“Never mind that,” he says with his usual gentle understanding. “His Majesty has requested that you join him and the Park family for these photographs.”

  I blink. Sure enough, when I glance over Jenkins’s shoulder, my father is chuckling at something Mr. Park said, but his gaze quickly meets mine, and he tilts his head toward the others.

  “Really?” I say in a low voice, but I already have my answer. “You’re sure it won’t ruin the photo shoot? Or insult the first family?”

  “Quite sure,” says Jenkins, and he offers me his arm. “If you please.”

  Tibby prods me in the small of my back, and I loop my elbow around Jenkins’s and do my best not to limp. Maybe kicking off my broken shoe wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world, even if it means I’ll lose at least four inches. But before I can weigh the pros and cons, Jenkins is handing me off to Alexander, and it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  “You look lovely,” murmurs my father, kissing me on the cheek. “Why don’t you and Maisie stand with Thaddeus?”

  While I expect him and the president to be front and center, they both step aside and position the three of us in the middle, with Thaddeus Park towering over me and my half sister. And as he peers down at me, I swear he smirks.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says in an American accent that matches mine. I’m so used to hearing the seemingly endless varieties in the UK by now, however, that it sounds strangely alien to my ears. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

  “You were?” I say, taken aback. “Why?”

  He chuckles, and while it’s the kind of laugh that probably puts most people at ease, I bristle. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not really,” I say, and before he can explain—or formulate a witty comeback, which seems more his style—the official palace photographer clears his throat. The seven of us all face forward, and I smile, hoping like hell that my sudden spike of anxiety doesn’t show on my face.

  “A little closer, if you would, Your Majesties,” says the photographer, and while this is clearly directed at my father and Helene, who could fit half a continent between them, Thaddeus shifts toward me, too.

  It’s a small movement—barely more than an inch or two—but instinctively I edge away, and that minor adjustment is too much for my shoe to bear. The strap snaps, and with a sharp jolt of pain in my ankle, I’m suddenly falling, dangerously close to taking the president down with me.

  But then, like this is all some choreographed dance we’ve practiced together, Thaddeus catches me effortlessly, his arms strong and secure around me. I gasp, and as I slowly absorb what’s happening, I realize I’m staring directly into his dark eyes.

  Click.

  A camera goes off, and then another, and another, until all I hear are the echoes of shutters and phones as seemingly every single photographer and member of the Royal Rota take our picture. With a self-satisfied grin, Thaddeus helps me back to my feet, his hand lingering on my bare arm for much longer than it should. And if there was any question of which photo the press will use for tomorrow’s headlines, there isn’t anymore.

  Terrific.

  CHAPTER TWO

  @TheDailySunUK: Has Evangeline broken things off with Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence and nephew to Queen Helene? Our preview of tonight’s state banquet, featuring the royal family, America’s President Park, and the swoon-worthy moment between Evangeline and Thaddeus Park.

  9:53 PM · 18 December 2023

  @dutchessdame172: @TheDailySunUK lucky bitch.

  9:57 PM · 18 December 2023

  —Twitter exchange between the Daily Sun and user @dutchessdame172, 18 December 2023

  KIT LAUGHS SO LOUDLY THAT I have to pull Tibby’s phone away from my ear.

  “Only you, Evan,” he manages, and I can picture him shaking his head, his dark wavy hair nearly skimming his jaw now despite the number of times Helene has begged him to cut it. “Turning one of those stuffy banquets into a cheating scandal. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s not funny,” I say, shifting on the cushioned window seat in one of Windsor Castle’s massive libraries. The room is almost completely devoid of light, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loom eerily around me, but I can take a little spookiness as long as it comes with privacy. “Everyone’s saying we’ve broken up—”

  “Have we?” he says, still chuckling. “Did you meet the love of your life tonight, and you’ve rung to tell me you’re kicking me to the curb?”

  His voice is slightly muffled now, and I make a face. “Of course not. You’re Googling the photos, aren’t you?”

  “Naturally,” he says, and a beat later, he bursts into another fit of laughter. “He escorted you and Maisie into the banquet? Whose idea was that?”

  “His,” I groan. “Alexander thought it was chivalrous. Stop—I told you it was bad.”

  “On the contrary, this is the highlight of my week,” says Kit, and I can hear him grinning. “The snap of him catching you is actually rather stunning. If I were the one you were gazing at so lovingly, I’d frame it.”

  My tiara bumps against the wall, and I wince, finally giving in and digging around for the offending bobby pins. “You’re terrible to me.”

  “Indeed. I suppose I’ll just have to make it up to you at Christmas, won’t I?”

  I straighten, pins forgotten. “You’re coming to Sandringham? But I thought—”

  “My parents decided to holiday in the Maldives,” says Kit. “They offered to fly me out, too, but I can think of few methods of torture more painful than spending another two weeks alone with them. And away from you.”

  This makes me melt a little, but considering Kit has barely seen his parents in years, it also comes with a helping of guilt. “Isn’t your mother excited to spend the holidays with you?”

