Page 49 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“Mostly. She tries to avoid them wherever possible. They’re certainly not going out of their way to project a happy family unit to the household staff. From their perspective, the staff seem to really like Harriet. When they interact with her, at least.”

“They do?”

“Yes. Compared to Jasmine who, and I quote, ‘demands, demands, demands,’ she rarely asks for things. When she does, they’re always things she hasn’t been able to do by herself, and she’s always extremely grateful. She remembers their birthdays, always greets them, and thanks them whenever she can. She’ll even call Jasmine out for her treatment of staff, even if she winds up having to apologise for upsetting her.”

“She has to apologise for upsetting her for correcting bad behaviour?”

“Yes. It’s hardly the worst thing she’s been forced to do. Nine months ago, Jasmine crashed into Hugo DeLaurentis’ car, injured his girlfriend, and drove off. Harriet doesn’t have a car, so they simply forced her to be the scapegoat. She took the blame, agreed a settlement that her father oh so graciously covered, and Rosalyn forced her to hand over her licence.”

“I remember that crash. Stella was injured relatively badly, and the hit and run was quite the talk of the town. They said at the time that it was a distant relative of the Sinclairs who was responsible.”

“Yes, that’s how they refer to Harriet outside the house. A distant cousin staying with the family to build her business. Neither her name or face was ever publicly revealed, and they tried to say that distant cousin left St Peters shortly after, so it had no effect on her business.”

“Hm. What else has Jasmine done that she’s made her cover for?”

“That’s the question. Jasmine is spoilt. She gets whatever she wants and never takes responsibility, and her parents indulge her. Last week, Harriet called Jasmine on her attitude, and after William walked in and caught the tail end of their conversation, he forced her to apologise to her.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. If I remember correctly, it was something along the lines of her being ‘sorry if what I said upset you.’”

I snort. “That’s not an apology.”

“No, but William didn’t argue. It seems he tries to keep the peace more than anything. Harriet toes the line of doing what she’s told without actually doing it, if she can help it. Honestly,” he says, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s clear to see why she hates them. Her father because he replaced her and her mother; Rosalyn because she simply despises her entire existence; and Jasmine because, well.” He holds out a hand. “Self-explanatory, that one.”

“Is all of that really enough hatred to want to rip apart everything they have? Their business… I don’t know.” I scratch my chin with another sigh. “There’s something else. There has to be.”

“That’s all I know,” Alec says. “My girl is going to keep on reporting to me, so if there’s anything else you need to know, you will. Like I said, though, Harriet mostly avoids them all if she can and keeps to herself. If she has any other reasons, there’s only one person who knows them, and that’s her.”

“All right. Thank you, Alec.” I pull the USB drive out of my pocket and twist it around. The plastic is smooth against my fingers, and the act of fidgeting calms the tightening in my chest somewhat.

I thought he’d give me answers. I thought he’d be able to find out something that could help me understand her a bit more.

Instead, I feel like I know less than I did before.

CHAPTER ELEVEN – HATTIE

On day one after I visited the palace, I slept like a baby.

On day two, I didn’t sleep at all. Nightmares of the night I was kidnapped plagued me, and after my darling sister wished death upon me, my anxiety passed the mental barrier and turned physical. I could barely get out of bed. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and sometimes, I could barely even breathe.

On day three, I vomited so much that everyone was so afraid I had some kind of virus that they left me alone. I barely moved all day, instead choosing to lie in my bed and hope it would all be over soon.

On day four, I got out of the house, picked up a prescription for my anxiety medicine, and took enough that I momentarily wondered if I’d ever feel anything again. I even thought for a second that if I were a less vengeful person, I’d take so many that waking up the next morning would be impossible. Perhaps even preferable.

On day five, I watched a news report about the crown prince while editing his portraits. He’d visited a school to open their new sports pitch, and between all my little tweaks on his almost flawless photos, I watched him play football with class four of Rosenthal Primary School.

On day six, I edited some more and turned to the royal gossip podcasts. They speculated over his assumed future wedding to Jasmine Sinclair, the so-called philanthropic darling of Askurg’s upper class. They wondered if it really would happen, given that they’ve never been photographed together even at official events. They recited tips sent in and rumours heard from ‘contacts’ close to them both who assured them they were just private, very much in a relationship, that the wedding was happening.

And now, on day seven, I’m stepping off a train in Greenwood Bay having received a six-thirty a.m. text telling me two simple things.

A time and a place.

The Crown Hotel, Greenwood Bay, six-thirty p.m. Give them your name at reception.

Given my downward spiral in the last few days, getting here has been no easy feat. Not only was my father reluctant to let me ‘go to work’ and stay out overnight so soon after recovering from my alleged virus, but Rosalyn found out about my prescription and believes me to be ‘unstable.’

If only she knew just how fucking unstable I really could be, she’d lock me in her precious wine cellar.