No one puts an outfit together like Queen Helene.

I’m waiting for Her Majesty in Sapphire, a chic tearoom nestled on a quiet corner in Mayfair, one of London’s most exclusive neighborhoods, when every head turns toward the door. You might think that’s artistic embellishment, but when it comes to Helene, Queen of the United Kingdom and the most recognizable woman in the world, there is no such thing as exaggeration.

The first thing I notice is her famous pink sundress from Alexander McQueen’s summer 2021 collection, paired with a cream Whistles cardigan Her Majesty confirms is off the rack from Selfridges.

“I don’t believe in wearing an outfit once and discarding it,” she says in her soft voice after I’ve enquired about her ensemble—the same one she wore to Royal Ascot two summers ago. “The fashion industry’s negative impact on the environment cannot be overstated, and my family have all taken steps to lessen our carbon footprint over the past several years. We only have one Planet Earth, after all,” she adds, squaring her shoulders as if she’s used to receiving opposition for her humanitarian efforts. “We must show it the same respect regardless of our privilege.”

Her sincerity is magnetic, and I feel the eyes of the other patrons upon us. Hovering protectively nearby are the four personal protection officers who remain with her in public at all times—a necessity after the infamous paparazzo attack that saw Her Majesty’s nose broken during her pregnancy with Princess Mary—but she remains undaunted. She’s a far cry from the timid animal shelter volunteer who married King Alexander at age twenty-one, and as we shift to discussing her outfits for the upcoming social season in London, she lights up.

“Each designer was chosen for their commitment to sustainable fashion,” she says, brushing back the new curtain bangs that blend seamlessly into her wavy blond lob, which has become the sensational overnight style of the season. “I’m delighted to have the opportunity to showcase up-and-coming fashion houses from the kingdom and Commonwealth, and each design will be available from their labels for twenty-four hours, with all proceeds going to charity.”

Helene may be Queen of the United Kingdom, but her concern doesn’t stop at her nation’s borders, an endearing attribute that has seen her popularity soar worldwide since her showstopping wedding twenty years ago.

—“The Queen of Fashion,” Vanity Fair, June 2023

 

AS OUR CAR WINDS THROUGH a village fifteen minutes from Heathrow Airport, I think I’m going to throw up.

It would serve Jenkins right if I ruined his shoes, but I keep my mouth clamped shut. I haven’t said a word to him since the plane landed. It’s the first time in my life I haven’t wanted to talk to him, and no matter how many times he insists it’ll only be a month, or that it won’t be so bad, or that he’ll give me everything I ask for when it’s over, I still want to scream until my throat is raw and my voice is gone.

No one has ever told me the details of how I came into being, but I’m not an unfortunate accident that happened before Alexander met his wildly popular queen consort, Helene. I was born two years after they married, and it’s not hard to do the math on that one. My mom had an affair with the King of the United Kingdom, and I arrived nine months later—on the very same day as the heir to the throne and my only half sibling, Princess Mary.

I know it’s not my fault. It probably isn’t even my mom’s fault, considering the serious power imbalance between her and Alexander. But I’m the one who’s had to suffer the consequences. No one but Jenkins and my parents even knows who I really am, and while I wasn’t raised in the royal family, I’ve done enough late-night Googling to understand exactly how big of a problem my existence is for the monarchy. The people love Helene. She’s been on the cover of virtually every magazine in Europe, and I’ve read more than one headline calling her the beating heart of Britain. If the world ever found out that Alexander cheated on her, it would be the scandal of the century and the defining moment of his reign.

Which is why, as the car drives through a gate that leads into the enclosed grounds of Windsor Castle, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here.

“This is the preferred residence of the royal family for most of the year,” says Jenkins, as if I’m not currently giving him the silent treatment. “Late summers are spent at Balmoral, of course, and Sandringham for the holidays. His Majesty will often stay at Buckingham Palace during the working week, for the sake of convenience, but the royal family considers Windsor to be their true home.”

The chauffeur opens the door, and I reluctantly climb out. Jenkins follows, and after a brief word with the pair of staff members waiting to take my luggage from the trunk, he leads me through a side door and into a brightly lit corridor.

It’s much plainer than I expect, and I frown, glancing around at the white walls and worn carpet. I’m still furious with Jenkins, but silence doesn’t always work in my favor, and this is one of those times.

“This is the castle?” I say at last. “It looks more like one of my old dorms.”

“This is a service entrance,” he explains as we turn a corner. “The grandeur is mostly reserved for the state apartments.”

“So…you’re sneaking me in the back,” I say. Somehow I’m not surprised.

“Well, you are a common criminal,” he says with a glimmer of his usual humor, and I huff.

He guides me through the maze of corridors with ease. Most of the doors we pass are shut, but the few that are open seem to lead into storage rooms or offices. It’s nothing remarkable, but my nausea only gets worse the deeper into the castle we go.

