The Hidden Royal's Revenge

CHAPTER ONE – HATTIE

I still remember the day I was kidnapped.

To this day, nothing has been as terrifying. It still cripples me sometimes—the fuzzy memories of darkness, of not knowing, of wondering who those people were and where they were taking me.

I remember how I whispered to myself that Daddy would find me because he’d never let anyone take me away.

That Mummy would move heaven and earth to find me and bring me home.

That if they failed, the Askurg Royal Family would do everything in their power and then some to bring the future crown princess home.

I remember how I sat in the darkness with my eyes covered and limbs bound in nothing but the dress I’d been wearing. How they’d taken my stuffed rabbit so I couldn’t throw it out to leave it as a trail.

How a rough, smoky voice had cackled in my young ear about how much money I was worth.

How I, at the tender age of seven, was taunted about how I would never see my family again.

Sometimes, I can still smell the stale cigarette smoke and brandy that clung to my kidnappers.

And sometimes, I wake up curled into a tight ball, cradling my head in my hands so nobody can hurt me again.

Like now.

My heart pounds in my chest, pumping adrenaline through my body. An impending panic attack darkens my peripheral vision, and I uncurl my head from my arms and choose a spot to focus on.

The clock.

The movement of the hands.

The steady rhythm as they make their way around the face.

I inhale.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Hold the breath.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Exhale.

I repeat this several times, holding each stage of the breath for a count of four. The clock’s hands tick over, helping me keep count, an unknowing ally in my war against my own mind.

I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m at home—as much of a home as this accursed place can be to me.

But they can’t hurt me here. Those people, the ones who took my hand and promised to help me find my parents, who bound my hands, covered my eyes, gagged me, and stole my life from me... They can’t hurt me here.

I unclench my fists and draw in a deep, controlled breath. I let it out in the same slow, steady manner, and force my eyes open. Sunlight edges in through the tiniest gaps in the curtains, and I blink as I adjust to today’s reality.

I’m in my bedroom.

The closest thing I have to ‘home’ here, in this monstrous building filled with its nauseating displays of wealth.

And it makes me sick.

Every inch of this vile mansion, from the bricks in the walls to the gaudy golden chandeliers hanging in every room, the parquet floors and panelled walls, makes me want to throw up.

Just like it has from the moment I stepped foot back into this vile place two years ago.

The fact I wake up and fall asleep here every day is soul-crushing.

It’s always the same old bullshit. My father’s hesitance to show too me too much care and attention, my stepmother’s hatred hidden behind her welcoming smile, my half-sister’s nauseating innocent act...

Then me, the good, obedient daughter grateful for having been accepted back into this powerful yet dysfunctional family.

As far as my father is concerned.

But to Rosalyn and Jasmine, I’m merely a scapegoat. The one to take the blame when something goes wrong—in other words, when Jasmine fucks up. I’m the one to beat down, to break, to blame, all in the name of reminding me of my place.

This place... this family... it’s nothing but my worst nightmare.

The only good thing going for it is that my stepmother and half-sister feel the same way about me, and I can’t describe how happy it makes me to know that my mere existence pisses them off. That the fact I didn’t die is a perpetual thorn in their side.

That my presence makes them scared.

Sometimes, it’s all that gets me through the day.

I’m fuelled by sugar and spite.

And the desire for revenge.

If you cut me open, I’m sure I’d bleed little balls of pure vengeance instead of blood. I’m made of hatred, of a low simmering anger that bubbles permanently just beneath the surface of my skin, pleading to be let free.

But it’s too soon.

Not yet.

Just… a little longer.

I cannot give in to my emotions, to my deepest desires. To do so would be throwing away everything I’ve worked for over the last few years. I haven’t put myself through hell since I returned to my home country just to ruin all my plans in one moment of weakness.

These plans... the carefully laid stepping stones... the bombs tucked beneath the bushes...

No, no.

I must light the fuse for it all at the right time.

For myself.

For my mother.

For the life that was stolen from me.

For the life that belongs to me, the one I will reclaim bit by bit, even if it means clawing it back on my knees in the dirt.

