by Madeline Ash
Frankie was in the staff dining hall for breakfast, grabbing a slice of juniper jam toast and coffee when the question hit her.
Whose idea had it been to dine there that night?
It was common knowledge that Prince Aron had enjoyed a riotously popular social media presence, and had cajoled his father and uncle into a banquet on the un-rendered balcony. The final post before his death had been a staged selfie taken with King Vinci and Prince Noel, revealing the extravagant banquet laid out on a slab of chipboard behind them, flower arrangements bursting out of old paint tins, and the Kiralian mountains towering beyond, complete with the hashtags #royallife #royalsofinsta #kingviews #verygranddesigns.
Frankie had assumed the balcony banquet had been Aron’s idea. Shallow displays of frivolity were very much in character—but had the suggestion come from someone else?
Picking up the thread, she scheduled a meeting with Prince Aron’s old manservant for later that morning. She’d spoken to him soon after she’d arrived and he’d been so genuinely distressed that she’d discounted him as having any malicious involvement. But the prince would have spoken freely to his discreet, ever-present manservant and just might have mentioned something useful while dressing for his last meal.
Halfway through her second coffee, Frankie received a delivery from the jeweler. The silver anarchist pin that would help get her into the next meeting. It was a perfect match for the pin in the photographs and her blood buzzed in anticipation of working her way into the group.
She was in her office planning a watertight cover when Zara texted.
Hey, honey. Can we meet for like twenty minutes? I’m in freak-out mode about tonight and just want to be told I haven’t forgotten anything.
Tonight? Frankie blinked at her closed office door. Oh, no. The bridal shower.
She texted back: You haven’t forgotten anything, and slid her phone aside.
It buzzed again. Ha. Nope. Still a-freaking.
Frankie groaned. Zara had crawled out of bed in the middle of the night just to bring her chocolate on the top of The Scepter. The least Frankie could do was give her twenty minutes of reassurance in return. Okay. Come to palace at ten-thirty. Ask for me at the gates. They’ll show you in.
It felt like no time at all before Frankie was marching herself into a small ground-floor sitting room reserved for hosting informal visits.
“Hi.” Zara stood from a firmly-padded floral armchair and gestured at Frankie’s uniform. “Swish. Now help me.”
“Sure.” Serving staff had laid out tea and sweets on the coffee table, and Frankie swiped up a lemon tartlet as she dropped into the armchair opposite her friend. “Go.”
With a flustered sigh, Zara sat again, hands sliding between her knees. Her ponytail lay flopped to one side and wispy bits fell frazzled around her face. “Okay. Thanks for organizing the royal guard to secure the venue. So, we’ll arrive at seven.”
As Zara went through the details, right down to the love-song playlist and color theme of the petit fours, Frankie distractedly toyed with the pin in her pocket. Her concentration was blurry, like this conversation was a lake and she’d only waded in up to her knees. The anarchist meeting wasn’t until next Sunday—nine days away. She’d need that time to work on her cover story, but nervous anticipation would eat her hollow by then. It was possible that Aron’s manservant might remember a crucial detail, but it was a long shot. She needed more—the balcony only made sense as a murder strategy if they had someone on the inside.
“And that’s when Mark and the guys will get there,” Zara said, gaze unfocused across the room as she ran through her checklist.
Mark. When should Frankie explain all of this to him and Tommy? It was feeling less and less like a theory based on a gut feeling and more like a legitimate investigation. This weekend so they could enjoy the bridal shower and bachelor party without worry? Or by that logic, should she wait until after Mark and Ava’s wedding in a few weeks’ time?
“Hey.” Zara paused, and her odd tone pulled at Frankie’s attention as she pointed at Frankie’s hand. “Why do you have Adam’s pin?”
Why do—
In a rush, Frankie tasted bile.
The room tilted. Pressure pulsed inside her skull as if her brain was trying to shove the question back out her ears.
In her distraction, Frankie had pulled the pin out of her pocket. It was perched between her fingers.
