Evangeline Bright, illegitimate daughter of the King, has announced her first patronage.

While normally this privilege is reserved for actual members of the royal family, Evangeline seems to be taking a perverse amount of delight in flaunting her new spot on the social ladder. In addition to wearing the Queen Florence tiara to Princess Mary’s birthday ball—which caused a very mixed reaction among fans and detractors alike—Buckingham Palace confirmed yesterday that she’s been given a place at Oxford, no doubt stolen from another, far worthier student. The nine-time expellee will reportedly take a gap year to focus on what a palace insider has dubbed ‘necessary social training.’

Her choice of patronage, for the few of you who may be curious, is the deeply predictable Open Arms Foundation, which supports children who’ve been affected by mental illness in their home life. Considering Evangeline reportedly refused to answer any questions about her mad mother, Laura Bright, during her interview with Katharine O’Donnell last week, royal watchers have called the move ‘tacky’ and ‘attention-seeking,’ and one can only hope that she doesn’t bring more harm to the children who rely on the foundation.

With Evangeline set to make her first public appearance at Wimbledon today alongside lifelong tennis fan Princess Mary, we can only wonder which blunder she’ll commit next.

—The Regal Record, 6 July 2023

 

AS THE RANGE ROVER PULLS up to the side entrance of the All England Club, my head is spinning and my limbs are numb. Through tinted windows, I see the hundreds of people who’ve gathered behind the ropes that line the pathway into the stadium, and I can hear their cheers as we roll to a stop.

“Remember, selfies are strictly prohibited,” says Tibby from the front seat, where she’s clutching her ever-present tablet and a pair of designer sunglasses. “They’ll beg and plead, but the answer is always no. Hugs are also discouraged, and absolutely no public displays of affection between the pair of you,” she adds, glaring at Kit, who sits beside me on the leather bench. “And for God’s sake, Evan, keep your knees together while getting out of the car. If you give the paparazzi a shot up your skirt, I will quit on the spot.”

“Right,” I say, my mouth dry as the driver hurries over to open my door. “Knees together, no selfies, and keep our hands to ourselves.”

I manage the first part well enough as I climb out of the vehicle. A blinding series of flashes explode from the press pool, but I plaster a smile on my face and pretend I don’t notice. Ahead of us, Maisie gracefully exits her Range Rover in a mint-green sundress, and she practically skips with excitement as she goes to greet her fans. Fitz and Gia follow, but they keep their distance while Her Royal Highness works her magic.

Though the crowd is mostly focused on my sister, more than a few pairs of eyes are trained on me. I flex my trembling hands into fists, feeling like my heels are rooted to the pavement. I don’t know who these strangers are. They could hate me, or think I’m a delinquent or a murderer or any of the other horrible things anonymous commenters are still saying about me and probably always will. But no matter what insults the public throws at me, I’m under strict orders to take it all with a smile.

“You can do this,” says Kit in my ear. “Look at them—they’re excited to meet you.”

“They’re excited to meet Maisie,” I say quietly. “They just have to put up with me, too.”

“Lucky them,” he murmurs, and even though he’s behind me, I can hear his smile.

I take a deep breath and will myself forward. Technically I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to, even though Tibby insists that’ll get me labeled as uppity and unfriendly. So long as I smile and wave, I can walk past the crowd as quickly as possible and let my sister handle her well-wishers. I can’t avoid the inevitable glares and jeers completely, but at least this way, they won’t last long.

I’ve taken three steps when my name starts to echo in the crowd. “Evangeline!” shouts a female voice, and then another, younger this time—“Evangeline!”

Against my better judgment, I turn toward the rope, bracing myself for what’s to come. But instead of sneers, all I see are eager smiles.

“Evangeline!” says a woman with a strong Scottish accent. “We came all the way down from Edinburgh to meet you, love.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely stunned. “Thank you.”

“We’re from Cornwall,” pipes a man with his arm around a thin gray-haired woman. “My mum and I watched every minute of your interview. Couldn’t tear our eyes away.”

“It was so brave,” says the woman shakily. “So very, very brave. You remind me of my youngest, Angelica. She went through the same thing, you know, but no one believed her.”

I freeze, momentarily rendered speechless. Nothing in my endless hours of media training has prepared me for responding to something so personal. But I know what I’d want someone to say to me, and so I reach out and clasp her hand between mine. “I hope Angelica’s doing better now,” I reply. “And tell her I believe her.”

The pavement stretches only thirty feet or so, but it might as well go on forever. I inch my way down, saying hello, grasping hands, and smiling into cameras for selfies I’m not supposed to take. With Maisie working the opposite side of the crowd, we swap a few times, and I’m not completely immune to the disappointment on some faces when they’re greeted by me instead. But even though I accept several small bouquets on Maisie’s behalf, everyone is shockingly kind and polite. At last, when the doors to the stadium are no more than a few yards away, a little girl with her black hair in two buns ducks under the rope, clutching a handful of crimson daisies.

“Hi,” I say warmly, kneeling down to look her in the eye. “Those are lovely. Are they for Mary?”

The little girl shakes her head shyly, and when she offers them to me, my heart feels like it’s going to burst.

“Thank you so much,” I say, taking them reverently. They really are beautiful, and I gaze at the soft petals. They’re the first flowers anyone’s ever given me. “What’s your na—”

I stop as I look up. The little girl is gone, and I climb to my feet once more, hoping to catch sight of her in the crowd. But she’s disappeared without a trace.

Puzzled, I glance at the bouquet again. Nestled among the daisies is a card with Evan scrawled across the front in deep-red ink, stark against the creamy paper. Not Evangeline, I realize—not the name the media and the public know me by, but the nickname only the people in my life use. The nickname I insist on.

Even though there are still onlookers waiting to meet me, I step away from the barrier as I tentatively open the card. And as I read the spidery script inside, my blood runs cold.

No matter where I am in the world, I still know your secrets. Enjoy this while it lasts.

There’s no signature, but I don’t need one. Even though I’ve never seen his handwriting before, there’s only one person who would have dared to send this.

Ben.

I scan the crowd again, my smile long gone as I search for any sign of him or the little girl. All I can see is an ocean of strangers with their eyes on me, and my throat tightens with dread.

“Oh, daisies—how lovely,” says Tibby from only a few inches away, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Would you like me to take those for you, Miss Bright?”

There’s an edge to her voice that makes it clear this isn’t a question, and once I pluck the note from its plastic holder, I fork over the bouquet. “Is it time to go inside?”

“If you can tear yourself away.”

With feigned reluctance, I wave apologetically to the crowd and follow Tibby to the entrance, silently crumpling the note in my fist. Kit is waiting for me under the awning, and he must notice something is wrong, because he leans toward me until his lips nearly brush my ear.

“All right?” he whispers, and even though I nod, I can tell he isn’t fooled. We lock eyes for a long moment, and as Maisie and Gia enter the stadium, he silently offers me his hand.

I hear the click of a dozen cameras and feel Tibby’s hot glare on us both, but if we’re going to break the rules, we might as well do it in spectacular fashion. And so I lace my fingers with his, more grateful for him than I’ve ever been before, and we walk through the doors together.