It’s just another temporary place to stay, I tell myself. No different from the blur of boarding schools and summer camps I’ve lived in over the years. With any luck, the King will be too busy to bother with me, and if I keep my head down, no one else has to know I’m here. I can do this—I have to do this. And as long as no one tries to arrest me again, in twenty-five days, I’ll be gone.

As we pass a room full of cloth napkins in every imaginable color, a middle-aged man with blond hair and no chin stops us. “Jenkins,” he says with a respectful dip of his head. “Louis is waiting for you in his office.”

“Lovely,” says Jenkins, and for once he sounds pleased. “I, er, noticed the royal standard as we drove in. His Majesty is in residence?”

“Just returned an hour ago. It seems His Majesty has decided to spend the rest of the week at Windsor.” The blond man glances at me, and when our eyes meet, he hastily looks away. He knows, I realize. I don’t know how, but he does. “Should I inform him of your arrival?”

It might be a trick of the light, but I think I see Jenkins gulp. “If it isn’t an inconvenience,” he says, and as the man bobs his head again, we continue on.

“Who was that?” I say, glancing backward. The man has already disappeared down another hallway.

“A discreet member of His Majesty’s personal staff, and someone you will likely never meet again,” says Jenkins. “Now come—there’s no time to waste.”

I follow him at my own pace, in no hurry to get any closer to the royal family. “Where am I staying? Next to the septic tank or behind the dumpster?”

Jenkins chuckles. “I’m pleased your sense of humor is returning.”

But he doesn’t give me an answer, and as he ushers me up a narrow staircase, I have to fight the sudden urge to run in the opposite direction. Strange places are nothing new to me, but there’s something foreboding about walking through a thousand-year-old castle, knowing my absent father is somewhere inside. My absent father who happens to be the monarch of an entire kingdom and commonwealth.

Two floors later, as we step into a sparsely decorated corridor, I’m about to ask Jenkins if the Tower of London is where the royals still send prisoners when I notice a slim Black man in a navy suit waiting in a doorway. Before I can say a word, he hurries toward us.

“Harry! There you are,” he admonishes, though he kisses Jenkins’s cheek in greeting. “You didn’t leave a note.”

“It was urgent,” says Jenkins apologetically. “The police were involved this time.”

“I see,” says the man, and I feel myself flush as his focus slides to me. “You must be Evan. I’m Louis Jenkins.”

His dark eyes twinkle with an affection I don’t expect, and I blink. “There’s another Jenkins?” I say, and Louis chuckles.

“There’s only one Jenkins,” he says fondly, touching the gold band on his left ring finger. “But we do share a name.”

Oh. Oh. “You never mentioned you’re married, Jenkins.”

“You never asked,” he says, but the coolness is missing, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile as he gestures to a nearby door. “Shall we?”

Louis leads us into his office, which is bigger than I expect, with a long desk in one corner, a rack of gowns in another, and several armchairs and love seats scattered about. As I look around, he openly studies me, his gaze moving up and down as he takes in every detail.

“You’re a slip of a thing, aren’t you? And your hair is more colorful than I was led to believe.”

“I trust you can fix that,” says Jenkins, eyeing me critically now, too. “She’ll need a polish before we present her to His Majesty.”

“A polish?” Louis’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“I’m right here,” I say, flopping onto a sofa beside the door. “And the dye was supposed to be temporary. I didn’t know it would turn green and stick around.”

“It isn’t just the hair, love, though that will certainly be our first priority,” says Louis. “The royal family’s style is very…particular. There are rules, written and unwritten, and if you’re going to participate—”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m here for a month, and that’s it.”

A shadow passes over Jenkins’s face. “That is still a month we must make sure you’re presentable. Louis is Her Royal Highness’s personal stylist, and he can guide you toward the appropriate—”

Suddenly heavy footsteps echo in the hallway, and a sandy-haired man strides into the office. The open door blocks me from his view, but from where I sit, I can see him shaking with fury.

“Jenkins,” he says, his voice low despite his obvious anger. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”

Both Jenkins and Louis immediately stand at attention. “Your Majesty,” says Jenkins with a bow of his head, and bile rises in my throat. “Perhaps we might speak in private—”

“I need you to explain to me why you thought bringing her here was acceptable, let alone necessary,” says the man with sandy hair. Alexander. King Alexander II, monarch of the United Kingdom and the other Commonwealth realms, and my supposed father. Who, I realize, most definitely did not know I was coming.

I pull my knees to my chest and open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s impossible not to know what he looks like—I exist, after all, and I don’t live under a rock. But there’s something wholly unsettling about being in the presence of someone I’ve seen in pictures my entire life, and as I stare at the back of his head, all I can think about is that he’s shorter than I thought. Not by a lot—a few inches, maybe—but he isn’t the towering giant that’s lived in my imagination for almost seven years. He’s just an average-sized man. And a slightly balding one at that.