The capital ‘A’ encircled in silver.
Adam’s pin.
“Frankie?” Zara prompted, confused.
“This?” Frankie acted on old instincts, casually tossing it in the air and catching it in the bloodless fingers of her other hand. When she uncurled her grip, the pin stuck to the sweat of her palm, facedown. “I found it in the dining hall.”
Adam was an anarchist.
Adam. Mark’s manservant. One of the most trusted roles in the palace. Positioned closest to their monarch. Could he—no.
But why would an anarchist choose to work for a royal family?
Her marrow soured; her body shuddered. It was the feeling of scraping against something repulsive and not realizing it until much later—the sickening spike of comprehension, the crawling awareness that it was all over her.
Adam. It was Adam.
You’re head of personal security. I’ve heard a lot about you. His grip around hers had been firm. Too firm, as she’d asked what exactly he’d heard. To be careful around you.
Oh, Jesus.
“That’s weird,” Zara said with a frown. “He works at Ava and Mark’s mansion now.”
“That’s right.” Tucked away out of sight in the private residence of the king. Pulse lurching, Frankie kept her gaze on the pin as she tossed it again. Never before had she been grateful for her ability to slip into an act. “He was here yesterday visiting staff he used to work with.”
“Oh.” Zara relaxed, smiling a little. “That’s nice. I hadn’t considered that it must be hard for him to move away from his team.”
Frankie nodded, tension a vise around her neck. This was wrong—she was wrong. Adam was Zara’s boyfriend. Subdued, gentle. Living with her, sleeping with her. Oh, God. She swallowed the revulsion that rose in her throat. No, she was wrong. Running on sleep fumes and obsession. Seeing connections that weren’t there.
She held the pin up with a cocked brow. “You sure it’s his?”
“‘A’ for Adam,” Zara intoned, picking up a tartlet and biting into it. “It’s definitely his. I see it every couple of weeks—he wears it when he goes out for drinks with his cousins. His great-grandfather gave it to him for his sixth birthday. I’m sure he’s noticed it’s missing.”
Shit.
“I’m sure he has,” she lied.
Zara held her palm out across the coffee table as she continued to eat. “I’ll give it back to him.”
Alarmed, Frankie said, “Actually, I’m heading to Mark’s place later to touch base with my team about tonight’s events. I’ll find Adam while I’m there.”
Her friend raised a shoulder. “Okay.”
Okay. Damn it. Zara might even mention this to Adam when Ava and Mark’s parties met up later that night. Which meant Frankie had to pursue this fast. If Adam wasn’t a part of the anarchist group, he could chuckle about the improbability of Frankie finding a pin so similar to his. But if he was . . .
Frankie eyed her friend, dread in her heart.
If he’d played a role in the balcony collapse—then they’d all been fooled.
“Do you have anything else you need to organize before tonight?” Frankie pocketed the pin and mentally added, because I sure as hell do.
Zara slumped back in the armchair and blew a breath up her face, shifting a wispy hair away from her eyes. “I think that’s it.”
“Then let’s finish these.” Frankie grabbed another tartlet and let out a sigh. The silence of the sitting room was ringing in her ears. “Thanks for coming. It’s good to have an excuse to sit still for a second.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So, Adam.” How was this for subtle? “How are things going with him, anyway?”
Zara blinked. “Oh.” Her surprise swept into a small smile. “Good, I guess.”
“I don’t remember your hook-up story.” Frankie quirked a vaguely amused brow. “How did you meet the man who personally serves our king?”
Blushing, Zara said, “It’s not very exciting. I advertised a room for rent like six months ago to help pay off my mortgage, and he seemed the most respectable of the applicants.”
“The handsome part had nothing to do with it, obviously.”
Her friend grinned.
“It worked out well for you both that he didn’t take up residence at the palace when he became Mark’s manservant.” Which, now that Frankie thought about it, was an odd logistical choice.
