Chapter Fourteen

"Henrietta, it's been ten days since Buckingham Palace confirmed a member of the royal family was seriously injured in a hunting accident on Sandringham Estate, yet we've had no further official updates."

"No, and I expect we won't, I'm afraid. Though with most of the royal family now enjoying the new year at the Klosters ski resort in Switzerland, simple process of elimination has all but confirmed the rumours that it was Evangeline who was injured."

"Process of elimination?"

"She, the King, and Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, are the only three members of the royal family missing from the trip. While His Majesty has never been particularly fond of Klosters, Lord Clarence seemed to enjoy himself last year with Princess Mary and Prince Benedict, and one might expect him to be eager to ring in the new year with Evangeline, as the pair have been dating for quite a while now."

"Yet Buckingham Palace has refused to comment on any speculation regarding the incident."

"If it truly was an accident, then it's possible a devoted staff member or even a senior royal was also involved."

"Also involved? How?"

"Well, presumably someone must have pulled the trigger."

"And you believe it might have been another member of the royal family?"

"It would certainly be a twist, wouldn't it? And it would explain the palace's lack of communication regarding the matter. Royal courtiers would never allow such a thing to become public knowledge, even as a rumour."

"And if it wasn't an accident?"

"Well, that's pure conjecture, isn't it? But I will admit, there is some evidence that points to there being more to the story than we know. The police response to the incident was far stronger than one might expect from a simple hunting accident where all factors were known, and the subsequent investigation and search of the estate, as well as the royal family's hasty return to Windsor Castle, could possibly lead one to believe there may have been an active threat against the family."

"You're starting to sound rather like a conspiracy theorist, Henrietta."

[laughs] "Oh, dear me! That's hardly my intention, I assure you."

"It is all rather befuddling, though, isn't it? Particularly in light of the recent drama that has plagued the royal family."

"Yes, I rather think it is. And the fact remains—we have no idea who shot Evangeline. Or what the circumstances were that led to such a dangerous—and potentially fatal—mistake."

—ITV News's interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 3 January 2024

FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, while most of the family takes off to the Swiss Alps to enjoy a prolonged ski trip, I'm stuck haunting the halls of Windsor.

Kit and my parents stay behind with me, and while no one says anything, I notice that my mother's wardrobe expands from a week's worth of nice sweaters and pants to paint-stained T-shirts and jeans with holes in the knees. They're not clothes she would have brought with her for a temporary holiday stay, and I'm sure Alexander's already had her things shipped over from Virginia.

Kit and I spend most of those weeks in my suite, watching Netflix, reading books, and listening to my new record collection. He's attentive to a fault, and even after my shoulder heals enough for me to use my arm again, he's constantly fetching things for me and acting like I'm incapable of anything more than light conversation. The only plus to the whole situation is that, without either of us really discussing it, he spends the night—every night—in my suite. Sometimes we fall asleep on the sofa, but other times, we're both awake enough to make it to bed. And while he always falls asleep with his arms around me or his hand in mine, he's annoyingly proper and respectful about it.

I wake up before him almost every morning—a switch from our usual routine, but I can't seem to sleep for longer than a few hours anymore. Maybe it's the lingering pain, or maybe it's the constant buzz of adrenaline that seems to course through me, always on alert for another crack, another bullet, another near miss that doesn't this time. Either way, I spend those predawn hours on my laptop, scrolling through everything I can find about Ben. Old articles about his birth and public appearances as a child, gossip posts about his seemingly endless supply of temporary girlfriends, pictures of him spilling out of nightclubs at four in the morning, sometimes with Jasper, sometimes with Maisie, and even sometimes with Kit—anything that might clue me in as to why he's doing this, or offer a single shred of proof that he's capable of sending a gunman after me in the middle of a royal estate.

But there's nothing. He is, as far as the internet knows, an astonishingly polite and intelligent young prince with a harmless taste for partying. There's no evidence of the malicious side of him that he's kept hidden from his own family, and the only hint I find of his ruthlessness is a glint in his eyes that I'm sure no one else sees—either because they refuse to acknowledge the monster underneath, or because I'm the only one who knows it's there in the first place.

Every morning, I close my tabs the instant I hear Kit stirring, and I never tell him about my research on Ben—not because I don't trust him, but because I'm sure he'll insist that it isn't my job to figure out what happened this time. That whoever shot us won't be bragging about it on social media, and right now, the only thing I need to worry about is healing, while the police do the hard work of tracking down the shooter and figuring out why they did it.