“Sir,” says Jenkins imploringly, and his gaze flickers toward me, but Alexander doesn’t take the hint. “Perhaps there is another place we could discuss—”

“Answer me, Jenkins,” he says with sharp, unwavering authority. It’s the voice of a man who’s never been told no.

Jenkins presses his lips together. “She has nowhere else to go, sir,” he says at last, clearly giving up on any semblance of discretion. “And given the, er, incident this morning, there’s a strong chance the police will press charges. By keeping her close, it will be easier to protect her, and—” He hesitates. “If I may be frank, it is my strong opinion that this is the best place for her.”

“Your opinion has no merit here,” snaps Alexander. “I am her father. It is up to me to decide where she would be better off, and that place is nowhere near Helene and Maisie.”

Maisie. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about Princess Mary, his real daughter, and the queasy feeling in my stomach turns hot with shame and devastation as something inside me shatters. Maybe it’s the hope I’ve clung to all these years that he might secretly love me after all, or maybe it’s every lie I’ve told myself about happy endings. But whatever it is, it’s in pieces now, and I’m left aching in its wake.

Before I can stop myself, I sit up straighter, my fingers digging into my shins so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if I have bruises tomorrow. “If you don’t want me here, then send me home,” I say, cutting Jenkins off as he starts to respond. “It’s obvious you’d be doing both of us a favor.”

The King jerks around, and I see my father’s face in person for the first time. His eyes are blue, his brows bushy, and as his otherwise unremarkable features go slack at the sight of me, I feel like someone’s plunged a knife into my gut. At one point in my life, before my grandmother died, I desperately wanted to meet him—to talk to him, to hear his voice, to know that despite the distance between us, I actually did matter to him. But now I would give almost anything to never see his face again.

“Your Majesty,” says Jenkins, and there’s no mistaking the quaver in his voice this time. “May I present Miss Evangeline Bright. Evangeline—”

“I know who he is,” I say, forcing the words out. “I mean it. Send me home. You don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here, so let’s just move on and forget this ever happened. We both know you’re good at that.”

The room is deadly quiet, but after several long seconds, Alexander manages to speak. “E-Evangeline.” He wheezes my name like he’s never said it before in his life. “I…of course I want you here—”

“No you don’t. You just said you don’t,” I say, and although my eyes prickle, I refuse to let him see me cry. “Please. Let me go home.”

Alexander looks stricken, and Jenkins takes a half step forward. “Sir, if you truly think it best, I will escort Evangeline back to the States in the morning,” he says quietly. “But…if you do wish for her to stay, Louis and I have arranged an apartment for her in the staff quarters. She will remain out of your hair, and we will keep her occupied until you are—able to spend time with her.”

I can hear his hesitation on able, and I know that’s not what he wanted to say. Until you’re ready, more than likely. I’ll never be ready, but Jenkins isn’t asking me. I stare openly at Alexander, and he stares back, his throat contracting as he swallows.

“No,” he says, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for that final swing of the ax that’ll sever this so-called relationship permanently.

Good. All he wants is his legitimate family, and all I want is to go home. At least now we’ll both walk away satisfied.

“Her presence will put the staff on edge,” he continues. “She will stay in the private wing with us.”

At once, all the air seems to leave the office, taking what little self-control I have left with it. “Wait—what?” I gasp. Louis’s mouth falls open, and even Jenkins looks shocked. “I don’t want to be anywhere near you. Or your real family.”

A flicker of hurt passes over Alexander’s face so quickly that it’s possible I imagine it. “Though your visit is…unexpected, you are a welcomed guest, and our guests stay in the private wing with us. Unless you wish to be awoken at five o’clock every morning with members of the staff,” he adds, “I suggest you accept my generous offer.”

My eyes narrow, and I let my feet fall to the floor with a thud. “Your generous offer? Do you have any idea what I’ve had to go through because of your generosity?”

“Thank you, sir,” says Jenkins in a rush. “I will make sure she is settled in.”

“Please do,” says Alexander. “And see to it that she does not cause a scandal. Her hair alone…”

“Already being handled, sir,” says Louis.

As the King’s gaze lingers on me, I feel more like my tiger in the zoo than a human being. But he looks away suddenly, and as he steps toward the door once more, I have an overwhelming urge to say something—anything, so long as Alexander and his judgmental stare don’t get the last word.

“If you’re going to force me to stay, then you should probably let my mother know I’m here,” I blurt, and to my deep satisfaction, the King falters. “You do remember her, right? Laura Bright? Because she remembers you.”

His lips thin into a grimace, but with his eyes fixed on the floor, he strides out of the room as if I haven’t said anything at all.