  “Maybe. But she and my father have plenty to work through on their own, and I’d only be a hindrance. Besides, we’ve done nothing but partake in awkward conversations and lingering silences since the end of term, and I think we’re all rather weary of tiptoeing around each other at this point,” he admits. “I’ll visit her again in February for her birthday.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure whether to be disappointed for his mother or relieved I’ll get to spend Christmas with him after all. “Maisie keeps talking about how much she hates Sandringham, but it sounds kind of magical, having a tree and family and actually celebrating.”

  “It is,” says Kit, and I can tell from the sudden softness in his voice that we’re both thinking the same thing. Ever since my grandmother died when I was eleven, I’ve spent Christmas at various boarding schools, surrounded by a smattering of teachers without families and classmates whose parents couldn’t be bothered to bring them along on whatever glamorous vacation they’d planned. Twice I was the only person left behind, save for the headmistress, and all I remember about those weeks are loneliness and desperately wanting to see my mom.

  This year will be different, I promise myself. This year, even though my mother will be in Virginia and I’ll be an ocean away in a secluded English manor, I’ll have Alexander, Maisie, and Kit there to cushion the blow. And I will have a good time.

  “When are you supposed to arrive?” I say. “Maisie and I are taking a car there on Saturday—”

  “Room for one more?”

  I jump, nearly dropping Tibby’s phone as a low voice floats toward me in the darkness. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by light from the drawing room beyond, is Thaddeus Park, holding a plate and two flutes of what I think is champagne.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt, not caring how rude I must sound. “Didn’t security stop you in the vestibule?”

  “You mean that room with all the weapons and display cases?” He starts toward me, slow enough not to spill his contraband. “They did, but I seem to have found my way here anyway. This place is a maze, isn’t it? Worse than the White House.”

  “You get used to it,” I say, before I hear Kit’s voice—distant and tinny now that I’m holding the phone by my knees. I hastily return it to my ear. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Is that him?” says Kit. “Are you about to hang up on me for a clandestine rendezvous with your new lover?”

  I make a face. “What century are you from?” I mutter, desperately hoping Thaddeus didn’t hear that.

  Kit chuckles. “Ring me later, or whenever Tibby’s willing to part with her mobile again. Don’t worry about the photographs, all right? It’ll blow over.”

  I’m not so sure, but I say my goodbyes and stretch out my legs, refusing to make any room for Thaddeus on the window seat. He perches on a nearby chair instead, balancing the plate of cookies on a small accent table between us.

  “Sorry,” he says, but judging by his grin, he’s really not. “Was that your boyfriend?”

  “So you do know he exists,” I say dryly, and despite my annoyance, I take one of the cookies from the stack. I don’t touch the flute beside it, though, and Thaddeus doesn’t seem bothered as he sips from his own. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”

  “You mean the self-congratulatory political networking event masquerading as a fancy ball? I’m good,” he says, popping a cookie into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not easy, is it? Having to be two people at once.”

  I frown mid-bite. “What are you talking about?”

  He gives me a knowing look. “When my mom was a senator from Pennsylvania, I could be myself. But as soon as she ran for president, there was suddenly all of this pressure to be…not me. To be presentable at all times. To stop talking about the things that made me interesting. Everything I used to like about myself became too specific, too embarrassing, too controversial—”

  “That last Star Wars trilogy really did divide the fandom, didn’t it?” I say, and he chuckles.

  “Joking aside, I’ve noticed it with you, too,” he says. “From a distance, I mean. Not in a stalker way, but…it’s hard not to follow your story, with how often you’re in the headlines. And when you joined the royal family, you seemed like this…this beautiful, wild, willfully independent human, and no one could tell you who you were or what to do. And even when everyone accused you of murdering that dickweasel who assaulted you, and the papers broke the news about your mom’s mental illness and what she did to you—”

  “We’re not talking about that,” I say coldly, and he immediately holds up his hands in a mea culpa.

  “Right—of course,” he says hastily. “I just mean…you seemed indifferent to the noise. You were still you. But as soon as you stepped into the public eye and gave that interview, you became…polished. Predictable. You’ve done what’s expected of you, the same way I have. And I don’t know about you, but I miss the person I used to be.”

  This is alarmingly vulnerable, considering we just met, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I don’t feel any different. I still like the same music. I still read the same books. I still watch way too much Netflix in what little free time I have now, and I’ve even started to learn how to play the guitar—badly, admittedly, but it’s still just for me. No one else.

  I know exactly what Thaddeus is talking about, though, and I feel a stab of something unexpectedly powerful—wistfulness, maybe, or some kind of nostalgia I didn’t know was there. Because I am two people now. Just as Maisie has to be Princess Mary, the graceful and beloved heir to the throne, I have to be Evangeline, the illegitimate daughter of the King, who’s just grateful to be included. Even though Evan is the person I really am, the person I’ve always been, I can’t be her anymore—at least not where a stranger could see me. And despite his jarring candor and overfamiliarity, Thaddeus Park is still very much a stranger.

