CHAPTER FIFTEEN – HATTIE
I can’t breathe.
Everything is fuzzy, like the air itself is closing in on me, smothering me. My skin crawls with invisible assailants, and I try to smack at my arms, but my nails win, and I claw at them instead. My nails rake against the skin of my forearm, digging, digging, digging.
My vision is blurred by the tears that have risen, unbidden, and I stare at my arm. Stare as my fingers scrape and drag through the tender layers of skin, tearing at it until it breaks. Blood beads in tiny specks, and each pass of my nails drags that blood, smearing it into tiny streaks.
It helps.
The suffocating ache in my chest eases with every scratch. Each sting that dances through my nerves counteracts the pressure, and for a moment, my mind is clear enough to think one thing.
Meds.
I dig my nails into my arm, clutching the tender flesh there, and reach for my bedside table. If I release my arm, the pain will come back full force, and there’ll be no escaping this whirlpool of terror I’ve woken up in. I have just enough clarity to know that for sure.
There’s a strip of meds in the top drawer, and with my one free hand, I grab for it. My head is spinning, and I miss the handle on the first drawer, just barely brushing my fingers against it. I try again, this time looping one finger through the handle, and tug it open.
The box is on top.
I get it and shake it. The strips fall onto the floor, and I do the only thing I can do with my uncoordinated body—roll off the side of my bed to where the medicine is.
I hit the rug with a thump, and I finally release my arm. With shaking hands, I grab one of the blister packs and push on one of the bright pink tablets. It pops out, followed by another, and I pluck them from the floor, dropping them once in the process.
I throw them into my mouth and reach for my water bottle. Thank God past me was prepared for this, because I knock it right off the bedside table onto my bed. If that were a glass like usual, my bed would be soaked.
The pills taste vile as they disintegrate on my tongue, and it takes everything I have to grab the bottle, open it, and choke down the tablets with some water.
Then, I collapse against the side of the bed and close my eyes.
As the meds begin to work, stopping the panic attack, I focus what little energy I have left on my breathing.
Each cycle of breath goes from a harsh, short breath, to a longer, more controlled action.
From anxious and uncontrollable to steady, slow, four-count breathing that brings me back to reality.
Shit.
I underestimated how badly that whole interview process would mess with me.
And I have a shoot today. It’s not a big one, and I’d rather not get puked on, but I hate to cancel newborn sessions.
Plus, it’s one of the last few bookings I have left.
With little over a week left until Finn’s birthday banquet and the official announcement of our engagement, I’ve already made the decision to cancel a lot of my later shoots.
It just wouldn’t be feasible to continue.
But I don’t want to stop until I absolutely must.
My legs are all shaky, and I use the bed to help me get up. I perch on the edge of it for a minute and drink some more water, then glance at my arm.
Ouch.
There’s no hiding those scratches.
Long sleeves it is. Thank God early spring is still cold enough for them.
I force myself into my adjoining bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I look like hell. There are dark circles under my eyes, and the rest of my face is deathly pale. Making myself look human to go and work today is going to be a herculean task.
I take a quick shower to rid myself of the cloying sweat from the panic attack.
Once I’m out, I find some plasters in one of the bathroom drawers and use them to cover the worst of the small wounds on my forearm.
The rest of the scratches aren’t bleeding, so with a little anti-bacterial cream, they’ll heal fine.
Hopefully.
I apply some makeup that really puts in the effort when it comes to making me look like a respectable member of society, tie up my hair, and quickly get dressed. Methodically, I gather all my equipment into a small suitcase, then make sure to grab my spare camera battery.
I take a deep breath and lug the case behind me. The household staff ignore me as I carry it downstairs. I can barely maintain my balance thanks to my shitty awakening, and once again, the thought of cancelling crosses my mind.
Should I?
Should I just go back to bed and sleep the panic away?
It would be so, so much easier to just do that.
No.
I want to finish out my remaining commitments. I want to see these shoots through and hold onto these memories before the thing I love becomes something too risky for me to do anymore.
I make it to the bottom of the stairs and let out a long breath. The kitchen is blissfully empty except for a housemaid cleaning the windows, and I walk over to the fridge to get my morning matcha. It’s sitting in the door, so I pluck it out, stir it with the glass straw, and take a sip.
Perfect.
Fresh pastries are once again in the basket on the kitchen island, and I forgo my usual choices for an apple turnover. A bit of sugar will do me good.
“Oh, miss!” One of the housemaids scurries into the kitchen with a stack of letters in her hand. “I have your post here.”
I pause. “My post?”
“Yes, miss.” She smiles and holds it out. I reach for the small stack of letters, but she lets go of them before I can grab them. The envelopes all scatter to the floor, earning her a disapproving look from the other maid cleaning the windows.
“Marina! Be careful!”
“Yes, I’m sorry!” The post girl—Marina—instantly drops to her knees to remedy her mistake, then cries out.
“Are you all right?” I ask, putting down both my pastry and drink to bend down in front of her.
“Just a papercut,” she says, smiling weakly as she brings her injured finger to her lips.
“For goodness’ sake, Marina!” the other maid says, throwing down her cloth. “What did I just say?”
“It’s fine,” I say to her, waving her off. “I can pick up my post.”
“Miss, I can’t let—”
“Please, you have things to do.” I smile at her, giving her a firm look that says, ‘drop it,’ and settle on my knees to gather the envelopes. When she returns to her duties, I turn my attention to the mess on the floor.
