CHAPTER 20
Betty
I showed up at Archie's study at eight in the morning carrying a travel mug of coffee I'd made myself in the palace kitchen, because spite was my new personality trait.
Chef Marcello had appeared at my elbow while I was grinding beans, taken one look at my face, and wordlessly handed me a chocolate croissant.
"You need more than caffeine, Your Highness."
"I need answers and possibly a new life, but I'll settle for coffee and carbs."
"The coffee and carbs I can provide." He'd patted my shoulder and retreated to give me space, which I appreciated more than I could say.
Now I stood outside Archie's door, croissant in one hand and spite-coffee in the other, preparing to spend the day investigating who wanted me gone badly enough to trash my rooms and write threatening messages on my walls.
Just another normal morning in paradise.
Archie opened the door before I could knock, looking like he'd slept about as well as I had. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he was wearing jeans and a casual button-down instead of his usual formal attire.
"You're wearing jeans," I said.
"I'm allowed to wear jeans."
"I've never seen you in jeans."
"I wear jeans all the time. You've just never been around for it." He stepped aside to let me in. "Coffee?"
"Brought my own. Trust issues."
"Fair." He poured himself a cup from the pot on the sideboard. "Sleep okay?"
"Define okay."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"A few hours. You?"
"About the same." He gestured to his desk, which had somehow accumulated even more papers overnight. "Roberto sent over additional files this morning. Staff access logs, communication records, financial transactions for anyone with high-level palace credentials."
I moved to the desk and started flipping through folders. "That's a lot of people."
"Twenty-seven, to be exact. Anyone with master access codes who could have been in position to commit the sabotage attempts."
"So we've narrowed it down from everyone to almost everyone. Progress."
He smiled despite the situation. "I've started categorizing by opportunity and motive. Want to help?"
For the next two hours, we went through files together. Archie had created a system, color-coded folders, timeline charts, cross-referenced access logs. It was impressively organized and slightly dorky, which I found oddly endearing.
"You're enjoying this," I said, watching him add another notation to his timeline.
"I'm not enjoying the fact that someone is trying to destroy you. But I'll admit there's something satisfying about solving puzzles."
"You would have made a terrible detective. You're too methodical."
"As opposed to what, just guessing randomly?"
"As opposed to having hunches and instincts and trusting your gut."
"My gut is currently telling me to eat lunch. Is that helpful?"
I checked my phone. It was barely past ten. "Your gut needs to be more patient."
We kept working, and slowly a picture began to emerge. Not a clear picture, more like a blurry photograph where you could make out shapes but not details.
Viktor's name kept appearing. Meetings with foreign contacts, access to every sabotaged location, financial transactions that seemed legitimate on the surface but had suspicious timing.
"I asked Roberto about him weeks ago," Archie said. "Right after the Chilly Baker mess, when my mother and the Grand Duchess insisted he stay on to 'coordinate messaging.'" He scrolled through another screen. "Roberto wouldn't say anything directly. But he didn't defend him either."
"These payments to Viktor," I said, pointing to a series of deposits. "What are they for?"
"Consulting fees, according to the documentation. He advises on multiple projects for both royal families." Archie pulled up another file. "But look at the timing. This fifty thousand euro deposit came two days before your luggage was damaged."
"Could be coincidence."
"Could be. Or could be payment for services rendered."
"But we can't prove it."
"No. The money comes from a Cyprus account registered to a holding company that's registered to another holding company. Roberto's trying to trace it, but these things are designed to be untraceable."
I studied Viktor's file. The man was everywhere, meetings with the Grand Duchess, communications with foreign embassies, access to both palaces' security systems. If he wanted to sabotage someone, he had the means and opportunity.
But so did other people.
"What about Petra?" I asked, hating myself for even suggesting it.
Archie pulled up her file. "She has access to your schedule, your rooms, all your personal information. She's also been with you since you arrived."
"She's been helping me."
"Or she's been in the perfect position to feed information to whoever is orchestrating this."
I thought about Petra's kindness, her patient explanations, the way she'd looked stricken when I'd discovered the permanent marriage lie. "I don't want it to be her."
