My hands shake as I set the phone down on my desk. Years of building a new identity, of avoiding recognition, and it could all be about to crumble at the hands of the man who destroyed my father.
My phone rings once more, and I almost leap out of my skin.
“Judith, hi,” I say into my phone.
“You’ve spoken with the palace?” she asks.
“I have.”
“And?”
“I’m meeting with them this afternoon, but I’m not sure what they want with me.”
And I’m terrified they’ve worked me out.
“You won't know by sitting at home on your thumbs. Go, meet with them and find out. They’ve singled you out. It's an honor.”
Or an execution.
I look around at the water-stained wallpaper, the photograph of my dad and me in our golden moment.
I’ve done what I’ve done to survive, to eke out an existence amid the rubble of my family’s downfall.
It’s time to discover what the King wants with Fabiana Fontaine.
Chapter 3
Valentina
The palace gates loom before me like something out of a fever dream, wrought iron and foreboding. My hands shake as I show my ID to the guard, and for one terrifying moment I'm convinced he'll take one look at my face and declare, “Lady Valentina Romano, you're under arrest for impersonating Fabiana Fontaine!”
Yup, I’m as melodramatic as a soap star right now. That’s what you get from years of hiding behind a fake identity, who happens to writeabout the royal family.
But of course he doesn’t know who I really am. No one does here at the palace.
And that’s the way it needs to stay.
The guard simply nods and waves me through, and I shoot him a tight smile before I park my rattling pile of rust in a space beside one of the palace’s sweeping lawns.
My car door creaks as I close it, and I half expect curtains to twitch at windows as staff and family startle at the sound.
I take a deep, steadying breath and smooth down the skirt of my suit. Squinting in the bright summer sun, I try to throw a lasso around my thoughts that are running like wild horses.
Is the King going to sue me for libel?
Could he have me deported?
Is he going to ban me from ever writing about the royal family again, which would mean the end of my career and my income? And most importantly, Nona and I will be out on the street: homeless, hungry, and desperate.
Or perhaps he's going to have me flogged at dawn in front of an audience of everyone I've ever written about, all of whom will be baying for my blood?
I push an errant hair behind my ear.
There’s an outside chance I might be catastrophizing right now.
A woman in her forties, with her hair cropped, wearing sensible shoes, with a no-nonsense demeanor, approaches me. “Ms. Fontaine, I presume?” she asks, her eyes gliding over my car in obvious judgment before they land on me.
Show time.
