CHAPTER THREE – HATTIE
“Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Jasmine whines, cradling her cup of coffee. “It’s been days!”
“He’s very busy, darling,” Rosalyn replies, reaching across the table to pat her shoulder soothingly. “It’s not the first time you’ve been unable to reach him. Have you tried contacting Oscar?”
Jasmine sighs. “Yes! All he tells me is that His Royal Highness is extremely busy and he’ll pass on that I called. As if he will! He hates me.”
Oscar is a smart man, I see.
Well, if she’s talking about the future Duke of Lindberg, that is.
Also, what is she complaining about? Crown Prince Finley was the one who said he and I would hopefully speak again soon, and has he contacted me? No. I’m not crying about it.
I’m merely staring out of my window in the general direction of the Askurg Royal Palace, hoping my mental ‘call me’ messages will transcend time and space to reach him.
Also, technically, Crown Prince Finley isn’t calling me.
Flynn is.
That’s almost as ridiculous as me calling myself Hannah.
Fucking Flynn. He didn’t even try.
“You just have to make nice for a little longer,” Rosalyn coos. “Once you’re in the palace, Oscar will be bound to obey you.”
“I’ll make His Royal Highness fire him.” Jasmine sniffs, and I can’t help but snort.
Where does she get her confidence from? And can I get some of it? Because it’s truly remarkable how she believes in herself, and one could make a fortune bottling that and selling it.
“What are you laughing at?” she snaps, turning to glare at me. “Something funny?”
“I was merely marvelling at your boundless confidence,” I reply, sipping my tea. “Do you really think you can make the crown prince fire his right hand? That’s his cousin, you know. They’ve grown up together.”
Her face reddens at the roundabout reminder that I know more about his past than she does. “You—”
“It was said in frustration,” Rosalyn says calmly, pouring another cup of tea for herself. “We all say things we don’t mean, Harriet. Don’t take it to heart.”
“I was only pointing it out.”
“Well, don’t.”
“All right, fine.” I put my empty cup in the sink and hold up my hands. “By all means, stroll into the palace and start demanding things be done your way, Jas. I’m sure that’ll go well for you.”
She scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “Why are you even here?”
“Unfortunately, I live here,” I reply. “As much as I’d love to move out, I’m not allowed to until you’re happily married and safe from my wicked, wicked ways.”
At that, Rosalyn sighs and turns to look at me. “Must you always be so sarcastic, Harriet?”
“Yes.” I pluck a croissant from the tray—today, it’s on the kitchen island. “I find it a great defense against stupidity.”
“You—” Jas catches herself. “I really cannot stand you, do you know that?”
“Yes. I take great pleasure in the knowledge.” I raise my pastry towards her in a mock toast. “And rest assured that the feeling is entirely mutual, so there’s no need to announce it like it’s some great triumph.”
Rosalyn blinks at me, then shakes her head, turning away. “Do you not have work to do today?”
“Yes, alas, some of us must earn our own way in this world.”
“You have a trust fund,” Jas snipes. “You don’t need to work.”
“Ah, yes, the money from my actual mother.” I pause in the doorway.
“Yet another casualty of your ridiculous paranoia,” I say, looking at her pointedly.
“God forbid I be given a significant amount of money to disappear off into the sunset with. No, much better for me to be kept here like a prisoner so nobody realises what snakes the Sinclair family are.”
“That’s enough!” Rosalyn snaps, slamming her hands against the table.
The housekeeper cleaning the fireplace jumps, sending the tools clattering to the ground, and Rosalyn clicks her tongue at her.
“That. Is. Enough,” she repeats. “Both of you. Harriet, you knew and agreed to those terms when you returned, so you’re in no position to complain. ”
I’m in every position to complain, but that’s not the point.
She’s right. I did know and agree to them. Only because I had no choice. The other option was walking away and letting them take everything that was supposed to be mine.
Not to mention that I do have access to my trust fund. Not entirely but partially is enough.
Turns out, even my father is capable of being guilted into going behind his wife’s back.
Not that it would be the first time he did something like that, mind you.
Going behind his wife’s back is why Jasmine exists in the first place.
“And, Jasmine, for goodness’ sake—you’ll be queen one day. You must learn to control yourself and your emotions better.”
“What’s going on in here?” The man who once generously donated his sperm so that I may exist walks into the kitchen with his face in his phone. “Girls, are you fighting again?”
“Of course not,” I say brightly, bounding over to him to press a kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, Dad.”