I will burn this family to ashes while I do it. I will tear apart every brick of this mansion, dismantle every department of the family business, lay bare every dirty secret hiding beneath the floorboards.

And I’ll do it with a smile.

It’s no less than the bastards deserve.

I sigh and get out of bed, heading towards the window. I pull open the curtains and push open the top window, letting the sound of early morning birdsong filter into my bedroom and sing away some of this morning’s bitterness.

Just a little, mind you.

I need a good chunk of it to get me through breakfast, especially after last night’s endless nightmares.

Bitterness helps with the fantasy of my sister choking on her toast—the only way I can get through any mealtime in this godforsaken family.

The longer I’m here, forced to play the cruel, jealous big sister to Jasmine’s innocent facade, to be her scapegoat, the thinner the rope holding onto my patience seems to grow.

I can feel it now. It’s barely even a rope anymore. All that’s left is a frayed, worn thread hanging on for dear life.

If that isn’t a metaphor for my life in general, I don’t know what is.

It really isn’t a lie when I say I survive on spite.

It’s the only way I’ve been able to put up with the absolute shit my stepmother and half-sister have put me through over the last two years.

There are only so many times one can grit their teeth and bear abuse before even a feather duster begins to look like a viable murder weapon.

But the time is coming.

It’s close.

I am so, so close to the moment I can rip the Sinclair family facade to shreds with my own two hands.

I take a deep breath and leave the birds to their concert outside.

Some of us must earn a living around here, so I busy myself by going through my morning routine.

A fifteen-minute yoga session to wake up my muscles and work out any sleep-induced kinks, a hot shower where I dream of revenge and freshly baked pastries, and I finish off by turning myself from a sluggish, wet mess into a respectable member of adult society.

By the time I make my way downstairs, my stomach is already churning. The sound of my stepmother and half-sister’s voices titter out from the kitchen, and I brace myself before I get any closer.

Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.

It’s the only way to describe the way they sound to me. Nails on a chalkboard, needles in my eyes, daggers piercing my skin…

Pick your poison.

“A little over a month?” Jasmine, my half-sister, says somewhat forlornly. “Mum…”

I pause outside the door, hovering to the side of the doorframe, just out of their view. What’s the little princess whinging about today? A new necklace not arriving on time? A pair of shoes being out of stock?

My stepmother, Rosalyn, reaches across the table and lays her hand on top of Jasmine’s. “Patience, darling. We’ve always known the engagement would be announced on Prince Finley’s thirtieth birthday. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But Harriet—”

“Knows better than to use the Sinclair name. She’s still going by Hannah Porter, as she promised she would. Besides, she has no standing in Askurg. Nobody would believe her if she claimed to be the long-lost daughter.”

Which is exactly why I haven’t told anyone.

Yet.

There’s one person who’ll believe me… Or at least care enough to not dismiss me. Someone who’ll hopefully see the resemblance between me and her oldest friend and demand an investigation into my claims.

Reaching her is the problem.

Especially since these rotten, lying motherfuckers won’t let me go anywhere near the Royal Palace, lest my existence destroy their carefully laid plans.

After all, I can see how the discovery of the legitimate eldest daughter of the Sinclairs would ruin Jasmine’s chances of becoming Crown Princess.

As if the position belongs to her in the first place.

As if the engagement is hers.

As if Crown Prince Finley was always destined to be her husband, as if she was always meant to one day be Queen.

I smirk, tucking my chin into my chest.

If Jasmine hates me now, she’s going to really wish I were dead soon.

She will not be the fiancée announced at that birthday banquet.

She will not be the future Crown Princess.

It’s the only thing left in my life I can stop them stealing, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure her dreams shatter at her feet. I’ll go to Hell and back if it means making my presence known to the Askurg Royal Family.

Crown Prince Finley—and his crown—belong to me.

He’s mine.

No matter what.

“Mum, you have to make sure she doesn’t. She looks just like her mother. If Queen Beatrix sees her, she’s going to ask questions,” Jasmine replies, her slightly whiny tone belying her true fear. “If she orders a paternity test—”

“The queen has better things to do than chase after the ghost of her dead friend’s missing child, much less order a DNA test for a random woman,” Rosalyn interrupts her.

