CHAPTER FOUR – FINN
“We’ve been looking at this picture for an hour,” Oscar says, leaning back into the cushions. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tilts his head back. “You’ve been doing this for days now. What’s so special about this woman?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be staring at her picture, would I?”
Unlike him, I can’t take my eyes off her.
Hannah Porter.
The bold photographer.
The one who crossed my path twice when I least expected it.
The one who looks so painfully familiar to me that it makes my stomach twist. It’s been in knots since the moment I laid eyes on her.
I know her. At least, something tells me I do. So why does everyone around me tell me we’ve never met? That they don’t know her?
There’s no official record of us having crossed paths. She’s not been at any events or engagements I’ve attended in the past nine months. No Hannah Porter has ever set foot in the Royal Palace. Not a single person I’ve asked has even heard of her fucking name.
So why do I know her?
Why have I had this irritating, relentless niggle since we met? A feeling that I’m missing something. That I’ve forgotten something or someone that could answer my never-ending questions about this woman.
“You’re obsessed,” Oscar says, dropping his hands to his lap and turning to me.
“Over a woman you’ve met twice, if you can even consider those brief encounters as ‘meeting.’ We’ve checked, Finn.
You’ve never met her before that day in the park.
I’d never even heard her name until you called me to ask. ”
“I’m not obsessed with her,” I reply, putting the laptop on the table in front of us. “I’m merely curious. This woman nobody seems to know shows up, has no idea who I am, and my gut tells me I know her.”
“You’re obsessed,” he repeats. “If you’re not working, you’re trying to figure out who this woman is. Meanwhile, your future fiancée is calling me every five minutes wanting to know when you’re going to return her calls.”
I groan, resting back into the sofa, still staring at the photo of Hannah on the screen. “Don’t call her that. I’ll have someone call her and tell her to stop. Fuck, who is this woman?”
“Hannah Porter. She told you that,” Oscar replies. “Just get over it, man. It doesn’t matter who she is.”
But it does.
How do I explain that it does in a way that makes sense when I can’t make sense of it myself?
To me, it matters.
A great deal.
I need to know.
“Do you really think she doesn’t know who you are?” he asks after a moment.
I pause, then shake my head with a small laugh. “No. That’s what makes her even more intriguing. She knows exactly who I am, yet she’s pretending not to. She’s an excellent actress; I’ll give her that. She had me until I barged into her hotel room and she wasn’t nearly panicked enough.”
“She brandished a can of hairspray in your direction, right?”
“Yes. Pepper spray is illegal, but you always need hairspray. She said something like that.” I sigh and rub my hand down my face. “Either way, anyone who didn’t know me would have screamed or dove for the phone. She did neither. She knew I wasn’t going to hurt her, so she feigned the whole thing.”
Oscar snorts. “Maybe she’s not that good an actress, then.”
“Maybe not,” I reply slowly. “But it took me until then to realise she knew who I was the whole time.”
“Why would she pretend to not recognise you?” he asks, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
“You’re the Crown Prince—your face has been public since the day you were born.
Barely a day goes by without something about you popping up online.
It’s not very believable that a young woman wouldn’t know who you are. ”
“She said she hadn’t been here long. She doesn’t have a local accent, so there was no reason to question it. I might be famous in Askurg, but I doubt it’s the case outside of the country. Royal watchers would be the exception.”
“And gossip rags.”
“And gossip rags,” I agree. “I don’t know, I assumed she’d only been here a few months. The first time we met she sounded suitably suspicious, as if she recognised me but couldn’t place me, so I didn’t think much of it that she didn’t know who I was right away.”
“Mm.” He stops tapping his fingers and turns the laptop towards him slightly. “So, she knows who you are and may be lying about how long she’s been here. Are you sure Hannah Porter is even her real name?”
I pause. No—the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. Why would someone lie about their name?
Me not included. I have a very good reason to lie about my name to someone who said she didn’t recognise me. Aliases aren’t exactly uncommon for the Royal Family, but this woman isn’t a part of it.
“What makes you say that?”
“Nothing she’s said so far to you seems to be truthful. What if she’s using a fake name for her business?”
“Like a pen name? Or a stage name?”
“Exactly. Perhaps she’s from a recognisable family and doesn’t want to use her family name to get ahead. Just like how you use aliases for hotels and other things.”
