“I don’t care. I would’ve doneanythingto be there for either of you no matter what my grandma said. You made that choice. Before, I could understand, since you had Maisie here and couldn’t exactly walk away. But now…” I shake my head. He still couldn’t have walked away, not when the entire world thought Maisie was his. But he could’ve donesomethinginstead of ignoring me all those years, and I wipe my cheeks, furious and spiraling as everything I thought was solid turns to smoke, giving me nothing to hold on to anymore.
“Ev…” Kit brushes his fingers against my elbow in a gentle question. I don’t pull away, even though my skin crawls at the thought of being touched right now. But it’s Kit. Even if I can count on no one else, at least I can count on him.
“Can we go?” I say, my eyes welling up again, and the look he gives me is so full of pity that I want the earth to swallow me whole.
“Of course,” he says, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me toward the door. My mom and Alexander say nothing, and I’m grateful. This isn’t something a few apologies and excuses will fix. The foundation of my entire life has shattered, and I have no idea how to put the pieces back together—or if I’ll ever be able to trust either of them again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Over the past twenty-four hours, we’ve received an uptick in anonymous tips in regards to a particularly juicy—and flat-out treasonous—rumour that’s been making the royal rounds for nearly two decades. And while we always make sure to vet our sources before sharing anything substantial, there’s simply too much smoke to ignore.
Before we announce anything that might be considered treason ourselves, we ask you to examine a few facts we know are true, straight from the royal family themselves:
The former Queen Helene and the Duke of York have admitted to having had an affair for nearly a year now, likely longer. Photographic evidence of how close they’ve been over the years is below, but of course we cannot claim to know what goes on behind palace doors.
We know that His Majesty was having an affair with Laura Bright in 2004, when Evangeline was conceived. At the same time, Princess Mary was also conceived, and the pair were born on the same day: 1 July 2005.
Her former Majesty also admitted that His Majesty was, at the time the dual pregnancies were discovered, planning on leaving her and abdicating the throne to his younger brother, which indicates that a significant breakdown of their marriage had already occurred, and it’s unlikely they were still…maritally engaged.
One must wonder, then, if there might be any truth to the vicious whispers between courtiers and throughout the aristocracy that perhaps Princess Mary is not His Majesty’s daughter after all. We have even received a copy of a supposed DNA test that claims to prove this, which is included in the gallery below, though we ask our readers to keep in mind that the source is, as of yet, unverified.
Still, could it be true? Could our sweet princess be—gulp—illegitimate?
—The Regal Record, 16 September 2024
I keep to myself forthe next two days, refusing to leave our bedroom, let alone the apartment.
Kit chases everyone away—including my parents, who visit every few hours in an attempt to convince me to talk to them. Tibby is banished to the sitting room, where she mostly works on our upcoming appearance schedule and digitally organizes my wardrobe, according to Kit. And I huddle under a quilt in bed with Poppy, my eyes locked on my laptop as I read every single article I can find about Maisie’s life.
I read every birth announcement, every milestone, every birthday post, every article about her achievements—her first days of homeschooling, her awards for horse-related things I don’t understand, her first public appearances, Christmas cards, every time she’s ever been present on the balcony for Trooping the Colour and other important events. Each time she’s been a tiny bridesmaid at a wedding for one of her million godparents. Snapshots shared from Balmoral and Sandringham and other family holidays. Paparazzi photos of her when she’s older, the walk to church Christmas morning, boating adventures that seem to universally make her look like a windswept model. I dig so deeply through multiple search engines that eventually I only find duplicates, and then I start using keywords on different social media sites to see if I can find more.
I read about every moment of my sister’s life that only happened because Alexander chose her instead. Every glimpse of the comfort and emotional safety she had that I didn’t. It isn’t just jealousy that eats away at me—it’s longing and self-pity and a deep, primal need to be loved that has never fully been sated.
But I don’t hate her for it. I don’t even stop thinking of her as my sister, because she is. The choices our parents made aren’t her fault, and I can’t bring myself to hold them against her, even though I know she’s held plenty of things against me.
“I don’t know how to go out there and face them,” I admit to Kit two days after the family meeting that sent shock waves through both our lives. “How am I supposed to ever believe a word Alexander says now? How am I supposed to even look him in the eye?”
We’re sitting up in bed with our empty breakfast trays at our feet, a paperback in his hands while I’m a hundred posts into a blog devoted exclusively to Maisie’s fashion choices over the years. He slips a bookmark between the pages and turns toward me, giving me his full attention in a way I’m not sure I deserve after two full days of wallowing.
“Alexander knows he needs to earn back your trust,” he says, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “And I’m certain he’s willing. Just because things aren’t okay right away doesn’t mean they won’t be in time.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You don’t have to deal with them anymore if you don’t want to.”
“With any luck, I’ll bedealingwith your parents for a very long time,” he says with a faint smile. “Eventually it might help to speak with them. Not right away, but…when you’re ready.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk about why he didn’t love me or want me enough to be my real dad,” I mutter, leaning into Kit. “Even if he really did let my grandma bully him into staying away from me after my mom got sick, that hurts, too, you know? You think your parents will do anything to keep you safe and be with you—”
“And if those two things are incompatible?” says Kit gently. I frown.
“What do you mean?”
“If keeping you safe and being with you were two parts of a Venn diagram that couldn’t touch.”
I sigh. This is exactly the argument Alexander made to me during our first heart-to-heart—that being there for me the way I needed him to be would’ve put me in danger, simply by exposing my existence to the press. “But it happened anyway. Everyone still knows who I am.”
“Now that you’re an adult, yes,” agrees Kit. “Imagine this level of fame and interest when you were four years old, while your mother was severely ill and going through the legal process. Imagine the amount of worldwide attention that would have attracted, and how that would have changed everything for you.”
If Alexander or even my mother had asked me to think this scenario through, I would’ve refused out of sheer spite. But because it’s Kit, I let myself sink into the daydream that, moment by moment, looks more and more like a nightmare instead.