“Mm. Morning, Harriet.” He finally looks up from his phone. “Jas? Are you arguing with your sister?”
I raise my eyebrows when she shrinks back in her chair.
“No,” she replies. “She was… giving me some advice.”
My father looks at me like I have two heads.
Completely understandable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I was only pointing out that she can’t convince the crown prince to fire Lord Oscar after the wedding. She has to do things the way the palace does, not expect them to conform to her.”
“Harriet, you—!” Jas presses her lips together when our father looks at her sharply.
“Your mother is correct,” Dad says. “You do need to get control of your emotions.”
She shrinks back even further, and Rosalyn sighs.
“And you,” he says to me. “Stop provoking your sister.”
“I’m hardly provoking her,” I reply. “Provocation implies I started it. I merely responded to something she said. You should be grateful I remember my intensive etiquette education from when I was a child. Did you not offer Jasmine the same thing?” I tilt my head to the side.
“There’s no way Lady Christiansen would have allowed seven-year-old me to get away with such outbursts, never mind saying I’d tell Crown Prince Finley what to do. I was only trying to help her.”
If looks could kill, Rosalyn would be on the hook for my murder right about now.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder with a heavy exhale. “I know. Just… apologise to your sister for upsetting her.”
I almost laugh.
Of course.
God forbid Jasmine get corrected.
“I’m sorry that you’re upset by my words,” I say, injecting as much sincerity as physically possible. “I really was only trying to help.”
With no choice other than to accept my bullshit apology, she clenches her jaw and forces a smile. “Don’t worry about it,” she grinds out, hatred flowing from her.
Oh, good.
I’ve ruined her day.
Mine is now exponentially better than it would have been otherwise.
“Happy?” I say to our father and bite into my croissant.
The look on his face says he’s not, but there’s nothing he can do about it. I did apologise, after all. It wasn’t the apology he wanted, but he really should have been more specific if he wanted me to apologise exactly how he had it in his mind.
He sighs, then nods. “Do you have work today?”
“Mm. I have a couple of studio sessions in Greenwood Bay today and tomorrow, so I’ll probably just book a hotel room tonight to save getting the train back.”
Another slow nod. “Very well. Just call if that’s the case so we don’t worry.”
There’s absolutely zero chance of anyone worrying about me, but I agree all the same. After offering a shit-eatingly sweet goodbye to Rosalyn and Jasmine, I kiss my father’s cheek again and head to my room to get all my things.
A whole day’s work and I’ve gotten out of coming back to this hellhole tonight.
It really is a good day.
***
Not every photo session goes off perfectly.
Babies poop and explode it everywhere, including over props. They spit up—some even projectile vomit, sending their breakfast shooting over everything in its path.
Which has been known to include me.
It’s also the sole reason I always take a change of clothes with me to every little baby shoot. You just never know.
Still, there’s something so charming about little newborns. They’re just so… pliable. So easy to coax and manipulate into the cutest little poses, and the best part? They don’t complain. They can’t complain. They can’t speak.
They can just snuffle.
And scream.
But that’s beside the point.
Today’s newborn was very co-operative… Until she wasn’t. My change of clothes was a good idea, let’s just put it that way.
Now, with my shoots done and my night free of having to return home to my hellhole, I have no idea what to do with myself. It’s not as if I have any friends. Avoiding anyone that could possibly recognise me was relentlessly drilled into me when I came back, but it’s fine.
The less people who know about me, the better.
For right now, anyway.
It’ll be that much more shocking when the truth comes out.
I lock the rented studio behind me and tuck the keys safely into my bag. I decide against calling my father, instead sending him a quick text on my way out of the building. My hotel room has been booked for hours, of course, but I don’t tell him that.
No, I’m as sweet as sweet can be. I even toss in another little apology for upsetting Jasmine this morning.
He simply hates it when we fight, after all.
And I… Well. I need him to think I’m still under his thumb. That I’m not planning on stepping out of line at all. That I really was just trying to be a good sister and help Jasmine see the error of her ways.
The thought of it almost makes me snort, and I narrowly avoid bumping into someone. After a quick—and genuine—apology for almost bowling into them, I turn down the street where my hotel is situated.
What should I eat for dinner?
Hmm.
A group of people are standing outside the door, smoking. The thick, arid scent of the smoke curling around them makes my stomach curl. Goosebumps prickle across my skin, and I keep my head down as I hurry past them.
They’re all in suits.