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“Between the two of us, you’re the logical choice,” I point out.

“Hardly. You’re the one who was nearly killed, not me.”

“But you’re the one inheriting the throne. I have a shadow now, too, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It does not,” she says with a sniff, and she whirls back around and marches to a cream-and-gold sofa, where she’s strewn the contents of her purse. “I can’t find my bloody mobile. I think I left it on the plane.”

“You mean this mobile?” I say, picking up the phone that’s lying face up on a side table, half-hidden by an enormous vase of hot-pink roses. “Who sent the flowers?”

Maisie snatches her phone out of my hand, checking it over like she expects it to be damaged. “No one,” she mutters, but there’s still a card nestled among the fragrant petals, and even though I don’t mean to snoop, it’s impossible to miss the blocky signature.

Thaddeus

I barely—barely manage to suppress a choked laugh. He’s definitely barking up the wrong tree. “I’m sorry about the photos,” I say. “How’s your mom doing?”

“How do you think she’s doing?” snaps Maisie as she scoops her things back into her purse. “About as well as you were after that bloody video of you and Jasper was posted, I’d expect.”

That’s not a fair comparison by any stretch of the imagination, considering Helene was fully conscious and consenting—to Nicholas, at least—but I bite my tongue. “It’ll blow over. She and Alexander are already separated anyway, and—”

“I don’t bloody care about the photos,” my sister explodes, throwing her purse toward the white piano positioned in front of her floor-to-ceiling windows. The leather hits the keyboard in a discordant array of notes, and the contents go flying.

Right. Not just a run-of-the-mill bad mood, but a full-blown temper tantrum. I let her seethe for a few seconds before I say quietly, “What’s really going on, Maisie? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been blowing hot and cold for weeks.”

She takes several deep breaths, each one with the kind of crescendo that makes me think she’s going to hurl her phone at my head. But at last, after nearly half a minute of this, she sinks onto the sofa and buries her face in her hands.

“You already know what’s going on,” she mumbles, and I approach her slowly, still not convinced she won’t lash out.

“Gia?” I guess, and she nods miserably.

“We tried to patch things up over the New Year, but I was awful to her this morning after we found out about Mummy’s pictures, and…”

I ease down beside her. “Why were you awful to her?”

“Because—” The words seem to stick in her throat, and she swallows hard. “The Regal Record posted a bunch of photos.”

“Of Nicholas and Helene?” I say, confused. “I thought that was—”

“Of me and Gia,” she says, and she glances my way only long enough for me to see how red her eyes are. “As a bonus feature to their story about Mummy and Uncle Nicholas. ‘Royal relationships that may be more than they seem,’ or some other nonsense.”

My hand twitches toward my phone, and Maisie must notice, because she sighs.

“Go ahead. It’s the only way you’ll understand.”

With an apologetic look, I fish my phone out of my pocket and pull up the Regal Record. It’s a simple blog with black text and a white background, free of the frills and ads of most other royal gossip sites, and that somehow makes it all the more unnerving—especially when they get things right.

It takes a few clicks to find the gallery she’s talking about, and I swipe through it, studying each photo in turn. They’re not all bad—most of them are paparazzi shots of Maisie and Gia leaving clubs or walking into exclusive parties together, and even with how close they’re standing, their heads occasionally bent together, it could all easily be considered innocent. But two of the images stand out—both grainier than the others and clearly taken from a distance.

The first is a picture of Maisie, Gia, and Rosie inside the VIP area at a club I don’t recognize—which isn’t surprising, considering I’ve only joined them on their midnight excursions a handful of times. While Rosie is tugging on one of her blond curls and making eyes at a server holding a bottle of champagne, Maisie and Gia are leaning close together, and their heads are tilted in such a way to make them look like they’re kissing. For all I know, they were.

That doesn’t sound like my sister, though, who always at least pretends to be careful with her secrets. From an unbiased perspective, it’s obvious the angle and lighting aren’t doing them any favors, and I could easily argue that nothing is really happening. But when I find the second damning photo, I take a slow breath and release it, trying to keep the shock off my face.

It’s impossible to positively identify Maisie and Gia in the shadows of the dimly lit room, which is full of people drinking and dancing. But the innocuous previous photo does the detective work for the viewer, plainly showing them arm in arm in the same distinct outfits they’re wearing in the second picture. Maisie’s hand—identifiable from the golden bangles she’s wearing and the ring on her thumb—is resting dangerously high on Gia’s deep brown thigh. Gia’s fingers are tangled in Maisie’s strawberry-blond waves, and while their faces are obscured, it’s clear that they’re taking advantage of the darkness and stealing a quick kiss. Or more.

“No one’s supposed to take pictures at those parties,” says Maisie miserably. “That’s always been the deal. Anyone caught trying has been kicked out, but…”

“But someone got away with it,” I say, flipping through the photos again. “Do you remember when this happened? Is there any chance you might be able to figure out who took it?”

“It’s always the same people at those bloody parties,” she says, pressing her palms into her eyes. “That was from October—Rosie’s birthday. I had a little too much to drink, and I wasn’t thinking—”