CHAPTER FIVE – HATTIE
“Where are you going?”
I pull my matcha latte from the fridge and look over at Jasmine. “To attend my weekly tap-dancing class with the gnomes in Troy Forest. Where else?”
She huffs and walks over, reaching over me to grab the milk. “You’ve been secretive lately.”
“Aw, Jas, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”
“I don’t. I wish you’d just leave.” She hands the milk to one of the housemaids. “Get my breakfast. Eggs and toast. Maybe some sausage.”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair,” the housemaid replies softly, almost dropping the milk.
I snort. “Is making toast and eggs above you now, Your Future Royal Highness? Even saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ is too much for you?”
Jasmine glares at me. “Why do you care?”
“Because not everyone is a rude piece of shit like you,” I snap.
“Saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are the most basic of manners. Toddlers do it, even ones that can’t form entire sentences yet.
The least you can do is use those same manners to the people you boss around like you’re queen of the world. ”
“I will be one day. Of this country, at least.” She sits down and fixes me with a dark look. “You should remember that.”
“Ah, but you aren’t yet,” I remind her, silently passing the eggs to the housemaid with a quick smile. “And believe me, if that ever happens, I will be nowhere near this poor country. God only knows how you’ll ruin it.”
“Good morning,” Dad says, strolling into the kitchen. “Oh, Amelia, are you making some breakfast?”
The housemaid flinches. “Y—yes, sir. Mr Sinclair. Miss Jasmine requested sausage, eggs, and toast. Would you like some?”
He flattens his hand against his stomach and tilts his head to the side. “You know, I think I will. Is there a newspaper anywhere, do you know?”
I pick it up. “Right here.”
“Oh, thank you, Harriet. And thank you for the offer of breakfast, Amelia.” He smiles warmly at her and sits opposite Jasmine at the table. “Good morning, darling.”
“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.
If only it were that simple. If only telling the truth wouldn’t blow up my entire life in a way I can’t afford.
I signed a contract. An iron-clad, airtight, unbreakable contract.
I cannot say the words, “My name is Harriet Sinclair,” or any variation of them, or I forfeit my trust fund.
Without it, I have nothing—no safety net, no monthly stipend, no means of hiring legal assistance.
I also won’t have the Sinclair name, as to reveal my identity before the agreed upon time means I willingly walk away and disinherit myself.
Which my father knows.
That’s exactly why he made me sign it.
I don’t even know if it’s legal. Not that it matters. When this amount of money is involved, legality is a small matter. A mild inconvenience. Something to be swept under the rug.
And God only knows how corrupt the upper echelons of Askurian society are.
That’s why I need someone to recognise me. Someone to look at me and see my mother.
Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile.
Something.
Anything.
My resemblance to her is my only hope.
I sigh, drawing a glance from the driver, but he turns his attention back to the road without saying anything. Maybe this would be easier if I were smarter. If I had any idea how to manipulate my way into seeing the Queen. If I had friendships or connections that could help push me in front of her.
But I have nothing.
Thanks to the Sinclairs, I’m completely isolated.
Despite my bravado and willingness to burn the entire family to the ground, my means of doing so are woefully limited. Marrying Crown Prince Finley as is my childhood agreement is the most extreme, most difficult of all the options available to me.
The most satisfying.
But it isn’t necessary. It isn’t the only way—at least in the future.
After all, if I must, I’ll simply wait.
Wait until Jasmine has married him.
Wait until I have full access to what belongs to me.
Wait until I can build my own life without their interference, where I can make contact with people who can fuck them up from the inside out.
I don’t care who it hurts. Not my father, not his mistress, not his daughter, not even the Royal Family.
I just want the Sinclairs to burn.
And I know that someone, somewhere, will protect me while handing me the match to do it.
It would simply be sweeter if it were the person Jasmine fancies herself in love with.
Oh, how I dream of her expression if that were to happen.
She’s not in love with him. She’s in love with his position and the power it would give her. She’s in love with the title, the attention, the fact she’d one day be the most powerful woman in the country.
So am I.
The difference between us is that I’m happy to admit it. To his face, too.
“We’re here, miss.”
The driver’s voice pulls me out of my reverie, and I blink, sitting up straight.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, grabbing my bags. I let myself out of the taxi with my things, and the moment he pulls away, I add a tip to the total on the app and rate him.
After all, the man never said a word.
That makes for the perfect companion, if you ask me.
No sooner have I done that than a sleek black car that practically screams wealth pulls up in front of me. The back door opens, and a tall, brown-haired woman dressed in a sharp black suit steps out and eyes me.
“Hannah Porter?”
“That’s me,” I reply.
“Do you have the agreement with you?”
I pull the envelope from my bag and hand it to her. She takes it without a word, then slides the agreement out and scans each page. After a couple of minutes, she nods and pushes it back into the envelope.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to hand over your phone for security reasons. Please turn it off before doing so.”
Ah.
I hesitate, but ultimately, I turn off the device that’s still in my hand and give it to her.
She tucks it into her pocket and steps to the side. “After you.”
“Thank you.” I slide across the backseat and set my bags by my feet. The unnamed woman gets in the front seat without a word and closes the door, then nods to the driver who returns the gesture and immediately indicates to pull away.
A heavy blanket of silence settles over the car, and the nausea I felt earlier returns tenfold. My stomach is almost rolling, and with each churning wave comes the urge to fidget or shuffle.
I can do neither.
I can’t show weakness right now, no matter how badly I want to throw up and breathe into a paper bag.
I have to conceal it. Keep it inside. Pretend that I’m completely fine, that I know what’s happening, that I’m not in totally uncharted territory right now.
I clear my throat and look at the stern woman in the front of the car. “Are you able to tell me where we’re going?”
She checks the shiny watch on her left wrist, pauses, then nods. “Yes, we’re close enough.” She turns, fixing me with her dark gaze. “We’re on the way to the Royal Palace.”
I freeze, and hopefully she buys my faux shock. “The—the Royal Palace?”
“Yes.” She returns her gaze forwards. “You will be taking portraits of a member of the Royal Family today. Unfortunately, I am not permitted to divulge their identity. For that, you’ll have to wait until we’re there.”
“Oh.” I clasp my hands in my lap. “Thank you. How long will it be until we arrive?”
She eyes me through the rearview mirror.
“Not long. There are security protocols you’re required to go through on your arrival.
Your bags will be checked, and a female member of the team will give you a quick pat down.
It should have all been explained to you already, but I can recap it if you’d like. ”
I nod. “It’s fine, I recall it from the emails. Thank you, though.”
“Very well.”
“When I get my phone back? Just in case I get calls from a client, that’s all.”
“You should be able to get it back once we’ve arrived and your clearance has been granted. As long as you make sure location services are turned off.”
“Oh, that’s fine. They’re always off.” I turn to look out of the window.
There’s no-one in my life who ever cares to know where I am.