Chapter 1
Chapter One
I’m supposed to be making my way through the Royal Colonial Reparations report, but instead, I’m remembering a list from Reddit I saw a few years ago titled Ways Oliver Hartwell’s Life is Beyond Sad. In seventeen minutes, I’m going to find out whether item three is true.
His own dad never wanted to know him.
“You know, that report is not going to suddenly make sense just because you’re giving it the death stare,” Callum says from the doorway of my study.
I look up as my husband comes into the room, closing the door behind him.
Callum’s hair flops over his forehead in a way that still makes my heart do something anatomically improbable.
Even after nearly two years of sharing a bed every night, my body still has the same reaction to him as it did when we were first falling in love and sneaking around to snatch opportunities to be together.
Which, given he was the Prince of Wales and I was the British prime minister at the time, did have its fair share of complicating factors.
“I’m comprehending it,” I protest.
“Sure you are,” he says as he crosses the Aubusson rug to perch on the edge of my desk. “And I’m secretly excellent at formal dinner etiquette. We all have our delusions.”
I smile, but it quickly fades. I push the tablet away, leaning back and taking off my glasses so I can pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Remind me again why I thought doing this was a good idea?”
“Because we have a baby coming in three months, and that made you go all existential about family trees and where you come from,” Callum replies.
He’s right.
The impending arrival of our first child made the father-shaped hole in my life feel more significant than it had in the previous forty-one years. So I decided to hire a private investigator to finally discover the identity of my biological father.
It’s a decision I’m definitely regretting now that I’m only minutes away from finding out the answers to questions I’ve had for most of my life.
Is that part of the reason I’m so nervous?
There’s actually a weird comfort in the unknown.
Because once I discover the truth, I can’t retreat into the safe territory of imagination where my father might be anyone.
He’ll have a verified name, along with an address, occupation, possibly a wife and other children.
“Existential is one word for it.” My voice comes out rough. “Right now, my main emotion is completely fucking terrified.”
Callum slides off the desk to sit on my lap, wrapping his arms around me.
His kiss is gentle, a soft press of lips that immediately quietens the riot in my head. It’s like he’s absorbing all my anxiety through osmosis.
When I tilt my head to deepen our kiss, Callum makes a soft sound that goes straight through me. His fingers tangle in my hair, and suddenly, I’m gripping his hips to bring him closer, kissing him in the way that usually leads to us being late for state dinners.
A discreet knock at the door makes us both jump.
Callum quickly slides off my lap, straightening his shirt. He throws me a co-conspirator look. “Come in.”
Raymond, Callum’s private secretary, comes into the room.
“Ms. Reynolds has arrived, Your Royal Highnesses.”
“Thank you, Raymond,” Callum says. “Can you please show her in?”
As Raymond withdraws, he turns to me. “Are you ready for this?”
I take a shaky breath as I stand. “I’m still wondering if I should have left the whole thing alone.”
His eyes soften. But before he can say anything, Private Investigator Diane Reynolds is escorted into the room. To get here, she’ll have survived three security checks, a corridor of ancestral portraits, and a footman, yet none of that has affected her no-nonsense expression and shrewd eyes.
She came highly recommended by Prince Nicholas’s new boyfriend Eoin, as an ex-colleague of his from Scotland Yard.
When we met last month, I’d given her the scant information my mother had provided. My father’s name is Grant, or maybe Graham, and he’d been working construction in Essex when they’d had their brief encounter behind the Rose & Shamrock, which had resulted in my conception.
My origin story definitely isn’t the stuff of romantic legends. It’s more like a cautionary tale about the dangers of cheap lager and poor decision-making in alleyways. There’s probably a reason Hollywood hasn’t made a movie titled Love Actually Behind the Bins.
Ms. Reynolds is carrying a slim leather portfolio that presumably contains the answers to the questions about who I actually am.
My heart beats faster at the thought.
“Your Royal Highness,” she says, giving a small professional bow to each of us in turn.
For someone raised on a council estate in Essex, being bowed at still disconcerts me. It feels even more unreal than the years I was addressed as Prime Minister.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Reynolds.” I gesture to one of the Georgian chairs in the sitting area of my study. “I’m eager to hear what you’ve discovered.”
