“Will you fucking stop?”
I slide Rafe an irritated glance, and he grimaces, pausing the incessant humming at last. “You know how much I hate this place.”
Kit is silent beside him, but I can sense his agreement as we head up the steep steps to the gleaming white palace that towers above us in a collection of elegant towers. The jewel in the crown of Sorelle.
He despises the people inside of this place even more than Rafe does. Pampered, cooing, overblown fucking peacocks, the lot of them.
But that’s exactly how we prefer it. Empty-headed. Spineless. Greedy. Ripe for manipulation.
A perfect arrangement, really. And this way, everyone gets what they want.
As we reach the ornate double doors, held open by empty-faced puppet guards on either side, we walk straight through. Nobody stops us. The guards pale, the courtiers in their puffed-up fancy outfits spinning on their heels and swiftly moving in the opposite direction.
Our reputation precedes us. Only a single footman has the courage to walk up to us. “Th-this way, my lords.”
My lords. It’s an honorific that doesn’t belong to us. None of us are part of the court – by design, not be lack of opportunity. The royal family would gift us any title we wanted if we demanded it.
Possibly even the crown itself. After all, they wouldn’t be able to hold onto it without our money propping them up.
Whilst Crispin and his frail, aging parents might have the royal blood, it’s the Tate brothers who hold the royal purse strings – and every single person under this very expensive roof knows it. And given recent events, it’s time for them to have a little reminder of exactly what happens if they try to take advantage of our…. generosity.
We stalk down the opulent hall, the ruby red carpet runner soft beneath my black leather shoes. The footman scurries ahead of us, occasionally twisting his head back to make sure we’re still following. Probably hoping we’re not.
Rafe stretches his lips into a wide grin as he looks back again. The man blanches, picking up speed to knock at a large set of carved double doors. He laughs softly beside me.
“The Tate brothers, Your Highness.”
The scrambling from inside makes the footman glance back at us warily. Crispin clearly has company.
We wait in silence, and Rafe begins to tap his foot on the floor. I wonder if the footman will wet himself before or after he leaves us, but then a voice calls out.
The man’s sigh of relief is audible as we pass him.
Crispin leans back in his chair as he watches us enter, clearly trying to give off a nonchalant vibe as he slouches to the side, one hand dangling off the arm of the chair, the other running through his hair as he yawns.
The effect of the debonair, carefree prince is somewhat ruined when Kit slides out the chair directly beside him, slipping into it. Crispin blanches, straightening abruptly as he slides mildly panicked glances towards my brother.
“The wonderful Tate brothers.” Crispin smiles weakly, although his gaze keeps slipping back to Kit. My brother pulls out a knife, nonchalantly beginning a game where he splays his hand on the antique table and begins deftly stabbing into the small spaces between his fingers.
Kit has never needed to be the loudest in a room to prove his point.
Crispin swallows. “I’ll admit that I’m surprised to see you here – and so… so soon after your last visit. What can I help you with?”
Rafe leans forward. “Are you surprised to see us, Crispy? Really?”
Crispin flushes at the nickname. “I am the Crown Prince, Rafael. At least try to act like it.”
Everybody stills. The silence stretches out.
Crispin’s mouth drops open. His eyes widen, and he gawks at us as if he can’t believe the words that came out of his mouth. We watch as he fumbles out an apology.
Once Kit has resumed his game, I lean back in my seat. “As my brother said, Crispin. You didn’t think that we might be paying a visit soon? I’ll admit that I was very surprised to see the accounts this month. Some significant spending happening.”
Spreading his hands out, Crispin looks apologetic, even as his eyes dart to the door. “Ah. Yes. You’ll recall that we did discuss a small increase – ah, due to my upcoming nuptials. Such a happy occasion, after all, and as the heir to the throne, there are… expectations.”
“Including from your bride to be,” Rafe says drily. “Since she’s rinsed every jewelry store within a fifty-mile radius. The future Mrs Crispy has expensive taste.”
Crispin turns a little paler. “I will… speak with her. My fiancée has had quite a difficult life, as you may know, and it’s taking her some time to adjust.”
