Page 7 of The Royal Art of Revenge

Small wins.

I tug my jacket a little tighter around me and begin the walk to the exit of the park. The one furthest away, of course, and I’m taking the long route. Anything to delay the inevitable.

I take photos as I walk. Some of the sky, some of the trees, and some of my general surroundings. People-watching is one of the best things about what I do, and the park is filled with people.

Couples walk hand in hand, talking and laughing. Groups of teenagers joke and mess around, taunting one another playfully. Children giggle and scream while parents try to wrangle them, and on the other end of the spectrum, they carry their exhausted little ones, holding them close.

People in suits getting off work hurry along with their phones pressed to their ears. Others meander along, soaking in the surroundings.

And I photograph them all, close enough to see their activities, but far enough away that they’ll always be anonymous.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I jolt and turn in the direction of the voice. A large man who looks to be in his forties peers down at me sternly, and I take a step back.

“Me?” I ask.

“Yes. May I see your camera?”

I clutch it tightly. “I think not.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. You were—”

“You can insist all you like, sir, but my answer will remain the same,” I reply. “Certainly until you can offer a good reason for your request. Or are you in the habit of intimidating lone young women in parks?”

He blinks at me, slightly taken aback. “You’re mistaken, miss. I’m merely protecting the—”

“Leave it, Michael.” Another, more familiar voice filters through the air, and I take another step back. “She was nowhere near us.”

“But, Your—” The man, Michael, coughs. “Sir. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“Excuse me, miss. I’m so sorry about him. He was being a bit overzealous.” The owner of the voice steps out from behind the behemoth demanding access to my camera, and something, somewhere deep inside me, sparks to life.

His dark brown hair is parted at the side with the wavy locks swept over in a dreamy style that complements his chiselled face to perfect. His eyes, the brightest, most vibrant blue I’ve ever seen, are fixed kindly on me, and the smile his pink lips are curved into is both polite and apologetic.

He doesn’t offer his name.

He doesn’t need to.

His is a face I’ve seen a million times in my memories—although in those, he’s twenty-something years younger than today with chubbier cheeks and a missing front tooth.

But today’s face, the one standing obliviously before me, is one I’ve only ever seen on television or plastered on newspaper front pages.

Crown Prince Finley of Askurg.

My future husband.

What a pleasure it is to meet you, Your Royal Highness.

How kind of his overzealous bodyguard to approach me like this.

He’s officially forgiven, not that I can say that out loud.

“Miss?” He repeats. “Damn it, Michael. You’ve scared her.”

Michael balks, his face paling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

I wave a hand. “You did spook me a little, but don’t worry about it. I’m still not giving you my camera.” I glance at Crown Prince Finley. “Although, I can see why you’d need to protect a man who looks like that.”