Hm. When he says it like that, it’s not impossible, I suppose, but that doesn’t explain the lilt to her accent. Not to mention I know every recognisable family in the city. I’d wager I could recognise most of those who don’t live in the city, too.
“Which family would she be from? Unless someone has been hiding a daughter, it seems unlikely.”
“You said her accent isn’t local. Is she even from Askurg?”
“Yes. There’s more than enough to pinpoint her as Askurian, but there’s something foreign there, too.”
He shrugs. “Maybe she went to a foreign school. That would explain everything.”
That seems too simple.
Too easy.
But isn’t it often the case that the simplest explanation is the correct one?
“Let’s assume that’s the case,” I say. “But would using a fake name matter? She’s not a celebrity photographer. By all accounts, she’s a regular, run of the mill one who specialises in portraiture. Why would she need a fake name to do that?”
“You know, it occurs to me that you could get the answers to all your questions if you just asked her,” Oscar says dryly, pushing the laptop away. “You’re not going to rest until you find out who she really is, so why don’t you just set up a shoot and ask her?”
I get up and run my fingers through my hair, walking away from him.
I stop at the window and look out at the front courtyard of the palace where the fountain with my grandfather’s statue is happily performing its little hourly dance.
A crowd of people is gathered on the other side of the gate with phones and cameras aloft to capture the water show.
“I can’t just ask her,” I say once the water fountains have finished. “If she’s using a false name, she’s doing it for a reason. She’s not going to tell me why.”
“Make her.” He shrugs.
“I can’t just make people do things they don’t want to do.” As tempting as the idea is. “I do wonder if she’ll be more forthcoming when I admit who I am.”
Two gentle knocks sound at the door, and I turn to see my father poke his head in. “Oh, here you are. Your mother is looking for you,” he says.
“What does she need?” I ask.
“Both of you, actually. Something about your birthday portraits.”
Oscar nudges me after greeting my father. “Have you asked her if she knows Hannah? She knows all the photographers, so she might have heard something.”
“Who’s Hannah?” Dad asks, walking into the room. “I thought you’d use Kristoff again.”
“Uh, someone I met recently.” I motion to the laptop on the coffee table. “Her work is fantastic, and I thought I might elevate a smaller photographer instead of using a known one this time.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Who are you thinking of?”
Oscar turns the screen towards Dad, and he pauses. A flicker of recognition crosses his strong features, and my gaze briefly meets Oscar’s.
“Dad?”
“Have you run this by your mother?” He looks up from the screen and over at me.
“I plan to,” I reply slowly. “Why?”
“No reason.” He straightens and takes a few steps back. “I’ll ask her to come now.”
“What’s wrong, Uncle Louis?” Oscar asks, tilting his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Dad simply holds up a hand and walks out, leaving us both staring silently after him.
What the fuck was that about?
Oscar’s right. He does. My father looks like he’s seen a ghost.
And not just any ghost.
More like a poltergeist.
“He recognised her,” Oscar says the moment the door clicks shut, jerking his head around to look at me. “Did you see how white he went?”
“Yes.” I stare at the closed door. “Why wouldn’t he say that, though?”
Oscar shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.” He pulls my laptop back towards him. “I don’t know her at all. How could he? Didn’t you ask your mum and dad?”
“No, Mum’s been busy the last few days. I haven’t seen her,” I explain. “And it never crossed my mind that Dad might know.”
Oscar frowns, but it’s an expression he swiftly straightens when my mother walks into the room. “Aunt Bea,” he says, bowing his head.
“If you’re going to bow, at least address me properly, you scoundrel.” Mum smiles at him, then looks over at me. “Your father tells me you’ve found someone you’d like to take your birthday portraits, and I need to take a look. You’re cutting it a bit fine, son.”
“Yeah. I met her by chance, but her work is incredible. I thought spotlighting an up-and-coming photographer for my thirtieth would be a good idea,” I answer, giving her the same line I just gave my father.
“Mm. You have been championing entrepreneurial groups recently, so that would make sense. Who is it?”
“Her name is Hannah Porter,” Oscar says for me, holding onto the laptop.
Mum raises her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of her. Does she have a portfolio? Has she been doing it long? Photographed anyone notable?”
Oscar’s eyes flitter over to me.
I wave my hand, and he turns the computer screen towards her.