CHAPTER ELEVEN – HATTIE
On day one after I visited the palace, I slept like a baby.
On day two, I didn’t sleep at all. Nightmares of the night I was kidnapped plagued me, and after my darling sister wished death upon me, my anxiety passed the mental barrier and turned physical.
I could barely get out of bed. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and sometimes, I could barely even breathe.
On day three, I vomited so much that everyone was so afraid I had some kind of virus that they left me alone. I barely moved all day, instead choosing to lie in my bed and hope it would all be over soon.
On day four, I got out of the house, picked up a prescription for my anxiety medicine, and took enough that I momentarily wondered if I’d ever feel anything again.
I even thought for a second that if I were a less vengeful person, I’d take so many that waking up the next morning would be impossible. Perhaps even preferable.
On day five, I watched a news report about the crown prince while editing his portraits. He’d visited a school to open their new sports pitch, and between all my little tweaks on his almost flawless photos, I watched him play football with class four of Rosenthal Primary School.
On day six, I edited some more and turned to the royal gossip podcasts.
They speculated over his assumed future wedding to Jasmine Sinclair, the so-called philanthropic darling of Askurg’s upper class.
They wondered if it really would happen, given that they’ve never been photographed together even at official events.
They recited tips sent in and rumours heard from ‘contacts’ close to them both who assured them they were just private, very much in a relationship, that the wedding was happening.
And now, on day seven, I’m stepping off a train in Greenwood Bay having received a six-thirty a.m. text telling me two simple things.
A time and a place.
The Crown Hotel, Greenwood Bay, six-thirty p.m. Give them your name at reception.
Given my downward spiral in the last few days, getting here has been no easy feat. Not only was my father reluctant to let me ‘go to work’ and stay out overnight so soon after recovering from my alleged virus, but Rosalyn found out about my prescription and believes me to be ‘unstable.’
If only she knew just how fucking unstable I really could be, she’d lock me in her precious wine cellar.
I also know there’s someone following me. I’m not an idiot. It’s not the first time that ghastly woman has set someone on my tail, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Unfortunately for her, she’s not going to get anything that she wants.
There’s only so far into the hotel her little private eye can follow me, so as soon as I get into the lift, it’s game over for him.
I hope he’s enjoyed his little train ride, though.
Prick.
I step up beside a taxi in the line outside the train station and he rolls down his window. “Are you free?”
“Yes, love. Do you want me to put that bag in the back for you?”
“No, it’ll be fine with me. Thanks.”
“No problem.” He pushes a button and the back door slides open so I can haul in my case and photography bag. No sooner has my bum touched the seat than the door slides closed and he asks, “Where to?”
“The Crown Hotel, please,” I answer.
“No problem.” He sets the little ticker above the rearview mirror to start and pulls away from the taxi line, allowing the others behind to take their place in the queue.
I settle back into the seat and look out of the window. Thankfully, Greenwood Bay is a huge tourist town, and I’ve been here so many times that a last-minute, sunset engagement shoot wasn’t an unbelievable lie as far as my father was concerned.
And oh, no, I simply have to stay overnight because I don’t have possession of my driving licence anymore.
Not that it means I can’t drive, of course. The lack of my own car is the main obstacle to that, but I also just can’t be bothered. The fit that Rosalyn would throw if she caught me driving isn’t worth the little patience I have when it comes to dealing with her.
It’s a good thing I don’t mind trains.
I catch the taxi driver glancing back at me. He almost looks as if he’s going to make small talk, but I turn my head to signify I don’t want to engage with him. Obviously changing his mind, he puts his full focus back on the road and we continue our drive without a shared word.
Thank God.
About ten minutes pass before we pull up outside the hotel. The large, historical building that was once a part of the Royal Family’s property portfolio looms above, and after I pay the driver, I step out onto the pavement and look up at it.
This is where I stayed last time.
Where Crown Prince Finley barged into my room so I’d save him from photographers who’d managed to book a room to get access to the lift.
Where he is, hopefully, waiting for me.
I wheel my case inside and towards the check-in desk. There’s nobody here, given it’s a couple hours past the first check-in, and I smile at the woman behind it.
“Hi, there’s a booking for Hannah Porter,” I say.
“Let me check that for you.” She turns to her computer screen and taps away for a moment, then pauses. “May I see some identification, please?”
