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)
What else is behind them? What other secrets is this woman hiding? Would she ever tell me, of all people, what she keeps locked away?
And why the fuck do I care so much? Is it her beauty? Am I that captivated by her looks that I would throw everything away just to find out more about her?
Is it that she’s a complete enigma to me? A mystery to be unravelled? After all, she’s someone who disappeared without a trace twenty years ago, only to reappear and cross my path seemingly by accident.
Who wouldn’t be intrigued by that?
Who wouldn’t have questions?
Who wouldn’t need to know more?
Maybe it’s both. Both her beauty and her presence.
Maybe it’s just her.
Because, fuck, there’s something about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.
That makes her dangerous. I don’t do the unknown. I do things I can control. People I can control. Everything around me has to be just so. My life is so carefully controlled that anything else is unfathomable.
There’s no room for a wildcard like Harriet Sinclair.
Yet here I am. Welcoming her into my life like her very existence won’t make it implode.
“Are you going to join me, or are you going to stand there peeping all afternoon, Your Royal Highness?”
Shit.
So much for that time.
I push open the door and slip into the room, closing it behind me. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Mm. Perhaps, next time, you should quietly slip in and not stare a hole in the side of my head, then.” She peers up from her laptop. “If you’d like, I can send you a photo of me so you can look at it to your heart’s content.”
That’s the woman I met before. Not the shy, reluctant, reserved woman who presented herself in front of my mother.
So, who is she really?
Which is the real her?
Both?
Or neither?
“Why did you lie about recognising me?” I ask, walking over to the sofa opposite her.
“Because I didn’t think anything good would come of admitting the truth,” she answers, turning back to her computer.
“I didn’t think you’d actually be honest.”
She pauses, staring at the screen. “You’re an excellent subject to take photos of; do you know that?”
“You mentioned it,” I reply dryly. “I’d like you to answer my question.”
“I did. You didn’t ask another one.” She clicks a few times, her eyes darting across the screen, then pauses. The fans in her laptop whir a few times before quietening, and she closes the lid before sliding it into her bag with the mouse.
“Why admit it now?” I ask.
She zips up her bag with a sigh. “Because lying about it serves no purpose. Yes, I recognised you. Of course I recognised you. You’re the Crown Prince. Everyone knows who you are. Your face is everywhere.”
A good point. One that points out how ridiculous it is that I thought she was telling the truth for even a second.
“I’d have to be blind and deaf to have a chance at not knowing,” she continues. “Not to mention I live with your darling future wife who prattles on about you every second she gets. By the way, are you moving her into the palace anytime soon? She’s driving me positively insane wondering why you aren’t calling.”
The inflection on the word ‘darling’ held a hint of disgust, and I haven’t missed the hatred that briefly flashed through her eyes when she referenced Jasmine.
Things really aren’t all rosy in the Sinclair household, it seems.
“Stop changing the subject,” I say, staring at her. “Why lie?”
She sighs. “You didn’t look as though you wanted to be recognised the first time. The second… Well, you were running from people, and I thought it might be my only chance to threaten a member of royalty without getting arrested. I’m a bit of a thrill seeker like that, you see.”
I laugh flatly, then rub my hand down my face. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Harriet.”
She blinks at me, but her face otherwise shows no emotion. “How is Her Majesty?”
“Furious,” I reply slowly. “Not at you. She’s thrilled you’re home, and I suspect you’ll hear from her soon. She wants to do whatever she can to help you.”
“That’s very kind of her.”
“I thought you might reject it.”
“Why would I reject an offer of help from the Queen?” She twirls a thick lock of hair around her finger. “She’s the only person who’s spoken of Francesca Sinclair kindly for as long as I can remember. I… can’t walk away from someone who loves her.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Is admitting that she’s your mother even too much for you?”
“I think I’ve already made my position clear.”
“But you’ll respond when I call you Harriet?”
“You could call me Blueberry Sparkle Glitter Potato Salad if you really like. Names are just that. Names. They’re—”
“An integral part of who we are. They’re a gift from those who love us most.”