Kit wouldn't be wrong. But when no one else is willing to admit that Ben could still be a suspect even if he didn't pull the trigger, it would feel wrong for me to listen.

For now, I feel marginally better knowing exactly where Ben is—at Klosters, with Maisie, Helene, and the rest of the family. My phone remains mercifully silent for the first week of their trip, but a few days after New Year's, I wake up to sixteen text messages from Maisie, all screeching at me for not telling her about my new pocket-sized minder. She proceeds to send me pictures, videos, and voice notes informing me about every minute of her day in excruciating detail, and the only reason I don't complain is because of how many times I catch sight of Ben lurking in the background. I don't like the idea of him being anywhere near my sister, but as long as he's preoccupied, there's a chance he isn't plotting my death.

"Maisie seems happy," I say to Kit as we both ignore the rom-com playing on my laptop. He's on his own mobile, texting with his brows knit, and I glance at him. "Everything okay?"

"What? Oh—yes," he says quickly, switching off his screen and offering me a smile. "Just my parents. What's this about Maisie?"

"She's in a good mood, that's all," I say. "I think she and Gia made up. Rosie really hasn't said anything?"

"I haven't heard from her since the photo she sent on New Year's Eve," he says, and I snort.

"I still can't believe she managed to include that much cleavage in a single selfie. It's a shame we know she was in Johannesburg for Christmas, otherwise I wouldn't put it past her to be the one who tried to off me."

Kit shakes his head. "She's far too good of a shot. She can fell a deer at a truly remarkable distance."

"Really?" I say, surprised. "She doesn't exactly seem like the hunting type."

"Maisie's the one who can't hit the broad side of a barn," he says. "Gia doesn't shoot, but Rosie has real talent."

"Either way, she wouldn't have risked hitting you," I say, glancing at his sleeve. The graze on his arm is well on its way to being healed, but every time I catch sight of it, dread fills the pit of my stomach as I imagine what could've happened. What almost did. And whenever Kit's eyes linger on me a little too long, I know he's thinking the same thing.

"Yes," he agrees quietly. "I think we can rule her out as a suspect."

His phone vibrates again, and he reaches for it before stopping himself, his mouth set in a thin line. As stoic as he is, he's terrible at hiding his emotions, and now it's my turn to frown.

"Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Positive," he says, and he sounds so genuine that I want to believe him. His brows are still furrowed, though, and as he pulls me into his arms so we can both settle in and watch the movie, he holds me a little tighter than usual.

Before I can decide if I want to press or not, my phone chimes, and I grumble as I grab it off the end table. "If this is another picture of Maisie's dinner…"

But it isn't. Instead, it's from an unknown American number, and with a jolt of familiarity, I notice the area code.

202. Washington, D.C.

Sure enough, when I open the message, there aren't any words—only a single emoji of a tiny hand making a heart with its pointer finger and thumb.

"I'm going to murder Maisie," I growl, tossing my phone aside. "She gave Thaddeus my number."

"Thaddeus? Park?" says Kit, and to my surprise, he chuckles. "Perhaps she thinks you need more friends."

"She should've asked me first," I mutter.

"You're not wrong, but this is also Maisie we're talking about," he says, drawing me to him again. "The concept of asking for permission is completely foreign to her."

I grumble a bit more. "I keep seeing Ben in the background of her pictures."

"Oh?" says Kit mildly. "She did mention wanting to keep an eye on him."

"Yes, but she doesn't have to actually hang out with him all day," I say. He doesn't disagree, at least, and after a moment I decide to test the waters. "I really think he had something to do with it, Kit. I know he was with Alexander and everyone else, I know they were watching him the whole time, but the gift he gave me at Christmas…"

"Gift?" says Kit, instantly more alert. "You mean that photo album? Is there something sinister inside?"

I shake my head, though I don't actually know, because I've refused to touch it. "It's the cover. Look—I think it's still under the couch."

Sure enough, when Kit bends down to grope beneath the sofa, he straightens a moment later with the album in his hand. His fingers brush against the gold lettering, and in the daylight, it's easier to see the slight indent of where the 2023 used to be. Without me saying a word, his eyebrows shoot up, and he leans in to get a better look.

"Is that…?" he says, and I nod.

"My death year. Obviously he was wrong, but not for lack of trying."

Kit sucks in a breath. "Ev, you have to show someone. Even if Ben had nothing to do with the shooting, this is still a very real threat."

I frown. "He'll claim it was a mistake, or that he didn't mean for it to look like a memorial album."

