I stare at him for a long moment, waiting for him to flinch or look away or show any sign that he understands how absurd this is. He doesn’t. He’s been trained to keep her thirty-six-year-old son locked in his room like a teenager who’s grounded for missing curfew.
“And what happens if I choose to disregard that request and leave anyway?”
“I’ve been instructed to accompany you wherever you go and report back to Her Majesty at the end of each shift.”
“Wow. I’m not a child.”
“I agree with you, Your Highness. I’m following the queen’s direct orders.”
“I know. Apologies. My frustration isn’t with you, but rather my mother.”
So, I can walk the halls of my own palace, but every step will bedocumented and delivered to my mother. It’s the illusion of freedom without having any.
“Is there any way I can convince you not to do that?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, I’ve been instructed not to follow your order, per Her Majesty.”
“Of course. I’m sorry you’re wasting your time,” I say.
“Sir, it’s an honor.”
I give him a nod and close the door. The frustration rushing through me has me wanting to be reckless. I move to the window beside my bed and open it. I look down at a fifteen-foot drop, then stare at the dark sea. Tomorrow, I’ll be going to my storage and searching for my rappelling equipment from when I went cave exploring a few years ago.
My loft feels much smaller than it did this morning. The walls are the same distance apart, but everything feels like it’s pressing in on me. I pour myself a whiskey and stand at the window, watching the gardens below, where staff are setting up something near the rose beds. Lanterns maybe. It looks like a table for two.
I haven’t seen Addison in four days. My schedule has been intentionally packed. Between strategic meetings and meals with visiting dignitaries who want to discuss trade agreements, I’ve had no extra time to see her.
I gave Delphine a note to deliver to Addison this morning.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I down the whiskey and cross the room, expecting to find another guard with another politely worded command. Instead, Delphine slips inside and closes the door behind her, pressing her back against it like she’s barricading us in.
“What the fuck?” she asks, glancing around the room, making sure we’re alone.
She pushes off the door and goes straight to the whiskey. We both look like a mess as we take double shots.
“We need to talk.”
“Clearly,” I say, making a hand motion to turn the volume down. “They’re reporting everything to Mother.”
“I know. I started getting followed three days ago. I’ve not been able to go anywhere. It’s destroying my summer.” She drinks several gulps. “I’ve been working all year to show off this body! Even my phone is being tracked. I couldn’t deliver your note.”
She hands it back to me, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a slim folder.
“But I did find what you’d asked for. The palace archives had records of every piece Henri had painted during his tenure. Locations, storage moves, catalog numbers. It took some digging because half of it was handwritten in cursive that looks like drunk calligraphy, but it’s all there.”
I take the folder and flip it open. It’s pages of inventory lists, dates, and room assignments. Some entries are crossed out with new locations noted beside them. It’s going to take time to go through, time I don’t have right now.
“Thank you.” I set it on my desk. “I’ll look at this later.”
“You’re welcome. Now tell me what the hell is happening.”
I run a hand through my hair and resist the urge to throw something. “Mother is isolating us. Making sure we have no allies, no information, no way to know what’s going on.”
“She’s starving the fire burning between you. Are you sure your relationship can handle this?” Delphine’s voice is serious.
The thought of it makes me sick. “Addison knows I’m not giving up. She’s too smart to fall for these tricks.”
My mother isn’t just separating us physically. She’s trying to break Addison’s faith in me, to make her believe I’ve chosen duty over her.
