I look at Kit, who can’t see my screen from his angle. “Rosie,” I say, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Why would she be callingme?”
“At this time of morning, no less,” he says, his shoulders still tight from the mention of John Phillip Michaels. “Only one way to find out.”
I suck in a breath and reach for the ringing phone, the cloud of dread hanging over this day only growing. “Rosie?” I say, switching the call to speaker. “Is everything okay?”
“He did it,” sobs Rosie, her voice thick and almost unintelligible. “He finally posted the pictures. I thought—it’s been so long, and I thought maybe he wasn’t going to, or maybe—maybe he thought I could still be useful to him, but—a boy I dated this summer texted me a screenshot from this awful website. It’s me. They even have my face in some of them, and the freckles on my—”
“The photos Ben was blackmailing you with?” I say, struggling to keep up. But there’s only one person “he” could be. “Today? Just now?”
Rosie cries even harder. “I haven’t spoken to him since January! I swear, Evan, I’ve stayed out of his way completely. I don’t answer unknown numbers or emails, and I’ve got my security locked down—”
“I believe you,” I say hastily. On the other side of the bed, Kit’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest, and his jaw is clenched like he’s ready to punch something. He and I both. “Can you text me the site? Maybe we can find the originals.”
“That’s—that’s not all,” says Rosie, and she pauses to blow her nose. “I—I took Snickers for—for a jog in the park just now, and—and someone was following me, I’m sure of it. I had to—to stop and catch a cab, I was so scared.”
I freeze, and once again, I lock eyes with Kit. Neither of us says a word, but I can tell he’s thinking exactly the same thing.
Dylan.
I shift my gaze to Tibby and mouth,Stephens?She shakes her head, and I know why. Rosie isn’t royal, and Victor Stephens won’t lift a pinky to help her, even if it is Dylan. “Did you see their face?” I say urgently. “Was it paparazzi, maybe? Did you notice anything at all?”
“Nothing,” says Rosie miserably. “Just shadows and a silhouette, but I swear someone was there, Evan.”
“I believe you,” I repeat, and she lets out another soft sob. “Listen—I’m going to send someone to talk to you, all right? It might be police, or it might be MI5. And I’m going to see if there’s anything palace security can do for you.” Tibby’s opinion be damned. “Just do me a favor and don’t open the door to anyone without a badge. And if you see anything else suspicious, call 9-1—I mean 9-9-9, okay?”
“Okay,” says Rosie with a miserable little sniff. “I’m sorry. About everything.”
“I know you are,” I say with all the gentleness I can muster. “Don’t take any chances. I’ll be in touch, all right?”
It takes another minute or so of reassurance for her to hang up, and once she does, I glare at Tibby. “Whatever you have to tell Stephens, get him to send someone over there. And let Singh know that Dylan might be stalking Rosie.”
Tibby sighs. “You can’t just wave your hand and make things so, Evan, especially on a day like today—”
“Singh will want to talk to her anyway,” says Kit. “And ifStephens isn’t willing to send someone, then I’ll hire security forher.”
“Just make it happen, Tibby. Please,” I say. And with my phone still clutched in my hand, I hurry out of the bedroom, through the sitting room and library Kit and I now share, and out into the main corridor, which is bustling despite the early hour. I have to duck around two housekeepers and a footman before I finally reach the door I’m interested in, but when I see who’s standing in front of it, I skid to a halt in my bare feet.
A Secret Service agent.
“She didn’t,” I mutter, and flashing the muscled man a tight smile, I knock hard on my sister’s door. Sure enough, it opens seconds later, but it isn’t Maisie who greets me.
Instead, it’s a tall, handsome teenage boy with black hair and a jaw that could cut diamond, and as soon as he sees me, he breaks out into a massive smile.
Thaddeus Park, President Park’s son.
Chapter Twenty
I’m here! FRONT ROW at the red carpet!!!!! by the entrance wearing a pink ROYAL REBEL shirt and holding a yellow sign! If I get a selfie I will DIE!!! #brightgomeryforever
—Twitter user @dutchessdame172, 10 September 2024, 7:05a.m., London, UK
“Evangeline!”
Thaddeus’s voice booms through the corridor, twice as loud as anyone else in the castle would dare to be this early in the morning, and he wraps his arms around me in a bear hug like we’re old friends. In reality, we’ve only met once—at a state dinner last December, though I know he’s been in contact with Maisie frequently. Obviously, since he’s come all this way to see her. And, I suspect, thinks she might be interested in dating him.
For once, I have nothing to do with that, considering Maisie was the one who managed to ruin her three-year relationship with one Lady Georgiana Greyville—Gia, the third in the trio that was once her, Maisie, and Rosie. Given Maisie’s sour mood ever since, I think it’s safe to say she isn’t over the breakup yet.But Thaddeus either doesn’t know her well enough to recognize the signs, or Maisie’s putting on the performance of a lifetime around him, because his thousand-watt grin could light up all of London.
“Thaddeus?” I say, stunned. “What are you doing here?” I look back and forth between him and Maisie, who’s standing on a platform while a woman with white hair hems her pale blue gown—presumably for the premiere tonight. My sister must have heard me come in, but she’s staring resolutely in the mirror, as if nothing exists outside of her own reflection.
