Chapter Fifteen

In case you've been living under a rock for the past six hours, the Daily Sun has obtained pictures taken last night that show Queen Helene in a very compromising position with her brother-in-law, Prince Nicholas, the Duke of York.

While we can hardly fault the Daily Sun for posting the risqué series of exclusive photographs—we've been known to do so from time to time as well, after all—one must wonder if it might be considered high treason to do so of one's beloved Queen.

After all, who can blame Her Majesty for finding comfort in the nearest pair of exceptionally handsome arms, considering the decades of turbulence and humiliation she's suffered in her marriage to His Majesty? Not only has Queen Helene had to endure the knowledge that her husband was involved in an extramarital affair that produced a child he refused to denounce, but eighteen years later, she's been forced to accept his illegitimate issue into her home and treat her like family—and host the King's mistress during what should have been a private Christmas gathering.

Frankly, Her Majesty deserves a bit of fun, and we at the Regal Record congratulate Queen Helene and His Royal Highness on their affair. We very much hope this turns out better for both of them than their marriages.

For more fascinating royal relationships that might be more than they appear, click through our gallery below.

—The Regal Record,4 January 2024

FOR ONCE, IT'S NOT MY name in the headlines, and even though I feel bad for Helene and Nicholas and the sudden white-hot scrutiny of their relationship, I can't pretend it isn't nice to get a break from all that attention.

What worries me, however, is the fact that the photographs were clearly taken by someone inside their private chateau. A member of the staff, maybe, but Alexander confirms that Helene and Nicholas brought their own personnel with them—all of whom have known about their affair for ages. Which means that if there is a mole, it's someone in the royal party. And while I can't pinpoint a motive, the part of my mind that's fixated on Ben tries to come up with a way that he could be responsible for leaking this, too.

I text Maisie twice that morning, but she doesn't respond. By the time noon rolls around, I'm on the verge of actually calling her when the protection officer now stationed outside my room—a no-nonsense woman in her thirties named Ingrid Straw—informs me that Her Royal Highness has returned to Windsor.

I pause just long enough to scribble a note for Kit, who's showering in his own suite, before I sprint down the long gallery. I'm at my sister's door fifteen seconds later, my shoulder aching and my lungs burning, and taking a deep breath, I knock with all the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb, not entirely sure what I'll find on the other side.

Silence. I scowl.

"Maisie, it's me," I call through the thick wood, glancing atthe burly protection officer standing outside her room—a development I'm sure she's as thrilled with as I am. "I know you're in there. You can't text me nonstop and then decide to ignore mewhen—"

The door flies open, and a hand reaches through the crack, grabbing my good arm and yanking me through the tight space. As soon as I'm inside Maisie's apartment, which is easily twice the size of mine, the door slams shut behind me, and my sister faces me with a mixture of annoyance, fury, and very real fear mingling on her features.

"I can't believe Daddy's allowing someone to stalk me all bloody day," she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she's talking about the protection officer.

"Between the two of us, you're the logical choice," I point out.

"Hardly. You're the one who was nearly killed, not me."

"But you're the one inheriting the throne. I have a shadow now, too, if it makes you feel any better."

"It does not," she says with a sniff, and she whirls back around and marches to a cream-and-gold sofa, where she's strewn the contents of her purse. "I can't find my bloody mobile. I think I left it on the plane."

"You mean this mobile?" I say, picking up the phone that's lying face up on a side table, half-hidden by an enormous vase of hot-pink roses. "Who sent the flowers?"

Maisie snatches her phone out of my hand, checking it over like she expects it to be damaged. "No one," she mutters, but there's still a card nestled among the fragrant petals, and even though I don't mean to snoop, it's impossible to miss the blocky signature.

Thaddeus

I barely—barely manage to suppress a choked laugh. He's definitely barking up the wrong tree. "I'm sorry about the photos," I say. "How's your mom doing?"

"How do you think she's doing?" snaps Maisie as she scoops her things back into her purse. "About as well as you were after that bloody video of you and Jasper was posted, I'd expect."

That's not a fair comparison by any stretch of the imagination, considering Helene was fully conscious and consenting—to Nicholas, at least—but I bite my tongue. "It'll blow over. She and Alexander are already separated anyway, and—"

"I don't bloody care about the photos," my sister explodes, throwing her purse toward the white piano positioned in front of her floor-to-ceiling windows. The leather hits the keyboard in a discordant array of notes, and the contents go flying.