"Maybe, but you still need to tell your father," he insists, and I sigh.

"I will, once Maisie's back and my mom's settled into her routine here. But it won't change anything, Kit—you know it won't. Alexander will make more excuses, and everyone will think I have an irrational vendetta against Ben, especially when he has a dozen witnesses who can truthfully say he was with them when we were attacked."

"It doesn't matter what anyone thinks," says Kit, setting the album aside and wrapping his arms around me again. "What matters is your safety."

"Alexander said he won't let him anywhere near me or my mom again," I say, resting against his chest. "I think that's the best I can hope for right now. I can't prove anything, not yet, but…there's just something about the way Ben looks at me. And his smirk—it's like he knows something bad is coming, and he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Kit nuzzles the top of my head. "When—if—it does, we'll figure out how to beat him at his own game, Ev. I promise."

"What if we can't?" I say. "Or…what if it costs us something we don't want to lose?"

Our eyes meet, and the energy between us crackles with everything we haven't said. "Then we'll make him pay," says Kit quietly. And I know he means it.

THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE to another round of faint whispers coming from somewhere nearby. It's still early, and when I glance at Kit, he's fast asleep, clearly unbothered by the eerie sound.

I head into my sitting room on the off chance someone really is out there, but of course it's empty, and the voices disappear as soon as I cross the threshold. Too rattled to remain in my apartment, I brush my teeth and head toward the family dining room instead. Alexander is already seated at the table with a newspaper in one hand and a piece of toast in the other, and he glances up when I enter.

"Good morning," he says, managing to conceal most of his surprise. To be fair, I'm usually not an early bird. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," I lie, plopping down into the chair beside him. Telling him about the strange whispers feels dangerous, even though I can't figure out why. "My phone kept going off—Maisie went to some party, and she sent about a hundred pictures."

"Did I not show you how to silence your mobile?" he says before taking a bite of toast.

"I know how," I say, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate. "But I forgot, and it was on the other side of the room. Where's my mom?"

"She had a long night," he says, and at my glare, he shakes his head with faint amusement. "Painting, Evie. She had a long night painting. She hasn't been sleeping well since Christmas, and—well, we both know she needs her rest."

Yes, she does, and even though the shooting wasn't my fault, guilt slices through me anyway. A footman brings me a plate identical to my father's, and I thank him before stabbing the scrambled eggs with my fork. "How long before the press finds out she's still here, and that she didn't just fly over for Christmas?"

"A few months, if we're lucky," admits Alexander. "By then, I hope Helene will agree to announce our separation."

"And turn my mom into the bad guy all over again?" I say, and he sighs.

"I'm afraid that can't be helped at this point. But I promise you, I will do my very best to set the record—"

"Your Majesty."

Both of us turn. Jenkins stands in the doorway with a tablet in his hands, and while he's always been a master of worried looks and concerned frowns, he seems uncharacteristically apprehensive.

"Yes, Jenkins?" says my father in a voice that makes it clear he sees it, too.

"My sincerest apologies for interrupting, sir. But I've just received word that there's been an article published on the Daily Sun's site, and…" He glances down at the screen. "I believe you may want to see the accompanying photographs."

I freeze, my heart pounding as Jenkins brings the tablet over to Alexander, who accepts it with the air of someone being handed a live snake.

"What is it this time?" I say, my mouth dry and my forkful of eggs forgotten. "Was someone taking pictures at the hospital? Were you and my mom photographed together? Did Maisie and Gia—" I stop and resist the urge to look guiltily at the footmen still in the room with us. Their relationship isn't a secret in the family anymore, but I'm not about to out my sister to the entire damn world.

Alexander swipes the screen methodically, his expression unreadable. The passing seconds are agony as a dozen possibilities flash through my mind, each worse than the last, but eventually his hand stills, and to my shock, he starts to chuckle.

"It isn't you or your mother or Maisie," he says. "It seems Helene and my wayward brother were caught together in a hot tub in Switzerland."

I gasp and scramble to his side, ignoring the protest from my healing shoulder. Sure enough, there are more than a dozen photos taken last night that show Helene and Nicholas in a private hot tub together, and there's no mistaking their steamy kisses and intimate touches for anything short of a hot and heavy affair.

"Holy shit," I whisper, and I look at Alexander, my eyes wide. "Holy shit."

He laughs again, a strangely dignified sound that carries two decades of relief with it, and he hands the tablet back to Jenkins. "Well, then," he says. "This will certainly be interesting."