Page 91 of The Royal Art of Revenge

We make our way down the stairs together, his steady grip of my hand about the only thing stopping my shaky legs from giving out. The Queen and Prince Louis are standing next to my family, and of the three of them, my father is the only one who has regained some kind of control over himself.

We reach the bottom step, and together, we lower before the Queen. Finn into a low bow and me into a deep curtsey. When we rise, the first thing I see is Her Majesty’s face—bright, happy, yet with eyes full of mischief.

“Well, William,” she says, resting her hand softly against her chest. “Your daughter will make a beautiful Crown Princess for our country, don’t you think?”

Ha.

Oh, she’s good.

There’s only one option my father can choose here. He must acknowledge me and admit to all these people that I’m his daughter.

Rosalyn shoots him a dark glare, and I’m sure Jasmine would do the same if she could do anything other than think about herself for five minutes.

To his credit, William Sinclair falls into line for the first time in a very long time. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he finally says, inclining his head in my direction and looking at me with an inscrutable gaze. “She most certainly will.”

I can act, too, Daddy dearest.

“Thank you,” I say, dipping my chin, keeping my voice soft but just loud enough for those around us to hear. “For all the support you’ve given me over the last two years since I returned home.”

Rosalyn winces, and I quickly glance at her arm. Jasmine’s nails are firmly entrenched in her skin, and both are turning an unflattering shade of puce.

But I don’t care.

What’s your response, Father, dear?

My father swallows, plastering a deceptively bright smile on his face. “Of course, darling. It’s been so good to have you home where you belong.” He turns to Finn and bows his head. “Your Royal Highness, please take care of my daughter.”

Finn’s lips curve into a smile that’s part amusement, part ‘fuck you,’ and he once again kisses the back of my hand. “But of course,” he says, meeting my gaze with a tender smile. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything other than treating her like the blessing she is.”

All right.

‘Blessing’ is a little heavy handed.

Certainly not a word many would use to describe me, that’s for sure.

“Well, now,” Her Majesty says, pressing her hands together in front of us. “I’m afraid the Prime Minister is waiting to be introduced to Harriet, so we must see to other guests. Please excuse us, William, Rosalyn, Jasmine.” She turns to us and smiles, her eyes twinkling with her tell-tale mischief. “Let us be on our way, shall we? Busy night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY – HATTIE

I’ve met more people tonight than I have in my entire life—and that includes my early teenage summers hawking my postcards to tourists for a pittance.

And I’m overwhelmed.

There’s no way I’ll ever remember the names or faces of half these people, no matter how intensely I study them. Just as well, because there’s a chance I may have zoned out through many of the conversations and just allowed myself to autopilot my way through them.

The only saving grace is the hell I know the Sinclairs are going through right now.

I am, of course, the hottest topic of the night. Not just the surprise announcement of our engagement, but because I’m here at all.

That’s what happens when you declare a living person to be dead.

It’s rather a shock when they show up walking and talking, perfectly healthy.

Jasmine has disappeared once or twice, only for Rosalyn to drag her back out. I can almost hear her shrill voice in my ear, hissing to her about keeping up appearances and not letting her down. Promising that she’ll fix it. Ever since Jas disappeared for the second time, she’s been stuck solely to her daughter’s side, smiling at others as if she knew it all along.

My father is fielding the same sort of questions. I’ve heard them—two years? Why didn’t he say? Why did everyone think Jasmine would marry Finn if I’d returned?

His answers… I don’t know what they are. I don’t care for them, either. Not a single iota of truth will be in any of his words, so they don’t matter to me. All his lies will eventually come to the surface, so he can say whatever he wants to make himself look good right now.