Page 8 of The Royal Art of Revenge

Crown Prince Finley coughs into his hand, briefly turning away, and I swear his cheeks get a little pink.

“You… Don’t know who he is?” Michael asks me.

I make a show of looking between them both. “Should I? Oh, I don’t mean to be rude,” I add quickly. “I’m relatively new to the city, that’s all. Did I take a photo of someone I shouldn’t? I wasn’t close enough to anyone for them to be recognisable, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Michael opens his mouth to reply, but Crown Prince Finley beats him to it. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what I told him to begin with,” he replies. “And no, I’m nobody special.”

Just the future king.

Not special at all.

“Are you sure? Your hitman over here looks shocked at that.”

He snorts. “Hitman? He’s just a bodyguard.” The crown prince waves his hand dismissively.

“So, you are someone important?”

“Depends on your definition of the word.” He smiles warmly. “Where are you going? Can we escort you anywhere now it’s getting dark? Consider it my apology.”

I’m about to reject his offer out of instinct, but I swallow the words that were on my tongue.

Yes. Yes, he can escort me.

The more time I spend with him, the better.

The universe has made our paths cross, and I would be a fool if I let this go. I also can’t say outright, ‘Hey, I’m Harriet Sinclair, your formerly betrothed. Can we grab a drink and chat about my bitch of a sister and how you should actually marry me instead of her?’

One, someone might hear.

Two, he’d probably think I’m completely crazy.

“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “I’m heading to George Street to grab some dinner, if it’s not out of your way.”

“Of course not. We were going that way ourselves,” Crown Prince Finley says, clearly lying as he ignores Michael’s silent protest. “What were you taking pictures of?”

“Just the park,” I reply, looking down at my camera as I fall into step beside him. “I enjoy photographing the mundane.”

“Interesting. Is it just a hobby?”

“The mundane part is. People don’t pay for that.” I smile wryly, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I usually do portrait photography. Family sessions, maternity, newborns, stuff like that. I also specialise in professional headshots.”

“Really? Do you have a studio?”

“Regrettably, no, but there are short-term rentals, so it’s not a problem. I’m hoping to eventually get my own space, but like I said, I haven’t been here long.”

Even if two years feels like a lifetime, given the living situation.

“Hmm.” He tilts his head to the side. “Professional headshots, you say? For models and the like?”

“For just about anything,” I answer. “I just shot some photos for company ID card today, but next week, I have a shoot booked for headshots for young twins breaking into acting.”

We arrive at the corner of George Street, and he comes to a stop. “Interesting. Do you have a card, by any chance?”

Michael grits his teeth. “Your—sir.”

“Ignore him,” Prince Finley says. “A card?”

“Oh, yes.” I dig in my bag and pull out my business card holder, then pass him one.