“With the birthday banquet and the announcement of the Crown Prince’s engagement, combined with the wedding planned for six months’ after, it won’t matter. ”

“Can’t we send her away until I’ve married Prince Finley?”

I barely manage to choke back my laugh as I walk into the kitchen. “That’s a little extreme, Jasmine, don’t you think?”

They both turn to glare at me, but I ignore them as I head for the fridge to collect the iced matcha latte the housekeeper leaves for me every morning.

“Harriet, I swear to God—”

“You don’t need to go that far, Rosalyn dearest,” I say dryly.

“I don’t want to be Crown Princess, so you can stop all your make-believe dramas, Jas.

” I look at her, closing the fridge behind me.

“You don’t need to send me away just because you seem to think I’m hellbent on ruining your life.

I couldn’t care less what you do or who you marry. ”

My sister stared at me through cold blue eyes. “You’d better not. Don’t go anywhere near the palace.”

“As if I have any business anywhere near the Royal Palace. They’d take one look at me and send me away, especially when I introduce myself as Hannah Porter. I’m a nobody.”

Rosalyn nodded. “You see, darling? Harriet isn’t interested in what you have. She knows she couldn’t deal with such a high-profile role.”

That’s not it, but sure. Whatever helps the treacherous bat sleep at night.

“I just—” Jas starts.

“Think you’re far more important to me than you actually are,” I finish for her, plucking a chocolate croissant from the basket on the kitchen table.

“If I wanted to be the Crown Princess, don’t you think I’d have claimed it myself already?

It was my engagement to begin with and still would be if I hadn’t gone missing twenty years ago. ”

A chill runs through the room, and Jas’ shoulders tense at my reminder. There’s nothing she hates more than when I bring up the fact that I’m the eldest, the legitimate daughter, the one who should be engaged to Prince Finley right now.

That she’d be nothing but a mistress’ secret daughter if not for her mother’s machinations.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s all she is.

All she’ll ever be.

And unfortunately for her, there’s nothing I love more than reminding her of all that.

“Harriet, you’re going too far,” Rosalyn warns me.

“Am I?” I raise my eyebrows, looking down at her. “For all the shit you’ve thrown my way since Dad brought me back, I think you should be more careful in case I change my mind, especially this close to your precious daughter’s big announcement.”

“You—” Rosalyn clenches her jaw, and her hand forms a fist in front of her on the table. “Don’t push it. The only reason you’re still here is because of our deal.”

“Yes, yes.” I wave her off, stepping away from the table. “If I sit tight and don’t tell Dad about all the times you’ve forced me to do things, including taking the blame for the time Jas crashed her car, you’ll make sure I have a suitable marriage after she marries into the Royal Family.”

She nods. “Don’t forget it, either. We’ll claim you, but only once our family’s future is secured.”

‘We’ll claim you,’ she says, as if she has any right to claim or deny my parentage.

As if she’s my mother.

As if the seat she sits in now isn’t bathed with my mother’s blood.

God, she makes me want to poke my eyes out with this glass straw.

“Can’t wait,” I say snarkily, raising my matcha latte in her direction. “Make sure you throw a party that day so we can all get drunk and pretend we’re happy about it.”

“Harriet!” Jas gets to her feet, slamming her hands against the table. “Must you be so rude? Do you know how hard it was for my mother to accept you back into this family?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure it was hard.”

Because she thought I was dead.

I head for the kitchen door, stop, and look back at their outraged faces.

“But I think you’ve already made your feelings about me perfectly clear, and I’ve more than paid my dues for the perceived sin of my existence.

If you want me to continue behaving myself, I suggest you two start doing the same. ”

“Harriet Sinclair, are you threatening me?” Rosalyn shrieks, shoving her chair back with an almighty screech of the legs against the tiled floor.

“Yes,” I say simply, meeting her eyes with a glacial stare of my own. “And you’re right—I am Harriet Sinclair. If I were you, Mother, I wouldn’t forget it.”