"I know. But we can't rule anyone out based on whether we like them."
He was right, which made it worse.
We added Petra to the suspect list and kept going.
Professore Benedetti appeared next. The timing of his cancelled lesson, the morning my rooms were destroyed, was suspicious. And he had regular access to my schedule, knew my movements, could have passed information to someone else.
"Family emergency," I read from his message. "Roberto verified?"
"He tried. Benedetti's sister confirmed he drove to her house that morning. But the timeline is tight, he could have trashed your rooms first, then driven to create an alibi."
"Or he actually had a family emergency and we're being paranoid."
"At this point, paranoid is probably healthy."
Queen Isabelle's file was thinner but no less concerning. She'd made her opposition to our marriage clear from the beginning. She had unlimited access to palace resources. And she had the motive, wanting a better match for her son.
"Your mother hates me," I said.
"My mother doesn't hate you."
"She’s just convinced I'm an unsuitable American who will embarrass the family?"
"She's protective and traditional and slow to accept change. That's not the same as hate."
"Could she be behind the sabotage?"
Archie was quiet for a long moment. "I don't want to think so. But I can't say it's impossible. She liked to match me with a Spanish Countess, but you were the better choice because of your background."
We stared at the suspect board, four names with varying levels of evidence and motive, none of them conclusive, all of them people with the means to destroy my reputation and my rooms.
"This is impossible," I said finally. "We have suspects but no proof. Evidence but no smoking gun. How are we supposed to figure out who's actually behind this?"
"We keep digging. Look for connections we missed, patterns we haven't identified yet." Archie rubbed his eyes. "Or we wait for them to make a mistake."
"Great plan. Very proactive."
"You have a better idea?"
"Yes. We lure them out. Set a trap."
"What kind of trap?"
"I don't know yet. But there has to be something we can do besides sitting here staring at files and hoping for divine intervention."
Archie stood and moved to the window, looking out over the palace grounds. "I need air. This is making me crazy."
"Join the club. We have t-shirts."
He turned back to me with a slight smile. "I need to check on Azzurra anyway. Want to come?"
"Who's Azzurra?"
"My horse. She's pregnant, due to foal in the next few weeks. I've been neglecting her with everything going on."
The change of subject was so abrupt I blinked. "You want me to come visit your pregnant horse?"
"I want us both to take a break from staring at evidence that's giving us nothing. The stables are quiet. No staff hovering, no political intrigue, just horses and fresh air."
"That actually sounds amazing."
"Then come on."
We walked through the palace gardens toward the stables, and some of the tension eased from my shoulders just being outside. The Mediterranean sun was warm without being oppressive, and the scent of roses and lavender replaced the smell of old paper and investigation stress.
"When's she due?" I asked.
"Technically three weeks. But the vet said it could be any time now." His voice had softened, the princely formality giving way to genuine affection. "She's a Lusitano, Portuguese breed. Beautiful, intelligent, stubborn as hell."
"Sounds like someone I know."
He shot me a look. "Are you calling me stubborn?"
"Are you calling yourself beautiful and intelligent?"
"I'm calling myself someone who appreciates a good horse."
The stables were indeed quiet, just the soft sounds of horses moving in their stalls, the smell of hay and leather and animals. It was oddly peaceful after the intensity of the morning.
Archie led me to a large stall at the end where a gorgeous grey mare stood munching hay. She looked up when she heard his voice, ears perking forward.
"Hey, beautiful girl." Archie's voice went soft in a way I'd never heard before. "How are you feeling today?"
Azzurra nickered and moved to the stall door, clearly happy to see him. He let himself in and ran his hands over her neck, checking her sides, speaking to her in quiet tones that were half English and half what sounded like Portuguese.
I leaned against the stall door and watched, something in my chest going uncomfortably tight.
This was Peter.
Not the Prince who made formal speeches and attended state dinners. Not the man who'd lied about our marriage or made decisions about my life without consulting me.
This was the version of him I'd met in these stables three weeks ago. Patient, genuine, completely absorbed in caring for something he loved. The man who'd taught me to ride, who'd listened to my fears, who'd made me laugh when everything about palace life felt overwhelming.