“He prefers having his own space. More privacy.”
Frankie bet he did. “And you hit it off once he moved in?”
“Well. I know it’s weird, but for the first few months he was hardly ever around. When he was home, he was polite, but distant. I found it pretty mysterious and got this huge crush.” Zara shook her head at herself, reaching forward for more tea. “It wasn’t until Ava’s visit that things changed.”
Frankie’s dread expanded at the suspicious timing.
“Yeah?” she asked, extending her own cup. Zara poured for her and they both leaned back again. “He finally noticed how freaking awesome you are?”
“Supposedly he’d already noticed.” Her friend laughed, cheeks still pink. “But he was so subtle, I couldn’t tell. Anyway, I’d seen his bags packed inside his bedroom door one morning. I assumed he—”
“Sorry, when was this?”
Zara blinked. “Uh. Like, Ava’s visit. So, around the royal funeral and stuff? I assumed he’d wanted to leave because he’d figured out that I was into him and he wasn’t interested.”
Frankie nodded. Having his bags packed so soon after the balcony collapse screamed quick getaway.
“I got in first,” Zara continued. “I bumped into him randomly at the palace after I’d called on Ava and told him that he should move out—it would be better for both of us. He looked so shocked.”
Frankie shoved the rest of the tartlet into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to think of a response. Yeah, it must have been quite the shock to discover his flat-mate was friends with the very princess who was getting close to his king. Zara would have gleamed like a gold tap of information—but he had to get close before her words would flow freely.
“Instead of agreeing, he asked me out. I was like, what? We met up at the Bearded Bunting—oh, you might remember that night. You probably handled security. Mark, Kris, Ava, and, uh, Cyrus were all there.” Zara’s voice caught a little on Cyrus’s name.
“Four royals gathered in one public courtyard,” Frankie said as dryly as she could manage. “Trust me, I remember.”
“Adam told me he liked me, too, but he’d always thought I was too good for him.” Zara rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Something about his position as Mark’s manservant helping the privileged stay that way, but that I worked selflessly at the shelter to protect the vulnerable, which benefited the whole community.”
Anarchist views. Flaming red flag.
“Anyway, we sorted it out and got together.”
Frankie’s heart was hammering, pounding against her ribs as if trying to catch Zara’s attention. Adam’s bad, it beat fiercely. Adam’s bad.
“Cute story,” she said instead.
Zara snorted, smiling, and drank more tea. Then she said more quietly, “I’d kind of forgotten about it. How sweet he was that night. He kept telling me that I was beautiful. Courageous.” Her fingertips drummed lightly on her teacup, features soft, almost surprised. “He still says those things.” She paused to cringe. “Wow, I’m so stupid. I hear stories of foul men at the shelter every day—and I have this gentle guy at home who loves me, and I’ve talked myself out of loving him back because I daydream about a prince. How blind can I get? I’m not a freaking cartoon. I can’t do that anymore.”
Sure, you can. “Oh,” Frankie said.
“Do you think—” Zara pulled a face of tentative delight. “Do I love him?”
“I don’t know.” Frankie pulled a face in return—hoping she looked more like a friend who was uncomfortable talking about feelings and less like a she feared Zara was falling in love with a murder suspect. “Does he know much about Ava’s past? I’m just thinking about how hard it must be to keep secrets like that from him.”
“Oh, yeah.” Zara waved her hand distractedly. “Ava said that if I trusted him, she trusted him. I told him all about Darius and the escape.”
Frankie’s vision blanked. “And the king swap?”
“What? No, not that. That’s between Mark and his brothers. Not my place.”
A small win. “Why did he have his bags packed?”
Zara frowned at her. “What?”
Quit sounding like an interrogation. “It’s a funny detail,” Frankie said offhandedly. “You’d said you’d noticed his bags packed before you bumped into him at the palace.”
“Oh, I think it was because I was too good for him? He thought I’d be better off sharing my apartment with someone more like me.”
