Page 3 of Thrones We Steal

“Likely not, but they’ll soon find out it will take more than their measly excuses to stop me. What’s up?”

“Lady Rosalind called. She said you weren’t answering your mobile.”

“My mother believes the earth halts on its axis when she calls. What does she want?”

“She wonders if you could pick up a few more bottles of wine for tonight. Something about there being a mix-up with her order.”

I stifle a groan. That means going back downtown and delaying my return home. “Lovely. With any luck, I’ll get home just in time for her to roast me and serve my carcass for dinner.”

“Just remember, if another queue seems to be moving faster, as soon as you switch to it, it will slow down.”

“Helpful as always, Maisie.”

“I do what I can,” she sings.

I head to the nearest liquor shop. A large poster attached to a light pole catches my eye. I recognize the picture of Kira Radbury over the words Protect Our Children.

“I should send flowers to Kira’s mum,” I say. “Maybe even meet with her, give my condolences. Let her know there’s someone on her side.”

“I’m writing it on a Post-It as we speak,” Maisie says. “It’ll be on your desk Monday. Don’t forget about reading the diary.”

My gaze shifts to where the pages are shrouded in my handbag. “Don’t worry. My unofficial assistant won’t allow me to forget.”

Her laugh echoes through the car. Maisie and I have worked together for two years, and if my arm ever needs amputating, I’ll see about getting her attached instead.

I buy the wine for my mother and nestle the bottles in the back of the car with the blanket I keep there for emergencies. The large diamond on my left hand snags on the delicate fibers. I untangle them and smile. Life is going according to plan (provided I’m not late to dinner). My career is off to a great start, I’m in love with a man who couldn’t be more perfect for me if he tried, and I’m overflowing with ideas to improve this beautiful country I’m lucky enough to call home.

I hate to tempt the universe, but it’s hard to imagine anything strong enough to ruin this life I’ve built for myself.

2

“I Knew You Were Trouble” - Taylor Swift

The buzzing streets of Wesbourne City fall behind me as I wind my way home. I crest a hill and can see for miles. The landscape unfurls before me like a giant 3D map. A travel blogger once described Wesbourne as “the land of fairy tales.”

They were right. We have it all: crumbling castles, cobblestone streets, cottages with thatched roofs, brooding forests. We even have a royal family, although it’s hard to say if they’re the heroes or villains in the story.

My father is to blame for my love affair with Wesbourne. She does that to a person, sneaks up behind you and steals kisses like a forbidden lover. Beyond her gorgeous surface—sloping emerald hills, snaggy cliff faces, icy crystal waters—her heart runs as deep as the precious gems mined from her core. She’s a witch’s brew of the red-hot passion of an Irishman, the elegant sophistication of a Frenchman, the traditional reserve of a Brit, and the powerful ambition of an American.

Who can help loving her?

I turn off the principal road leading out of the city and onto one that leads to my family’s estate. Roads around here seem to shrink over time while the cars only get bigger. I’ve often wondered what will happen when the two finally become the same size.

My car sputters a sigh and a thin wisp of white steam rises from under the bonnet.

I smack my palm on the steering wheel. “Not tonight.” I try coaxing it to go just a bit farther and it obliges by taking me another mile, before finally groaning to a stop and depositing me too far to attract help from the main road and much too far to walk home. I manage to steer slightly to the side, but between the narrow strip of asphalt and the steep bank, I’m still taking up half of the road.

I slump into my seat and press my eyes shut. Stupid, stupid car. Maybe it’s an easy fix, a loose cap or something that can be tightened, and I’ll be on my way again. It’s a ridiculous thought but I climb out anyway and approach the bonnet. Steam is still hissing from underneath and I fumble for the release so I can lift it up.

The hot steam smacks me in the face and I jump back, losing my grip on the metal. It slams shut with a loud crash. That’s what I get for thinking I could fix my clearly broken car.

The only thing to do is hire a car to take me home. I root through my handbag for my phone, then pull up the ride-sharing app and enter my details. Because I’m in the countryside and the closest thing to a town is a coastal village to the west with a population of roughly sixty, a driver will have to come from the city to pick me up.

Terrific. That means waiting at least thirty minutes for their arrival, on top of the thirty it will take to get home from here.

My phone pings with an incoming text message. It’s from my mother, right on schedule.

You didn’t forget about the party tonight, did you?

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