My fingers tap on the table. “I have no patience for, nor do I care to pander to your future wife, Your Highness.”
My voice is cold, and Crispin gulps. “Well—,”
“Your repayments will need to increase to cover the shortfall. Rather substantially, I’m afraid. With interest. I fear that the royal celebrations may need to be scaled back somewhat as a result. I presume your fiancée will be fine with that? If not, she could always sell some of her new belongings. The rings alone could fund Sorelle for six months at least.”
I’ve heard plenty about the lovely Cinderella and her awful upbringing. The whole country has been talking about her and her vile-sounding sister.
I wonder what the fuck she sees in Crispy. It has to be the money. He might be handsome, but the man has nothing but air between his ears. Air and pussy. At least a third of his debt is from prostitutes.
Crispin sputters. “Well, now – perhaps… um. Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement?”
My smile is slow, and I pull the list from my pocket, sliding it down the table. “Perhaps.”
Crispin picks up the sheet, and his brows dip as he scans it. “This is… quite a lot, Silas. The money laundering regs alone – those have been in place for more than four hundred years. There will be talk—,”
He catches himself as he looks up and sees my face. “I’m sure it will be no problem.”
“Excellent.” My voice is smooth. “Then I believe our discussion has concluded. For today, at least.”
Standing, I offer him a single nod before turning to leave. Kit stands slowly, putting his knife away as Rafe jumps up from his seat without even bothering to hide his pleasure at the brief meeting.
My eyes glance across the front pages of today’s newspapers as I sweep past. They’re set out as they always are, placed carefully at the end of the table in case Crispin has the sudden, unusual urge to learn a single damn thing about the country he’ll apparently be running one day.
God fucking help them.
And thank fucking god for us.
We might make changes where we need to, to suit our own business interests, but there’s more than one incident we’ve yanked on Crispin’s strings to manage. His father
My hand is already on the gold handle of the door when I pause, something tugging at the corner of my mind. Urging me to turn around.
Rafe and Kit tense behind me as I twist. Crispin gulps audibly, but I’m not looking at him as I turn and slowly make my way back to the table.
No. My attention is firmly on the full-page photograph accompanying today’s sensationalist headline.
UGLY STEPSISTER TO FACE CINDERELLA AT TRIAL
My brothers come to stand on either side of my shoulders, their eyes moving down to take in the picture.
Kit stills. I’m not sure he’s even breathing.
I catch Rafe’s indrawn breath, the half step back.
I wonder if they feel it too. Like they’ve been punched in the stomach, the air sucked out of their lungs.
She almost looks like a different person. Pale and sallow, dirty, deep circles beneath her eyes. But the shape of those eyes, those fucking catlike tawny eyes that pierced me the first time I looked into them – those eyes don’t lie.
“Silas,” Rafe breathes. “Do you think—,”
But I’m already flicking over the page, ignoring the hovering presence of Crispin. Searching for the information I need. Information I’ve been looking for, for years.
When all the time, she was right fucking here, right under our noses.
“Anastasia Cooper,” I breathe. Rafe curses next to me.
Stasi.
Crispin clears his throat, flinching when we all look up. He lingers a few steps away, managing to look both curious and heinously uncomfortable as our eyes fix on him. The paper crunches under my grip as it tightens. “Yes. Anastasia. That’s Ella’s sister – you know.”
The ugly stepsister.
I hadn’t seen a photograph, not until today. That’s what they’ve been calling her in the news – the woman who enslaved the princess, who kept Ella Cooper as an indentured servant for years, until she ran away to a ball and met the Crown Prince of Sorelle.
A real-life fairytale, one to capture the hearts of the nation.
And Stasi is the villain.
My jaw tightens.
That, I can believe.
Keeping the paper in my hand, I slowly pull out a chair. “Take a seat, Crispin. I have a new proposition for you. One which you’ll find is in your interest to accept.”
Because Crispin may be fucking clueless, but the woman currently gracing the front pages is priceless. There is nothing we wouldn’t give, no amount we wouldn’t hand over to have Anastasia back within our grasp.
To make her ours.
And to make her pay.