One is my phone bill, something from the bank, a couple of junk mails, and one nondescript envelope with my name and address on a printed label. My hand hovers over the last one, and Marina clears her throat. I meet her eyes, and she gives an almost imperceptible nod.
I pause.
Did she deliberately drop the post to make sure I saw this?
“I’m so sorry, miss,” Marina says, holding my gaze far more brazenly than a clumsy housemaid usually would. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
I hesitate for only a second. “Actually, my room isn’t scheduled to be cleaned today, but I spilt some juice on my bed this morning. I’d change the sheets myself, but I have to get to a shoot.”
“Of course!”
“Here, let me show you.” I help her to her feet. “Is your finger all right, or do you need a plaster?”
“Oh, I’ll pop one on in a minute,” she says brightly. “Lead the way, miss.”
Hmm.
She’s a weird one, this Marina.
Still, I tuck my post under my arm and grab my things from the kitchen island, then head upstairs with her hot on my heels. She closes the door behind her the moment we step into my room, and when I turn to look at her, she’s already bowing her head.
“What are you doing?”
“Please, do not go to your scheduled photoshoot today,” Marina says quietly, looking up and meeting my gaze.
I frown. “What do you mean, don’t go?”
“It’s not the shoot you think it is.” She glances at the letters. “The envelope there will give you proof. But it’s not a newborn shoot, it’s a set up.”
“A set up?”
She swallows, glancing at the envelopes again. “I…”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “Who told you to say this?”
She sighs. “I… am spying on your family for someone else.”
Oh.
Well.
I wasn’t quite expecting her to say that.
“Not you,” she says hurriedly. “Well, it’s more keeping an eye on you for your protection than outright spying like it is with the others.”
“If that’s the case, you’re a terrible spy,” I reply.
“Only because I know you won’t tell on me.” Her smile makes her brown eyes twinkle with warmth. “We’re on the same side, and I would be a fool to go against the future crown princess.”
I still.
Very, very few people know of that.
“Be careful what you say,” I say slowly, tossing all the envelopes bar one onto my bed. “There are those in this household that won’t take kindly to hear you speaking such lies.”
Her smile never drops. “They’d much prefer it be a lie than the truth it is.”
“Who are you working for?”
She says nothing.
“It’s in your best interest to tell me.” I tear into the envelope. “If you want me to trust you, I suggest you start being honest.”
She briefly closes her eyes. “The Duke of Kilon.”
I tilt my head slightly, staring at her. The Duke of Kilon—Alecsander Kilon, one of the Crown Prince’s closest friends. In fact, there are rumours that he’s far closer to the Royal Family than just a friend.
The fact there’s a spy claiming to work for him in my house right now suggests there’s truth to the rumours that he’s the dark underbelly of the Royal Family.
Which is exactly what I’ve been hoping to be true.
If I can get Alecsander Kilon on my side, everything will become exponentially easier.
“Interesting,” I say, finally opening the envelope and removing its contents. “Go and get some clean bedding before someone starts asking questions. And put a plaster on that thumb so you don’t bleed all over my sheets.”
Marina nods, then quickly disappears, closing the door again behind her.
The papers are a printed transcript from two unfamiliar email addresses discussing booking a photoshoot with me today. Every detail is scarily accurate, down to the fact it’s supposed to be a newborn shoot. Even the address of the rental studio is correct.
I sit in my desk chair and spread the pages out on the desk. Neither party is using anything they can be identified with. I even flip the pages to see if there’s actual information, but all there is is a long number that means nothing to me.
Two knocks sound at my door, and Marina steps in, clutching a pile of sheets.
“Do you know what this is?” I hold up the paper with the number on and point at it.
She puts the stack of clean bedsheets on the ottoman at the end of my bed and walks over, then nods. “It’s the IP address of the person organising it.”
I blink at her. “Is that the only information there is? What exactly am I supposed to do with that?”
“It’s already been traced,” she says quietly. “It’s the IP address for this household.”
That makes me pause.
And once again, I find myself completely unsurprised.
“Ha.” I snort, tossing the paper down. “So, someone in this house has arranged a photoshoot to, ostensibly, bring me harm.”
“People have already been sent to the studio location,” she says, reaching over and gathering up the sheets of paper. “Those waiting for you will be… dealt with.”
“Dealt with? How?”
“I’m not sure. My assignment is to stop you going there, nothing else. I’m not privy to the actions of my boss.” She pauses. “Which may be for the best, if rumours are to be believed.”
“Marina.”
“It’ll likely be quite painful,” she finally says, folding the sheets of paper up as tightly as she can. “For them, that is. It depends how quickly they speak the truth.”
I follow her as she walks into my bathroom.
“Forgive me for this. I’ll clean it up.” She produces a lighter from her apron pocket and sets fire to the paper in my bathtub.
Wonderful.
“Does the Crown Prince know of this?” I say, watching as the orange flames darken the edges of the paper until they burn away into nothing.
“His Grace is under strict orders to report anything and everything relating to your safety to His Royal Highness immediately,” she answers. “So, I would assume that is the case, yes.”
I drag my gaze from the burning paper and say, “Call your boss. Now.”
“Pardon?”
“Call your boss. If people are plotting to harm me, I’m going to be a part of getting the answers.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Tell him I said ‘no’ isn’t an option.” I walk towards the door and look back at her.
“Then, when you know where to take me, clean this all up so we can leave. As far as anyone in this house is concerned, you’re coming to assist me at my photoshoot to make up for your earlier incompetence.
” I pause. “Keep up that meek, clumsy act. And tell me everything you know from now on.”
She pauses, then sighs, bowing her head. “Yes, ma’am.”