Right. Not just a run-of-the-mill bad mood, but a full-blown temper tantrum. I let her seethe for a few seconds before I say quietly, "What's really going on, Maisie? And don't tell me it's nothing. You've been blowing hot and cold for weeks."

She takes several deep breaths, each one with the kind of crescendo that makes me think she's going to hurl her phone at my head. But at last, after nearly half a minute of this, she sinks onto the sofa and buries her face in her hands.

"You already know what's going on," she mumbles, and I approach her slowly, still not convinced she won't lash out.

"Gia?" I guess, and she nods miserably.

"We tried to patch things up over the New Year, but I was awful to her this morning after we found out about Mummy's pictures, and…"

I ease down beside her. "Why were you awful to her?"

"Because—" The words seem to stick in her throat, and she swallows hard. "The Regal Record posted a bunch of photos."

"Of Nicholas and Helene?" I say, confused. "I thought that was—"

"Of me and Gia," she says, and she glances my way only long enough for me to see how red her eyes are. "As a bonus feature to their story about Mummy and Uncle Nicholas. ‘Royal relationships that may be more than they seem,' or some other nonsense."

My hand twitches toward my phone, and Maisie must notice, because she sighs.

"Go ahead. It's the only way you'll understand."

With an apologetic look, I fish my phone out of my pocket and pull up the Regal Record. It's a simple blog with black text and a white background, free of the frills and ads of most other royal gossip sites, and that somehow makes it all the more unnerving—especially when they get things right.

It takes a few clicks to find the gallery she's talking about, and I swipe through it, studying each photo in turn. They're not all bad—most of them are paparazzi shots of Maisie and Gia leaving clubs or walking into exclusive parties together, and even with how close they're standing, their heads occasionally bent together, it could all easily be considered innocent. But two of the images stand out—both grainier than the others and clearly taken from a distance.

The first is a picture of Maisie, Gia, and Rosie inside the VIP area at a club I don't recognize—which isn't surprising, considering I've only joined them on their midnight excursions a handful of times. While Rosie is tugging on one of her blond curls and making eyes at a server holding a bottle of champagne, Maisie and Gia are leaning close together, and their heads are tilted in such a way to make them look like they're kissing. For all I know, they were.

That doesn't sound like my sister, though, who always at least pretends to be careful with her secrets. From an unbiased perspective, it's obvious the angle and lighting aren't doing them any favors, and I could easily argue that nothing is really happening. But when I find the second damning photo, I take a slow breath and release it, trying to keep the shock off my face.

It's impossible to positively identify Maisie and Gia in the shadows of the dimly lit room, which is full of people drinking and dancing. But the innocuous previous photo does the detective work for the viewer, plainly showing them arm in arm in the same distinct outfits they're wearing in the second picture. Maisie's hand—identifiable from the golden bangles she's wearing and the ring on her thumb—is resting dangerously high on Gia's deep brown thigh. Gia's fingers are tangled in Maisie's strawberry-blond waves, and while their faces are obscured, it's clear that they're taking advantage of the darkness and stealing a quick kiss. Or more.

"No one's supposed to take pictures at those parties," says Maisie miserably. "That's always been the deal. Anyone caught trying has been kicked out, but…"

"But someone got away with it," I say, flipping through the photos again. "Do you remember when this happened? Is there any chance you might be able to figure out who took it?"

"It's always the same people at those bloody parties," she says, pressing her palms into her eyes. "That was from October—Rosie's birthday. I had a little too much to drink, and I wasn't thinking—"

"It's not your fault," I say. "Whoever sent this in—"

"Of course it's my bloody fault," she bursts, her temper flaring again. "I should've known someone would be watching. I should've never trusted any of them, I should've never taken the bloody risk—"

"You're allowed to kiss your girlfriend at a party," I say firmly.

"You might be, but I'm the future queen," she snaps. "If I'm outed, all hell will break loose. There are already whole social media accounts dedicated to Gia and me, watching our every move, reading far more into things than they should—"

"Are they, though?" I say, and she gives me a look that could set the ocean on fire. "Listen, I'm not trying to push you into something you're not ready for, but explain it to me—what's the worst that could happen if you and Gia go public?"

Maisie laughs suddenly, humorless and borderline hysterical. "That's easy. Benedict gets the crown."

