Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
If only it were that simple. If only telling the truth wouldn’t blow up my entire life in a way I can’t afford.
I signed a contract. An iron-clad, airtight, unbreakable contract. I cannot say the words, “My name is Harriet Sinclair,” or any variation of them, or I forfeit my trust fund. Without it, I have nothing—no safety net, no monthly stipend, no means of hiring legal assistance. I also won’t have the Sinclair name, as to reveal my identity before the agreed upon time means I willingly walk away and disinherit myself.
Which my father knows.
That’s exactly why he made me sign it.
I don’t even know if it’s legal. Not that it matters. When this amount of money is involved, legality is a small matter. A mild inconvenience. Something to be swept under the rug.
And God only knows how corrupt the upper echelons of Askurian society are.
That’s why I need someone to recognise me. Someone to look at me and see my mother.
Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile.
Something.
Anything.
My resemblance to her is my only hope.
I sigh, drawing a glance from the driver, but he turns his attention back to the road without saying anything. Maybe this would be easier if I were smarter. If I had any idea how to manipulate my way into seeing the Queen. If I had friendships or connections that could help push me in front of her.
But I have nothing.
Thanks to the Sinclairs, I’m completely isolated.
Despite my bravado and willingness to burn the entire family to the ground, my means of doing so are woefully limited. Marrying Crown Prince Finley as is my childhood agreement is the most extreme, most difficult of all the options available to me.
The most satisfying.
But it isn’t necessary. It isn’t the only way—at least in the future.
After all, if I must, I’ll simply wait.
Wait until Jasmine has married him.
Wait until I have full access to what belongs to me.
Wait until I can build my own life without their interference, where I can make contact with people who can fuck them up from the inside out.
I don’t care who it hurts. Not my father, not his mistress, not his daughter, not even the Royal Family.
I just want the Sinclairs to burn.
And I know that someone, somewhere, will protect me while handing me the match to do it.
It would simply be sweeter if it were the person Jasmine fancies herself in love with.
Oh, how I dream of her expression if that were to happen.
She’s not in love with him. She’s in love with his position and the power it would give her. She’s in love with the title, the attention, the fact she’d one day be the most powerful woman in the country.
So am I.
The difference between us is that I’m happy to admit it. To his face, too.
“We’re here, miss.”
The driver’s voice pulls me out of my reverie, and I blink, sitting up straight.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, grabbing my bags. I let myself out of the taxi with my things, and the moment he pulls away, I add a tip to the total on the app and rate him.
After all, the man never said a word.
That makes for the perfect companion, if you ask me.
No sooner have I done that than a sleek black car that practically screams wealth pulls up in front of me. The back door opens, and a tall, brown-haired woman dressed in a sharp black suit steps out and eyes me.
“Hannah Porter?”
“That’s me,” I reply.
“Do you have the agreement with you?”
I pull the envelope from my bag and hand it to her. She takes it without a word, then slides the agreement out and scans each page. After a couple of minutes, she nods and pushes it back into the envelope.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to hand over your phone for security reasons. Please turn it off before doing so.”
Ah.
I hesitate, but ultimately, I turn off the device that’s still in my hand and give it to her.
She tucks it into her pocket and steps to the side. “After you.”
“Thank you.” I slide across the backseat and set my bags by my feet. The unnamed woman gets in the front seat without a word and closes the door, then nods to the driver who returns the gesture and immediately indicates to pull away.
A heavy blanket of silence settles over the car, and the nausea I felt earlier returns tenfold. My stomach is almost rolling, and with each churning wave comes the urge to fidget or shuffle.
I can do neither.
I can’t show weakness right now, no matter how badly I want to throw up and breathe into a paper bag.
I have to conceal it. Keep it inside. Pretend that I’m completely fine, that I know what’s happening, that I’m not in totally uncharted territory right now.
I clear my throat and look at the stern woman in the front of the car. “Are you able to tell me where we’re going?”