“About us. Have you seen this?” As I hold the phone up for her, I feel a hand on my arm. I look back at Ami.
“Read the full article,” Amelia instructs.
“Why? What does it say?” Fabiana asks. She’s clasping her hands together so tightly her knuckles have turned white.
I understand. She’s a journalist, here to do a job. The last thing she needs is for the country to learn we’re romantically involved.
I scroll past the photo and begin to read.
Fabiana Fontaine’s exposé on Prince Max is starting to look more like an exposé of passion than anything professional, the couple being caught in a clinch in the palace grounds yesterday. Is this part of your ploy, Ms. Fontaine? Or just a perk of the job?
“How the heck did they photograph us?” I ask, indignant. “We were in the staff carpark.” I glance at Fabiana. Her face is blanched white, her eyebrows knitted together so tightly they could crush walnuts. I reach for her hand, but she wraps her arms around herself.
“Keep reading,” my sister instructs.
But things get even more delicious when you delve a little deeper, which is exactly what we atThe Posthave done.
A very reliable source has assured us that Fabiana Fontaine, the woman currently enjoying Prince Max’s smiles, among other things, is not who she purports to be.
She is, in fact, someone else entirely.
The words jump out at me, and something twists in my gut.
Masquerading as Fabiana…been doing it for years…Valentina Romano… daughter of the disgraced lord, Vittorio Romano… Does the prince know?
Does the prince know.
“This is ludicrous. Made up rubbish,” I say as I shove the phone back at Amelia. I turn to Fabiana. “They’re saying you’re not who you are. That you’re in fact Valentina Romano, daughter of Lord Vittorio Romano. That’s preposterous, right? Who writes these things?”
But the look on Fabiana’s face tells me it might not be quite as preposterous after all.
My heart stutters. “Fabiana?” I question.
Fabiana’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wild. “Max, please let me explain.”
Wait. What?
One half of me is amused, and the other half has begun to wonder whether I should in fact be freaking out.
“What do you mean ‘explain’?” I ask tentatively, watching her carefully.
“I was just about to tell you, I swear. That's what I was trying to do when your sister turned up just now,” she says.
“How convenient, Fabiana,” Amelia remarks, her arms crossed as she glares at her. “Or should that be Valentina Romano, the girl who used to come here with her father all those years ago?”
Carefully, with my limbs like jelly, I look back up at Fabiana. “You’re Valentina Romano?”
Slowly, with her eyes trained on me, Fabiana’s hand drops from her mouth. “I am,” she says simply.
She’s not who she said she is.
She’s someone else instead.
“Oh, my!” Amelia exclaims, her eyes wide. “It’s true. Father will have kittens!”
“What?” I ask, not believing my ears. “You’re making a joke, right? Something I don’t get.” My brain begins to feel like someone just scrambled the TV channels.
Fabiana shakes her head slowly. “It’s not a joke, Max. I am Valentina Romano. That’s what I was trying to tell you. That’s what I’ve been holding back from you.” Tears prick her eyes, and her lip begins to tremble. “We used to play together. At garden parties, at royal events. I was Valentina then, and you... you were just Max, before everything became so complicated.”
