Page 90 of Reveal Me
She studies my face with that annoying sister intuition. ‘Are you all right? You seem … different since you got back from Ireland.’
‘I’m fine.’ She knows I’m in the bad books. Let’s face it, I usually am. But she has no idea how bad those books actually are.
‘Layla?’
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, more firmly. ‘Now, let’s get you married.’ I link my arm through hers, drawing strength from her joy. If Sabrina can find love within the royal circus, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.
My hope just happens to involve burning the whole thing down.
The ride to Westminster Abbey is surreal. London has transformed overnight into a patriotic fever dream—Union Jack bunting on every surface, crowds packed ten deep behind barriers, the air thick with excitement and exhaust fumes. People wave and scream as our convoy crawls past, their faces bright with the kind of joy reserved for people they’ll never actually meet.
I watch them through the bulletproof glass as we approach Westminster Abbey. The crowds thicken and the noise becomes deafening. The ancient Gothic spires rise against a grey spring sky. Those stained-glass windows that have seen a shitload of royal drama.
The car slows to a stop. Photographers aim cameras like weapons. The red carpet stretches towards the abbey doors. One of the armed guards opens the door. The sound of the crowd crashes over me like a breaking wave, along with the flash of a thousand cameras. I step out into the crisp morning air, spine straight, chin up.
My heart races in my chest, the pounding of my pulse every bit as loud as the crowd.
Suddenly it hits me.
He’s here.
Sean is somewhere in the crowd.
I don’t know how I know, but I do.
The knowledge chases away the numbness of the past few days. I scan the sea of smiling faces, but there are too many. It’s impossible. I raise my hand to my neck, fingers tracingthe diamonds deliberately. I look pointedly at the closest camera and blow a tiny kiss.
I’m coming home.
The ceremony passes in a blur of Latin and organ music. I stand where I’m supposed to stand, smile when I’m supposed to smile, and I watch my sister marry the man she loves. Tiny tears threaten my eyes. Tears for my sister. Tears for me. I blink them back, and focus on getting through the day.
The reception is back at the palace. It’s the usual royal circus—more flowers than the Chelsea Flower Show, and enough champagne to float a yacht. I play my part perfectly. The dutiful daughter. The supporting sister. The princess who knows her place. I make small talk with relations I haven’t seen in years, and probably will never see again after tonight. I clap at Prince Harald’s carefully rehearsed but heartfelt speech, and I eat my dinner like a lady, biding my time.
Only another couple of hours.
The society band launches into timeless classics—Etta James, Sinatra, the works. Some of the guests are dancing on the dance floor; others are making shapes to leave already. I’m reaching for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter when a familiar voice makes my skin crawl.
‘Princess.’
I turn to find Lord Ashworth circling like a shark. His auburn hair glints under the chandeliers as he closes the distance between us. A smug smile stretches across his face. The two security guards assigned to me step forward. ‘It’s okay,’ I motion for them to step back. This is one of three conversations I’m determined to have tonight.
‘Lord Ashworth.’ My voice could freeze hell, though it’s not his fault my mother is a meddling witch.
‘I’ve been trying to steal a moment with you all evening.’ He moves closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Expensive. Cloying.
‘Why?’ I deadpan.
A flicker of confusion flashes over his features. ‘Well, to tell you how delighted I am about our … arrangement.’
I blink slowly. ‘What arrangement?’
His face is comical. I wish Sean were here to see it. I wish Sean were here full stop.
His smile falters slightly. ‘Our engagement, of course. Your mother assured me you were thrilled about. I’m living for the moment we can announce it.’
‘I’ll die before that ever happens.’ I take a sip of champagne, studying his face over the rim of my glass as it sinks in. I’m not going to be his trophy piece; I’m not going to be anything to him. Just as my mother threatened, I’m going to be nobody—to any of them— and that—as well as the knowledge my boyfriend is somewhere near—is what’s driving me on tonight.
His smile falters. ‘Princess?’
