walk away from someone who loves her.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Is admitting that she’s your mother even too much for you?”

“I think I’ve already made my position clear.”

“But you’ll respond when I call you Harriet?”

“You could call me Blueberry Sparkle Glitter Potato Salad if you really like. Names are just that. Names. They’re—”

“An integral part of who we are. They’re a gift from those who love us most.”

She swallows. “Yes. Well. Not all gifts are blessings.”

“Are you sure?” I raise my eyebrows and lean forwards, resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands between them. “It’s been a long time, but I remember how your mother used to call your nickname with so much love.”

“What do you want, Your Royal Highness?” Her tone is sharper than before, as if my words have knocked on a door she doesn’t want to open, and her dark green eyes are full of a storm.

One that, given an opportunity, feels as though it could level a whole city.

“What do I want?” I blow out a long breath. “What do you mean?”

“You have far better things to do than sit here and question me so voraciously. That means you want something. Why don’t you just tell me what that is so we can both go about our business?”

God, she’s got so much life in her.

“I want,” I say slowly, meeting her gaze. “To know what you want.”

Surprise momentarily flashes in her eyes. “What I want?”