Page 5 of Royal Deception

“I’ll send it as soon as I get back to my desk,” I say, forcing my voice into something steady.

Another pause. Then, in a clipped tone, “I hope so. You wouldn’t want to make this a habit, Clary. I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay in the apartment. You could show a little more gratitude.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “Of course. Thank you, Kate.”

“Good. I’ll check my account later.”

The call disconnects without a goodbye.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, my fingers trembling as I slide my phone back into my bag.

The coffee shop door swings open, and the scents of roasted beans and warm pastries wash over me. For a second, I consider skipping Rory’s coffee altogether. Let him notice. Let him wonder why I’m not scrambling to meet his every demand.

But I don’t.

Because this is what I do—smooth things over, stay useful, keep everyone happy… even if it means losing pieces of myself along the way.

As I step up to the counter, I pass an overcrowded corkboard pinned with dog-walking offers, language tutors, programming lessons, and flyers for upcoming events. I barely glance at it until something snags my attention.

Do you feel like you’ve completely lost control of your life?

I freeze, staring at the flyer in front of me.

Is this some kind of sign from the universe?

A small, breathy laugh escapes me as I reach out, brushing my fingers over the glossy paper.

Learn to take control of your life through guided meditation and yoga.

The words are so absurdly well-timed, I can’t help but smile.

Before I can second-guess myself, I dig into my bag, pull out my phone, and snap a picture of the details. The class is in a couple of days, right after work, at a studio just around the corner. Convenient.

A sliver of hope flickers in my chest as I slip my phone back into my bag and step up to order. There’s a lightness in my step as I make my way back to the office, dry cleaning in one arm, coffee in the other.

Rory barely looks up when I step into his office, giving a grunt of thanks as I hang his dry cleaning on the back of the door and set his coffee on his desk. It’s not a barked command or a snapped insult, so I count it as a win.

Back at my desk, I pull open the bottom drawer, shifting a few files aside in search of a fresh legal pad. My fingers brush something cool and metallic, and I pause.

A flicker of recognition sparks through me as I pull the object free, a warm, giddy smile curling at my lips.

My sketchbook.

I’d forgotten I even left it here.

Thumbing through the pages, I take in the sketches—clean lines, intricate designs, ideas I’d once dreamed of bringing to life. I brought this with me when I first started working for Rory, thinking I’d fill its pages during slow moments. But Rory never allowed slow moments.

I trail a fingertip over one of the designs, chewing my lip. It couldn’t hurt to take it home, maybe finally sketch something new tonight.

Impulse wins out, and I slip the sketchbook into my bag, my excitement bubbling to the surface. For the first time in a long time, I feel an itch of anticipation for the hours ahead.

By the time I finish my last task for the day, I’m practically vibrating with energy. I drop a stack of documents onto Rory’s desk and slip out before he can utter a word, eager to get home and start sketching before Kate gets back.

The apartment where I’d grown up, the place my father bought for my mother when they first got married, had once been a sanctuary for me. A home.

But now, when I look around, all I see is how thoroughly Kate has taken over. Now that my parents are gone, this space no longer feels like mine. Gone are the soft, pastel-colored walls and cheerful art, replaced by dark red hues, purple furniture, and imposing black, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Ugly sculptural art lines the shelves, along with Kate’s collection of vintage hats—each one more obnoxious than the last.

I throw myself onto the velvet sofa, its fabric a loud contrast against the cheetah-print pillow I lean on. Kicking off my heels, I slip my feet into fluffy white slippers with pink bows, sighing in relief. I tuck my shoes neatly by the door, the only act of order in this chaotic place.