  “I don’t think I’ve really changed,” I say at last, keeping my voice mild as I avoid his stare and feign interest in my bracelet instead. There are only two charms on it—a music note that was a gift from a classmate, and a tiny tiara that Kit gave me for my birthday—and I roll the latter between my fingers. “I’m still me.”

  “And I’m still me, underneath the politics and the workouts and the curated wardrobe,” says Thaddeus. “But we can’t let the public know that, can we, Your Royal Highness?”

  No, we can’t. I let the tiara charm drop, more shaken than I want to admit that someone I met five minutes ago understands part of my life better than I do. “I’m not a princess,” I say, grasping onto this instead of letting myself linger on the rest. “Didn’t your handler tell you that?”

  “But you’re the King’s daughter,” he says, as if this somehow supersedes a thousand years of history and royal protocol.

  “Illegitimate,” I point out. “I’m a mutt in a family of purebreds, and I definitely don’t have a title.”

  Thaddeus blinks. “Well, that’s rude.”

  I let out a breathy laugh, because no one has actually said that before, even though it’s probably true. I don’t care about the title, not really—but I can’t pretend not to care about the respect and legitimacy that would come with it. And that is not a conversation I want to have with anyone, let alone Thaddeus Park.

  “You know,” he says slowly, “princess or not, you and I could send the internet into a feeding frenzy, if we wanted to.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I think we already have.”

  He shrugs. “That picture’s too formal to be a showstopper. But if I post a selfie of us together, maybe of you kissing me on the cheek…”

  He leans in closer, and even though it’s probably an innocent move, my skin crawls as I jerk away, and every muscle in my body tenses, ready to bolt. My panic must show on my face, because Thaddeus straightens instantly, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping.

  “Shit, I—that was creepy, I’m sorry,” he says, and to his credit, he sounds genuinely contrite. “I just meant, you know…a cute picture. We could make finger hearts or funny faces. Something like that. Nothing suggestive or—I know you have a boyfriend, I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “I think Evangeline has had enough photographs of her taken tonight,” says a voice from the doorway, and relief rushes through me as I look up to see Tibby standing there, hands on her hips and her expression deadly.

  “Right,” says Thaddeus sheepishly, and I’m on my feet before he can even shift his weight. “I really am sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. But that’s not completely his fault. Jasper Cunningham is the real reason for my racing pulse, and why I’ll never again feel safe with a boy I don’t fully trust. “We’re not allowed to take selfies in the royal residences anyway. It’s a security thing.”

  “Oh.” His face falls, and I’m halfway to Tibby by the time he stands. “It was truly an honor to meet you, Evangeline. If you’re ever in the US and want to see the White House library…”

  “I’ll look you up,” I say, even though I have absolutely no intention of doing so. As I reach Tibby, however, something tugs at me—some long-ingrained irrational need to make sure he, a stranger I’ll probably never see again, doesn’t feel bad about how this went. Or maybe the small connection we made is stronger than I think it is. And so, despite having every reason to march out of here without so much as a goodbye, I glance over my shoulder and add, “Maybe we can take that selfie there.”

  His grin returns, and Tibby loops her arm in mine as we disappear into the maze that is Windsor Castle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  @thaddeusapark Living it up like royalty at Windsor Castle tonight. Huge thanks to Their Majesties King Alexander and Queen Helene, Her Royal Highness Princess Mary, and my very special new expat friend…

  —Instagram user @thaddeusapark, below a selfie of Thaddeus Park in a tuxedo, the background dark and indistinct, and his left thumb and pointer finger pressed together to make a finger heart, 18 December 2023

  “THADDEUS IS USING YOU, YOU know,” says Tibby as we cross an empty state room with red fabric walls. Though it isn’t dusty, it looks like it hasn’t been used in years, and our footsteps sound hollow against the thin carpet.

  “I sort of worked that out for myself,” I say as she pulls on the frame of a giant ornate mirror, which swings open to reveal another lavish state room—this one with green walls, gilded furniture, and massive portraits hanging in gold frames. “Thanks for jumping in back there. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do.”

  “He wouldn’t have tried anything,” she says, even though she can’t possibly be certain. “He’s the son of the American president, and surely someone’s taught him manners. But you have ten times the number of followers he does, and he clearly wanted a candid photo to boost his own profile. May I have my mobile back now?”

  I hand it over, even though I’m still hopeful Kit might call again. “Is it always going to be like this? Is everyone I meet going to want something from me?”

  “Yes,” says Tibby, and the word sinks to the pit of my stomach like a brick. “You might get lucky and meet the rare individual who’s interested in you as a person, or who believes you can’t offer them anything they don’t already have, but most people are always going to want something from you. You simply have to be careful who you trust.”

  I sigh inwardly. A year ago, no one knew who I was, and only a handful of my classmates even bothered to talk to me on a semi-regular basis. Now millions of people follow an Instagram account I don’t even personally use, and based on the endless sea of comments I saw the one and only time I explored Tibby’s handiwork, a disconcerting number seem to think this means they know exactly who I am. And the thought of so many strangers having a fully formed opinion of me still makes me break out in a cold sweat.