Chapter 2

"What I'm saying," Wyatt said. He set the cup down and stood. He walked over and stopped right in front of me. "Is that I've kept your secret for twenty-two years. Time to settle up."

I looked up at him, this person I'd grown up beside. There was nothing absurd in his eyes now. Just something I couldn't read.

"When did you know, Your Highness?" I asked.

"Four years old," he said. He smiled again. "I knew the moment I raised the scissors."

I froze.

"That day I saw a scar on your wrist," he said. "It matched one my mother had. She told me it was the price she paid with her life so I could live. You had the same mark. So I figured you must be my sister."

Wyatt's birth mother died in childbirth. Everyone in the palace knew that.

"So you were trying to..." I started.

"I was trying to save you," he said. He stepped back and looked at me. "Delilah's people were right outside. If I hadn't caused that scene, you wouldn't have lived to see five years old."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Twenty-two years.

I thought I'd hidden deep enough. I thought I'd endured enough pain. And all this time, someone had been acting even longer than I had. Twenty-two years of playing a role.

"Sarah," he said.

I looked at him, the reckless crown prince who'd clowned around for over two decades. He stood straight now. His eyes held something I couldn't name.

I looked at him. The reckless crown prince who'd clowned around for over two decades. He stood straight now. His eyes held something I couldn't name.

He couldn't finish.

I remembered.

That year I was four. I stared at those rusty scissors, and I said, "I want the right side."

Because the right side was closer to the heart.

"Sarah," he said. His voice dropped low. "You owe me. It's time to pay."

The day Delilah held that family dinner, the heat was enough to make a person's brain go fuzzy.

I followed Wyatt into the banquet hall. The Prince, Miles, was already there, chatting with Delilah. The King was slumped in the main seat, half asleep. He fanned himself lazily.

"Sarah, there you are," Delilah said. She smiled and waved me over. "Come here. Let me get a look at you."

I didn't move.

Wyatt gave me a shove from behind. "Mother's calling you," he said. "Go."

I walked over. Delilah grabbed my hand and looked me up and down. Her eyes actually welled up. "You've gotten thin," she said. "Has Wyatt been giving you a hard time?"

"You're too kind," I said. "His Highness treats me well."

"Treats you well, my foot," Delilah said. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "The whole palace knows he's a menace. You're the only one who can stand him."

Miles laughed from his seat nearby. "You are feeling sorry for her," he said. "Maybe I should take Sarah off your hands, Wyatt. Bring her to my household."

Wyatt was busy spitting out grape seeds. He looked up. "What's that supposed to mean, Miles?" he said. "You trying to steal my people?"

"She's not your people," Miles said. He raised his wineglass. "She belongs to the palace. You didn't buy her."

"She grew up with me," Wyatt said. "That makes her mine."

The King stirred awake. He blinked, confused. "What's all the noise?"

Delilah stood up quickly. "Nothing, Your Majesty," she said. "The children are just playing around. Please, have some food."

The King didn't touch his fork. His gaze swept across the table and landed on me. "That girl looks unfamiliar."

She smiled as she spoke. "She's the head maid from Wyatt's household. Sarah Perez. She entered the palace at age four. You've seen her before."

"Sarah Perez," the King muttered. He repeated the name twice. Then he leaned back again. "I don't remember."

The dinner went on. Miles kept serving food with eager attention. Delilah radiated maternal warmth. The King continued to doze off. Wyatt stayed true to form.

He complained the wine was too warm and that the food was too cold. He kept me running around the whole time.

When I stepped up next to him, he suddenly knocked his wineglass over.

The wine splashed all over my sleeve.

"Damn," he said. He frowned and pulled out a handkerchief. "Come here. Let me wipe that off."

I reached for the handkerchief. He didn't hand it over. Instead, he grabbed my wrist and yanked my sleeve up without asking.

My brain went blank with a roar.

"Your Highness," I started.

It was too late.

That old burn scar was exposed. It ran from my left wrist up to the middle of my forearm. The skin was puckered and wrinkled.

It was a shade darker than the surrounding flesh. Under the candlelight, it was impossible to miss.

Delilah's fork clattered onto her plate.

Miles's wineglass froze in midair.

Even the drowsy King opened his eyes. He stared straight at my wrist.

"That scar," Delilah said. Her voice had shifted pitch. "Where did that scar come from?"