Page 92 of The Royal Art of Revenge

They higher they climb, the harder their fall will be.

And I want their landing to hurt.

So, let him. Let him lie. Let him spin his web and tangle himself in it. The more convoluted his lies, the more delight I’ll take in watching him try to get out of it later.

“Are you doing all right?” Finn asks.

“Um.” I lean in a bit closer. “Who was that again?”

“The shadow foreign minister,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to my ear. “Jeanette Church. Takes great pleasure in opposing everything her counterpart in government says.”

“Right, right.” I press my lips together. Is that not part of the job description? “They’re all blurring into one right now.”

His hand is warm against my lower back as he rubs it reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You’ll come to learn who everyone is in time.” He pauses. “Ah, shit, here we go.”

Before I can ask what he’s on about, we’re approached by a man around my father’s age, and Finn tenses.

“Your Royal Highness,” the man says, bowing his head. “Miss Sinclair. May I extend my warmest congratulations to you both on this occasion. And of course, happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Mr Devereaux,” Finn replies. “I’m pleased to see you could make it.”

“Yes, I rearranged my schedule at my wife’s request.”

“Ah, where is your lovely wife?” There’s an edge to his tone that suggests his wife isn’t ‘lovely’ at all.

Mr Devereaux smiles, his cat-like blue eyes belying the warm tone of his voice. “She’s currently with my son’s future mother-in-law,” he replies.

“I didn’t realise Marco was engaged. Congratulations.”

“We’re hoping they’ll formalise their relationship soon.” The older man’s lips wrinkle, tightening his smile. “Although, my daughter is nearby…” He turns and looks over his shoulder. “Ah, Valentina! Come here.”

A young woman with black hair pinned in an elaborate updo turns, and the rich, royal blue of her dress moves like the waves. Recognition strikes me like an electric shock, because I know her.

I know her.

Her blue eyes, as bright as the sky at midday at the height of summer, are eyes I have dreamt about more times I can calculate right now.

Titi.

“Hello, Your Royal Highness.” She bobs into a small curtsey before Finn, then turns to me. Something familiar flashes through her eyes, and she hesitates for the smallest moment before a wide smile stretches across her pretty face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sinclair. I’m Valentina Devereaux.”

I swallow and hold out my hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Devereaux. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my honour. Thank you for the invitation, and please, call me Valentina.”

“Ah, my wife is jostling for my attention,” Mr Devereaux says, making a show of looking over Finn’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your conversation. Please excuse me.”

He shuffles off before anyone can bid him goodbye, and Finn relaxes the second he’s gone.

“Good grief,” he mutters, looking at Valentina. “What’s he up to now?”

“Strict instructions to befriend your fiancée, given how badly I failed to seduce you.” Her eyes shine with mirth, and she turns her attention to me. “But I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Will it, Hattie?”

My hand flies to my mouth, almost of its own accord, and I blink at her dumbly for a moment. “Titi? It’s really you?”

“You made it home,” she says softly. “Thank God. I—I tried, but—”

Finn looks between us. “Do you know each other?”