She takes a seat, arranging her portfolio on her lap, and I sit on the overstuffed couch. Callum settles next to me.
She fixes her penetrating gaze on me. “I appreciate your patience, Your Royal Highness. Given the sensitive nature of this investigation, I wanted to be thorough before I presented the findings to you.”
My mouth goes dry. “Were you able to identify him?”
“Yes,” she says simply, and my heart stutters. “Using DNA matches and cross-referencing with public records, I’ve been able to identify your biological father with ninety-nine point seven percent certainty.”
Callum’s hand slips into mine. I clutch his hand back tightly.
Ms. Reynolds slides a photograph across the coffee table. “Your father’s name is Grant Thompson. He’s sixty-three years old and the owner of Thompson Construction Ltd. in Manchester.”
I stare at the image, my free hand shaking slightly as I pick it up.
It’s a professional headshot, looking like it’s taken from a company’s website. At first glance, Grant Thompson doesn’t seem to bear much resemblance to me. He’s stockier, with rugged features and dark hair cropped close to his head.
But then I notice the set of the jaw, the slope of the brow, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.
It’s like looking at a funhouse mirror version of myself, distorted but recognizable.
“He has three other children, all with his wife of thirty-five years, Margaret,” Ms. Reynolds continues, her voice level and professional. “Two sons, Dean and Josh, and a daughter, Sarah. They range in age from twenty-eight to thirty-three.”
“So I have half-brothers and a half-sister.” The concept feels alien on my tongue.
Growing up, it was only me and my grandparents. I’ve been an only child my entire life.
I knew finding half-siblings was a possibility when I started looking for my father, but still, the definite knowledge that I have siblings unnerves me. Siblings are a relationship dynamic I’ve never had to navigate.
I look down, trying to compose myself.
Callum gives my hand a small squeeze.
“From my investigations, your father is well regarded in his community. He built a successful business from the ground up. It specializes in commercial development but has also expanded into residential housing in recent years.”
“And there’s no evidence he ever knew about me?” I manage to keep my voice steady as I ask the question.
Ms. Reynolds’s gaze meets mine. “No. According to my research, he was working on a project in Brentwood at the time of your conception, but he returned to Manchester shortly after. There is no evidence that your mother ever made contact with him, or that he had any idea of your existence.”
I nod, processing this information in silence.
My father never knew about me. It’s what my mother has always told me, but given she isn’t the most reliable of sources, I wanted it confirmed.
He hadn’t chosen to not be part of my life. It was never rejection, just ignorance.
Which definitely makes the whole thing easier to process. Although it means that the shock for my father is going to be bigger than just my identity. It’s going to be a surprise to him that I exist at all.
“He served two terms on the Manchester City Council in the early 2000s.” Ms. Reynolds allows herself a small smile.
“So that’s where Oliver gets his ruthless political instincts from,” Callum says.
I give an amused snort at that.
Ms. Reynolds passes the remainder of the file to me. “I’ve included all the information I’ve gathered, including his address, contact details, family background, and business history. I wanted to be completely thorough, so you would know what you’re going into with your eyes wide open.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“But I will note I have found absolutely nothing of concern. Your father is well liked and respected in the community. He seems to have a good relationship with his wife and children. His children all still live in Manchester, and they all meet up once a week for a Sunday dinner.”
Sunday dinners with the family.
For a second I think of Nan, how she’d spend five days a week ladling out school dinners to kids who didn’t say thank you, then on Sunday, she’d do it all again for Grandad and me.
We’d sit at a table built for four, although my mother was nearly always somewhere else, with whatever boyfriend was that month’s mistake.
Grandad’s oxygen machine would hum under the sound of the Radio 2 chart show, and he’d insist Nan’s gravy was better than anything they served at the Ritz. He’d never actually set foot inside the Ritz, but that detail didn’t matter. Nan would always flush pink at the compliment.
I’ve now sampled the food at the Ritz on many occasions, and it turns out, Grandad was completely right. Nothing has ever beaten Nan’s gravy.
“What you do with this information is entirely up to you,” Ms. Reynolds’s voice snaps me back to the present.
I stare at the folder. “Thank you, Ms. Reynolds. I appreciate the work you put into this.”
After Raymond shows her out, I remain motionless, the file unopened in my hands.