"Well—yeah, obviously, if you two don't have kids. But—"

"You've no idea how the succession works, do you?" she says, and there are tears in her eyes now. "It's what you and your American sensibilities might refer to as archaic. I'll be the head of the Church of England as Queen, and while a portion of the world may have moved on from certain narrow-minded prejudices, I assure you that the archbishops have not."

"So this is a religious thing, not a royal thing?" I say slowly, and she scoffs.

"They're one and the same. Succession law very clearly dictates that my heirs—who I'd have to give birth to—would only be allowed to inherit the throne if I'm married to their biological father. Adoptees aren't eligible, and forget any sort of donation." She laughs again, raking her nails through her hair and grabbing fistfuls of it. "And the line of succession is set now, isn't it? Mummy and Daddy obviously aren't going to have any more children, and Nicholas is second in line after me. As soon as we all die, Benedict's going to win. No matter what I do, he's going to get exactly what he wants."

"Dunno," I say. "From what you've said, you might destroy the whole monarchy before he ever gets the chance to sit on the throne."

She buries her face in her hands, and her shoulders start to shake, but I don't know if she's laughing or crying. I set my hand on her back anyway, rubbing circles against her sweater, and my eyes fall on the hot-pink roses once more.

Oh.

"Does Thaddeus know about Gia?" I say delicately, and she sniffs.

"No."

"Are you going to tell him about Gia?"

"I don't know," she whimpers, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders in an awkward hug. She doesn't push me away, though, so that's progress.

"Is that what you're fighting about?" I say, but by now, I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

Maisie nods, wiping her wet eyes and smudging her mascara. Clearly she didn't think to wear the waterproof kind today. "I don't know what else to do. A few dates with Thaddeus would get the rumors off our backs, but Gia's furious."

"Thaddeus probably will be, too, if he finds out you're using him," I say. "Usually both halves of a fauxmance know they're in one."

"A what?" She turns her head to look at me properly, and I gently wipe the black smudges from her face with my thumbs.

"A fauxmance. A fake romance," I explain. "They're common in Hollywood, I think. There's always some rumor going around that two actors are together to publicize their new movie, or that they have a relationship contract—"

"A what?" she says again, and this time I see the spark of something I don't like in her eyes.

"I'm not here to give you ideas, Mais, and I don't know what to say to make any of this better. Just that…we'll figure it out, all right? I promise. And who knows—maybe Ben will do us all a favor and die young."

She focuses on the cream rug, and I notice her nails are short and ragged. I've never seen her with anything less than a perfect manicure before, and this more than anything tells me exactly how upset she really is.

"There are several monarchs whom historians suspect also…favored the same sex," she says softly. "They all married, though, and most of them had children. Queen Anne was pregnant at least seventeen times. Seventeen." She looks at me again, her blue eyes almost pleading. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

In that moment, my heart breaks for her. She has all the privilege and wealth and status anyone could ever ask for, but what's the point if it's really just a gilded cage?

"I can't tell you what to do," I say, taking her hand in mine. "But I will say that while those kings and queens didn't have much of a choice, you do. We don't live in the eighteenth century anymore, and the people love you—even the ones who are…less than open-minded. You have a right to be yourself. You have a right to be happy and to be with the person you love and to not give up such a huge part of who you are just so you don't make strangers uncomfortable. I mean—look where prioritizing the crown got our parents. They're all miserable. Or they were, at least, for longer than we've been alive."

Maisie shakes her head and, in what's possibly the most shocking thing I've ever seen her do, she wipes her nose on the sleeve of her cashmere sweater. "I really don't want to end up like them."

"Me neither," I admit. "Especially your mom. No offense."

"None taken." She sniffs again. "I don't think I've ever really seen her happy before, except when she's with Nicholas."

"And I don't think I've ever really seen you happy before, except when you're with Gia. Or ordering me around," I add as an afterthought.

Maisie sighs again, ignoring my quip. "I love her. I hate that we're fighting. I hate that this might be the end, all because of things we can't control. It isn't fair. Thaddeus is the perfect solution, and it wouldn't be forever."

"I'm not sure that would end well for anyone, though," I say.

"I know," she mumbles. "I don't want to lose her. I've tried talking to her about it a million times, but—"

Abrupt staccato footsteps sound in the hallway, growing louder as they approach Maisie's sitting room. No one knocks, however, and we both fall silent, listening as they fade—until the muffled but unmistakable sound of Helene's shrieks echoes down the corridor.

"Mummy's home," says Maisie grimly, and with one more pass at her face with her sleeve, she grabs my good arm and yanks me to my feet, dragging me to the door.