I take my purse from my bag and pull out the false ID card with that name on it. She takes it and looks from the card to me, carefully studying my face in a way that sends a tickle of discomfort up my spine.
“Thank you.” She hands it back and returns to the screen once more. A few more taps later and she inserts a keycard into the machine. It spits it back out a few seconds later, and she tucks it into a small, paper pouch that she holds out to me. “Eighteenth floor.”
I pause. “The eighteenth floor?”
There’s only one room there, and it’s not one I’ve ever been lucky enough to set foot in.
“Yes, Miss Porter. The eighteenth floor.” The ghost of a smile finally crosses her face. “You’ll need to use your card to access the lift. Have you stayed with us before?”
“Yes, but this will be my first time in this room.” I give the little pouch a wiggle.
“Let me show you to the executive lift. Do you need someone to take your bags for you?”
Executive lift?
Jesus Christ, did he have to book the fucking King Christian Suite?
He’s a prince. Of course he did, idiot.
“No, I’ll be fine with my bags. But thank you.” I follow her down the hall and to a locked door.
“Tap your card here,” she instructs, pointing to a reader like the ones on the doors.
I do as she says.
It beeps, and she pushes it open, holding it for me. I wheel my suitcase through and down a dimly lit hallway to where a lone lift is waiting.
“Just here. You’ll be fine from here—this lift will take you directly outside your room and won’t stop at any other floors.” She smiles. “Please let us know if you need anything. There’s a dedicated line to concierge for this room.”
“I will. Thank you very much.” I tap the card against the reader, and the doors instantly whir open. The woman sees me safely onto the lift and bows her head goodbye, and the doors slide closed between us.
The lift carries me smoothly up to the eighteenth floor where I step out into a small, private lobby. There’s another door with a sign for the stairs, but I quickly peek outside, and it requires the same card access as the lift did.
Nice.
This place is fancy.
I check my watch. It’s six-forty, so I’m late. I waste no time in letting myself into the suite, but I’m greeted only by stillness.
Have I fallen into some kind of trap? Is this a joke? Is he not coming?
If I’ve come all the way here only to get an answer to my proposal by being stood up, I’m going to lose my shit.
I put the keycard into the little holder on the wall, and the lights turn on, illuminating the previously dim corners.
This place is fucking huge, and there are large windows that look out over the bay.
Golden rays of light from the earliest stages of the sunset filter in through the glass, and I wheel my case further into the room.
This is more of a penthouse than a suite.
There’s a bedroom and a just-visible en-suite bathroom to my left, and I leave my stuff in the middle of the room as I walk past the small kitchen to the other side.
There’s another bedroom here, plus a second room with a desk and bookshelves and another bathroom.
I live in wealth, but this place feels so out of my league I can barely stand it.
I want to run and hide, to crawl away to a regular hotel room where I can see all four walls from the bed. Where there’s a shower-bath combo and tiny desk that barely fits my laptop and a mildly uncomfortable armchair angled by the windows.
Not this… vastness.
Although, there is something to be said for the huge, freestanding bathtub in the en-suite of the master bedroom.
Now that is a display of fanciness I can get on board with.
I walk back into the living area and get my phone from my bag. There’s an unread message from the number that contacted me earlier, and I open it.
UNKNOWN: There’s been a delay. Give me a couple more hours.
I raise my eyebrows. That’s awfully bossy.
ME: You have until midnight.
ME: And I’m ordering room service and charging it to the room, so your card better be on file.
What? I deserve payment for my time. A hot bath and room service is the least His Royal Highness can do for me.
FINLEY: Order whatever you’d like.
FINLEY: I’ll be there, I promise.
ME: You better.
ME: Or I’ll run to the media with intimate details of my sordid affair with the crown prince.
FINLEY: …I believe it.
FINLEY: You’re the only person who can get away with threatening me, do you know that?
ME: Look at that. I’m starting to think you might say yes to my proposal.
FINLEY: I’ll see you soon, Hattie.
I put the phone screen down on the kitchen island and sigh. Well, if he really doesn’t mind me spending his money, then who am I to tell His Royal Highness no?
I grab the room service menu off the bar and carry it into the bathroom with me to run a bath.
What was it he said? Order whatever I want? Deal.
***
Click. Whir. Clunk.