A simple excuse sweetened by flattery. Clever.
“Enough about us. We’re old news.” Zara pulsed her brows with a grin. “You’ve been very quiet about Prince Kristof. Tell me what you’re not telling me.”
It was everything Frankie could do to act casual as she shared details of the past week. Alarm held her in a trembling grip and each sip of tea tasted like time running out. She had to contact Mark’s guards and instruct them to monitor Adam. She had to tell Philip. Tell her team and the involved authorities. She had to show Adam’s photo to the manager of the Bull’s Quest to confirm he attended those meetings. If this lead proved true, she’d have to tell the full story to Mark and Tommy and Ava.
And Zara.
“Holy mother, Kris is hot,” Zara said as Frankie finished a short yet uncut version of the past week’s developments. “I’ll probably combust being in the same room as you two tonight.” She paused, and then groaned. “I hope it goes well. It has to be perfect for Ava.”
Frankie stood. “You’ve put together a very thoughtful event.” Her voice sounded hollow in her ears. “She’ll love it.”
Zara beamed as she reached for her handbag. “Thanks.”
No. Not a smile. Frankie couldn’t bear to return it. “Shoot, I’ve lost track of time,” she said, and launched herself toward the door. She had to get out—before she bled dry at what this all could mean for Zara.
“Frankie!” Zara called after her. “I meant to ask what you were going to wear.”
“Something bright.” Frankie pulled the door open, not looking back. “Got to run.”
The door swept closed behind her, and as she strode across the arch-ceilinged hall, she pulled out the pin. It shone up at her like a warm, sincere smile.
Adam.
She’d been fucking conned.
14
The rest of the day passed in a horrified flash, and before she knew it, Frankie was pulling on a canary-yellow dress and spiking her hair in Kris’s bathroom mirror. She was so drained her eyes and throat were gritty, and her body felt like something she was wearing rather than controlling. Her hands trembled as she flipped open her foundation and met her own dismayed gaze in the mirror.
She’d wanted to be wrong.
She’d sped to Kuria Estate straight after her talk with Zara. She’d wanted to stand before Adam and sense in her gut that he was a good man—incapable of malice, of planned murder. Instead, she’d discovered he’d left the mansion just minutes before to organize a surprise for the bachelor party, claiming he would meet Markus and the others at seven.
Mouth dry and head aching, she’d tripled security for Darius that night. Nothing would h
appen to that child while his family was celebrating in the city.
She’d returned to the palace, telling herself it could still be a coincidence. The ‘A’ of his pin might really stand for Adam, and he might really be out arranging a surprise for Mark.
But Prince Aron’s old manservant had confirmed it. Frankie had asked why Aron had decided to dine on the balcony that night. At first, the man couldn’t remember. The conversation moved on, but then he’d circled back, and said, “Actually, I think it was suggested by one of his younger servers. Blond. Quite formal.” He’d paused, remembering. “Adam.”
Cream powder dusted the vanity. Cursing, Frankie clenched her teeth and wiped it onto the marble floor.
Next, she’d shown a photograph of Adam to the proprietor of the Bull’s Quest. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He doesn’t come to every meeting, but most of them.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him,” she’d said faintly. “Anything at all.”
“He doesn’t order much from the bar. Seems to like to stay clearheaded. And his brother used to attend the meetings with him, but stopped turning up about six months ago.”
Brother? On edge, Frankie had ordered a shot at the bar before leaving.
This much she knew—Adam attended anarchist meetings and lied to Zara about it. Through these meetings, he was acquainted with a number of men who’d worked on the construction of the west-wing balcony. He’d personally suggested Prince Aron eat with his father and uncle on the unfinished site. He’d had bags packed in the days following their deaths. He’d been disinterested in Zara until the moment he realized she was close with the princess—who was getting close to Mark. He’d worked hard and faultlessly for the royal family for over a decade, according to the head of palace HR, and requested the opportunity to be promoted to personally serve the new king.