Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Morning, Dad,” she replies, shooting me another glare when he drops his gaze to the paper.
I smile sardonically at her. It does so please me when I get the last word—not because I’ve gotten the last word, but because it pisses her off something chronic that she hasn’t.
I do so enjoy starting my day knowing I’ve really pissed her off.
“What are your plans today?” he asks her.
“I have a hair appointment, then I’m going to see Ana to get my dress fitted for Crown Prince Finley’s birthday banquet.”
“Good, good,” he says, noncommittally. “What about you, Harriet? Any plans?”
“I have a shoot this morning,” I reply, rummaging through the bag of fresh pastries.
“You’re doing well lately.” He flips the page. “Is it just the one?”
“Yes. I kept the afternoon free to visit the cemetery.”
Both he and Jasmine freeze. Amelia continues whisking the eggs, oblivious to the sharp bite of cold air that just blanketed the room.
Or maybe she felt it.
Maybe she’s just excellent at her job.
Dad’s hand trembles over the paper, and I stare at the side of his head. He’s too chicken to turn and look at me, and nobody else would dare ask me why I would be going there.
To mention my mother’s name in this house is blasphemy.
Even this is pushing it.
To acknowledge the cemetery is to acknowledge her. Acknowledging my mother is a reminder that Rosalyn wasn’t my father’s wife when Jasmine was born.
And to remind everyone that Jasmine is an illegitimate bastard who is only where she is because I disappeared when we were children is the greatest of sins.
It’s also known as my favourite hobby, but that’s beside the point.
“Sorry,” I say quietly, looking down and feigning humility. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Dad’s tone is clipped. “Don’t forget again.”
“I won’t.” I reach for my bag, catching Jasmine’s self-satisfied smirk. “I won’t be back for dinner tonight, so don’t wait for me.”
“Mm.”
I head for the door, still keeping my head down.
“Harriet?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Good luck with your shoot this morning.”
I swallow back the annoyance bubbling up inside my throat and give him my best effort at a smile. “Thank you.”
Before another word can be said, I escape the choking tension of the kitchen and rush through the house. I open the front door and scoot outside without encountering anyone else, and the moment it shuts behind me, I scoff.
No wonder the man thinks Jasmine is practically perfect.
He’s as dumb as they come.
Thank God he has a head for business, because it’s really all he has going for him.
I shake my head and walk through the front gardens. They’re completely foreign to me, nothing like the blooming, gorgeous space I remember from my childhood. Rosalyn ripped out everything my mother loved the moment she married my father, and that included her beloved gardens.
Now, despite the numerous blooms, I can’t help but hate it. Hate how the flowers are all in the wrong places, all the wrong colours, all mixed with the wrong greenery. Hate how it’s all just… wrong.
Like that whole house. The curtains, the rugs, the cushions, even the very tile in the kitchen.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
My taxi pulls up outside the gates, and I let myself out through the smaller side one. I lock it behind me and get into the back seat of the taxi, give the driver my destination, and settle back to look out of the window.
I’m not a fool.
I know exactly what kind of photos Crown Prince Finley wants me to take today—formal portraits to be released to the public. At least, I’ll be taking the portraits. I have no control over whether they’ll be released to the public, and I have to say, I don’t much care either way.
What I care about is the location.
The secrecy leads me to believe he’s having me taken to the Royal Palace. Even though it’s the one place I’m desperate to go, I feel sick. What happens when I get in there? What are my chances of seeing the Queen, the one person who would likely recognise me with a mere glance?
I will never get this opportunity again. It’s truly an act of God that it’s even a possibility I can consider right now, and lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. The chance to enter the palace under the name Hannah Porter won’t swing my way a second time.
But once I’m in there, nothing is guaranteed. I did some high-profile portraits before I moved back to Askurg, and I know how it goes. I’ll be escorted by security from the moment I step foot into the waiting vehicle. I won’t even be able to use the bathroom without someone waiting outside.
Slipping away in the hope of seeing Her Majesty is impossible.
There’s only one other option: once Crown Prince Finley has admitted who he really is, I can do the same. I can tell him my true name.