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Pace:If you get jizz on Miss July 1973, I’ll kick your ass.

I watch on the screen as he pulls out his phone, eyes scanning over the message. Then he glances up, right into the camera, and flips me off.

Jackass.

Across the room, Lex is bent over the computer, missing our exchange. Wicker and I both thought a punishment was coming when Father told us to leave his office, but when Lex came out, he simply said Father gave him a project to work on. I zoom in, trying to get a better look, but it’s just columns and numbers. Science shit, I guess.

Everything at the house seems fine, so I move over to Father’s other assets. It’s late afternoon, which means nothing much is going on over at the Gentlemen’s Chamber. There are a few patrons watching a dancer up on stage, and then a foursome of men playing cards. Back in the private room, I see one of the girls, Lexi, mid lap dance. When she moves, I get a look at Tommy Wright’s stupid lust-filled face. Guess shit’s still bad with Heather.

Moving to the bar, I can make out Monroe, the bartender, and the ancient stool squatters who have been there since the dawn of time. These old timers are alcoholic sex addicts who can’t even get their limp noodles up anymore, but can still tell you the exact measurements of every girl who’s ever worked the stage, because they’re always there- rain, shine, or Armageddon.

That’s when I discover the feed is fuzzy, glitching out. I try another angle, and it’s the same.

Shit.

This better not be another rat infestation.

The bigger problem is that I need to deal with this before Father finds out and loses his mind. The parking ticket is one thing. The missed Calc deadline is another. But shirking on my job is a surefire way to make him go nuclear.

I snap the laptop shut and stuff it in my bag. How long did Adeline say this was going to take? Could I pop out and back before it’s over?

No, I decide, leg jittering nervously. I promised, and we may not be on positive terms right now, but I’m not going back on my word.

Plus, I’m not sure I trust a place that only allows women inside.

I circle around the lounge, checking out the photos on the walls, realizing for the first time they’re not just decoration but actual photographs.

“Mr. Ashby, can I get something for you? A drink? I have kombucha.” Adeline appears suddenly, as though she never left. Her eyes rake down my body appreciatively. “A strong hockey player like you probably needs a lot of calories to maintain peak performance. I’d be happy to whip up a protein shake for you if you’d like.”

“I’m fine, I just,” I stop, taking in the impressive wall of photographs. Girls, girls, and more girls. “These are all from East End?”

Adeline follows my gaze, beaming. “Yes, I keep a history of the Princesses and their Courts. The women in my family have for decades.”

I’m drawn to the photos like a magnet. Some are in black and white, others in color but dull, lacking the vibrancy of modern-day processing. Over an antique cabinet, I get to a row of photos, each framed the same, each woman in the same position, and I recognize it as the coronation. These Princesses all conceived.

“It’s very thorough.” Admittedly, I’m a little annoyed. This is the kind of collection that should be in the palace archives, but our information leans heavily toward the Princes—not the Princesses. The more I look, the more I realize there’s something off about the display. There’s a discolored area on the wallpaper underneath the frames. It’s like they’ve been shifted at some point, or maybe a photo has been removed. “I see you nixed Piper’s photo.” I tap on the last frame. I recognize Princess Carolyn—the girl before Autumn was the last to conceive during her timeline. “And where’s Verity?”

“These are just the women who conceived and delivered healthyRoyalbabies.” She smiles knowingly.Yes, Piper was a cheating whore. We all know, Adeline. “I’m sure your Princess will be on the wall in a few months.” Something flickers in her eye, her gaze growing less horny housewife and more curious. “You know, it’s interesting you should ask about these. I’ve been thinking about your eyes…”

“What about them?” I ask, realizing I’ve wasted enough time. I need to tell Verity to speed it up so I can head to the club.

But then Adeline says, “Your eyes look very familiar.”

There’s a thing about being adopted. About not looking like anyone in your family, not sharing hair or eye color, the same bridge across the nose, or eyebrows. It’s a million pieces of a puzzle, and none fit.

So when I hear Adeline say that anything about me looks familiar, it triggers something unknown deep in my chest. The only other time I’ve felt this way is when we were down with Bruce in the dungeon.

I’d been standing over him with the branding iron as he begged and bartered with dirt about my birth parents. He’d bragged that he’d heard his father say that my father was a Duke, which was shocking enough, but it was the rest that haunted me at night.“Man, I don’t know! I just heard it was a huge scandal. If I had to guess, I’d say she was someone important.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Someone Royal.”

I swallow, careful to keep my voice even. “Really?”

“Yes,” she says, more confident now, but a line crosses her forehead. “I know I shouldn’t say anything. It’s not my place.” I think she’ll end it there. I don’t like the wave of panic that thought sends through me. Fortunately, she releases this little self-deprecating chuckle. “But I’ve been dying to know, and who among us can resist solving a mystery?”

She turns down the hall and gestures for me to follow. Cautiously, I do, allowing her to lead me to a closed door off the hallway. Giving me a conspiratorial grin, she opens it to reveal the most hideous office I’ve ever seen. The walls are hot pink, while the furniture is a glaring white, including large bookshelves and cabinets on every side. She strides over to one and presses her thumb into a security pad. The light blinks green, and the lock disengages, revealing a massive filing system. For a brief second, I wonder if, despite Adeline’s blonde hair and hazel eyes, we’re actually related, because this is a woman after my own heart.

“There’s the history we present,” she says, her long pink nails flipping through file folders with precision and speed, “and the history we censor. The miscarriages and stillbirths, the infidelity and accidents, the Princesses who never conceive and are removed, you know.”

I do.