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)
“Yes. Does she want to claim the original agreement? Does she wish to marry you?”
“That’s a heavy question for a first date,” I say dryly, making her laugh despite her heavy emotions. “What if she says no? That she’s just happy to live her life, take her trust fund, and disappear? Then what?”
“Then I’ll assist her in any way possible. The entire Royal Household will,” Mum answers without missing a beat. “And your marriage to the Sinclairs will be cancelled. After they’ve lied so thoroughly, I refuse to grant Royal Assent for your marriage to Jasmine Sinclair.”
I sit up straight. “And what excuse will you give? If Harriet doesn’t want them to know she’s been found out, it could harm her more than anything if they do.”
“I suppose. Fine. In that event, I’ll arrange a fake partner for you—you’ll have a nine-month courtship before you mutually break it off. Everyone will believe it’s a love match. That’s a condition both Franny and I agreed on. If either of you met someone you truly wished to spend your life with, we would happily give our blessing. Lying about you meeting someone isn’t a big deal. It wouldn’t be the first time our family has done such a thing, and whoever she is will be well compensated. Whatever happens, we’ll figure something out to protect Harriet.”
“All right.” I rub the back of my neck and stretch it side to side. “There’s no guarantee she’ll tell me anything. She was tight-lipped in here.”
“She’ll tell you enough. At least find out what she plans for the future.”
“All right, fine, fine.” With a sigh, I stand up and wipe my hands on my trousers. “I’ll see what I can get out of her, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Every hope I’ve ever possessed has been fulfilled today,” Mum says softly, still gazing out of the window. “She’s alive. She’s healthy. Now, my only wish is for her to be happy. Your job is to find out how we make that happen.”
Something tells me that’s easier said than done.
There’s a twenty-year hole in Harriet’s life. Twenty years we know nothing of. Not of her health, her whereabouts, her wellbeing. We know nothing of what she might have went through during that time.
Where was she, really? How did she get there? Who took her there? Who cared for her after? Did she escape whoever took her? How did she get back here? Did someone help her, and if they did, then who?
It truly is nothing short of a miracle that she’s returned home.
How do you make a stranger happy?
All I can do is listen to her. Ask her what she needs. Ask her how we can help, what she’d like to do from here, where she’d like to go. Does she want to stay as Hannah Porter, continue her photography, and build her own studio? Does she want to reclaim the name given to her at birth and the things that come along with it?
Does she want to leave here, create a new identity, and live her life a million miles away from it all?
None of those choices are wrong. Every one of them is right in their own way.
The problem I have is that I’m not buying what she’s selling. Now, I’m certain that she knew exactly who I was the moment our eyes met. It’s why she went along with everything—me bursting into her room, the vague work offer, the confidentiality agreement, everything.
She knew she was safe with me.
The Crown Prince of this nation poses no threat to her, and she knows it. She’s always known it.
So, why not tell me the truth? Why lie? What was her goal? What is her goal? Was it gaining entry to the palace this whole time? Did she somehow know that my mother would look at her and recognise her? Was it all a desperate act by a desperate person?
That familiarity I felt whenever I looked at her makes sense now. I’ve grown up surrounded by stories and pictures of Francesca Sinclair, and aside from one or two small things, Harriet looks exactly like her. I just couldn’t place her.
The door to the room Rowan led her to is ajar, and I pause outside for a moment to peek through the gap. She’s sitting calmly on the sofa with her laptop on her thighs, and she has a small mouse resting on it. She’s clicking away, busying herself with something I can’t see, and it gives me time.
Time to look at her.
Her blonde hair is pulled to one side and cascading over her shoulder, and the wispy bits that make up her long fringe tickle the apple of her cheek as she tilts her head to the side. Her dark green, almost moss-coloured eyes are fixed firmly on the laptop screen—eyes that have shown a myriad of emotions over the past couple of hours.