They’d driven back to London in Alexandra’s car, the tinted windows hiding their pensive faces. The ride had been quiet; Alexandra seemingly lost in her thoughts, and Olivia willing herself not to look back. After such a torrent of emotions that morning, the rhythmic motion of the car had been soothing, and she’d tried not to think about how she’d messed up being in love before. Was she destined to make the same mistake again? The odds were stacked against her.

When they’d got back to Olivia’s home, it had been swarming with press. So much so, she’d been given instructions from the palace press office to stay away and move to her sister’s central-London home. Alexandra and Miles lived in a far more spacious and secure residence than Olivia, and it had been deemed more appropriate for the time being. Her sister had been amenable, so Olivia was now lying on the bed in one of the house’s guest suites, staring at the high ceiling with its intricate cornices and cream ceiling rose.

It all meant nothing.

When she closed her eyes, all she could see was Rosie’s crushed expression on repeat.

When she swallowed down, all she could taste was regret.

She’d tried to make it better with apologetic texts and the crockery order, but Rosie hadn’t replied.

Last night, she’d lain awake till the early hours, wrapped in a blanket of shattered dreams.

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts and she waited a beat before answering. “Who is it?”

“Me,” Alexandra replied.

Olivia swung her legs off the bed and stood. “Come in.”

Today, she’d spent an uncomfortable afternoon with Jemima, posing for stilted photos and plastering on fake smiles — they were now no doubt all over the media, which she was steadfastly avoiding. Her fiancée had been icy, and Olivia was hyper-aware she wasn’t pleasing any of the women in her life: Rosie, Jemima or her mother. Olivia hadn’t had a chance to speak to Jemima alone, but she knew it had to happen soon.

Her sister sashayed in wearing some relaxed trousers and an elegant black top, giving her a nod. “You’ve dyed your hair back to normal.”

Olivia shrugged. “I’m not Charlie anymore, am I? Time to return to Princess Olivia who’s a brunette.”

“I guess it is.” Alexandra walked over to the tall wooden fireplace on the right of the room before turning to face her with a grimace.

Olivia’s spine stiffened. “What’s that face for?”

“Do you want the bad news or the bad news?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “So, let’s start with the worst news first.” Alex turned towards Olivia. “Mother wants you at the palace for supper.”

Olivia checked her watch. Supper was always 7.30pm, which meant she had three hours. Not much time. “Okay. What about the rest?”

“The car’s arriving in an hour, and Penelope is coming to brief you on the way.” Penelope ran the palace press office.

A cloak of heaviness settled on her. “Right.”

“And when you’ve got through those two adventures, Jemima will be waiting in the drawing room for after-dinner drinks so you can talk.”

“Mother’s invited her to the palace?” Olivia was pretty sure her mother didn’t even like Jemima — she just liked what she represented.

Alexandra nodded. “To patch up any ‘misunderstandings’ the press might be circulating, apparently.”

“Jesus.”

“He won’t be there.”

“You might as well throw him in,” Olivia replied.

Alexandra threw her a sad smile. “At least you’re keeping your sense of humour.” She winced. “There is one other thing you may or may not want to know, but better forewarned when you meet Jemima later.”

“What?” Olivia’s breathing slowed to a crawl as she prepared for what might fall from her sister’s lips next. “Is Rosie okay?” A chill ran through her veins.

“It’s not connected to her — well, not directly.” Alexandra cleared her throat. “Remember I was joking about how you might get a new title after this? Princess Heartbreaker? Well, it’s come true — it’s currently a trending hashtag.” She sucked on the inside of her cheek briefly. “Although there are other versions that are not quite so complimentary.”

“That’s complimentary?” Olivia’s voice was shrill.

“Compared to the other versions, yes.”

She blew out a breath. “At least I know what I’m dealing with.”

Her sister was still staring, her cool green gaze matching her own. “There is one final thing.”

“What?”

“They’re going after Rosie, too. Trying to get her story.”

Now she was listening — all the rest was noise, but she didn’t want Rosie to suffer: she’d done nothing wrong. She simply couldn’t cause Rosie another drop of harm.

“So far she’s not saying a word, insisting you were just good friends,” Alexandra continued. “But they know she’s a lesbian already because her ex is telling everyone. You might need to have a word, just for damage control. If you don’t do it, Penelope will.”

Olivia sat back on the bed. Amy’s reaction didn’t surprise her one bit, and neither did Rosie’s. She was the wronged party, and yet she was still protecting Olivia.

Perhaps there was still hope?

Or perhaps Rosie was just an honourable person who liked to keep her private life just that: private.

Alexandra walked over to the antique drinks cabinet in the corner, pulling out two crystal glasses, along with a bottle of Glendronach. She poured two large measures without consulting Olivia, before sitting beside her on the bed. They both took a long slug before anything else was said.

“Was this what it was like with Dean?”

Alexandra dropped her head, taking another pull on the whisky. “Exactly the same. Except I had to see him every day.”

Dean had been the Palace’s chief of staff.

“Until Mother fired him,” Olivia finished.

Her sister looked into the distance. “Yes.” She put a hand on Olivia’s thigh, before squeezing. “I know what I said earlier, but seeing you these past two days… I don’t know.” She turned her head, gulping as she continued. “It didn’t work out for me, I have to live someone else’s dream. But one of us should be happy. Whatever you decide, I’m behind you.”

Olivia squeezed her hand right back.

Supper with her parents had been a stilted affair, but Alexandra had been true to her word and never left her side. The Queen had been officious, outlining duty, tradition and royal oaths. But as far as Olivia was concerned, she hadn’t signed any oaths — she’d just had the bad luck to be born.

Her mother hadn’t been in the mood for her lip.

“You don’t know your luck,” she’d snapped after staying calm for a good five minutes. “You don’t even have to be Queen — your sister gets that honour. Your job is to look pretty and have a trophy wife on your arm. But most of all, you must behave like a royal and produce an heir to replace you. The royal family demands respect, and you need to start giving it.” She’d sat forward to deliver her final line. “You are getting married to Jemima, because doing otherwise weakens the crown, and that weakens me.”

That was the crux of it: if there was one thing her mother hated more than anything, it was showing weakness.

And the killer blow? Her father had nodded his head in silent agreement.

Olivia had never gone against his wishes.

It said a lot that she was relieved to be in the drawing room waiting for Jemima. She poured herself another whisky, then sat on one of three velvet antique wing-backed armchairs, tapping her burnished brown brogue against the polished wooden floor. Alexandra had told her to keep her photoshoot dress on for supper, but Olivia was feeling rebellious. She’d changed into her best black suit, her sharpest white shirt and her shiniest cufflinks. If she was going down, she was doing it looking like the best lesbian in town.

She was pretty certain she was one of the most famous right now.

A knock on the door signalled Jemima’s arrival, and seconds later she strutted into the room. She’d changed since this afternoon’s shoot but was still looking delectable in a flowing midnight blue off-the-shoulder number, the necklace that sat on her chest twinkling with more sparkles than Blackpool. When she sat in the armchair opposite Olivia, she crossed her leg, showing a vast expanse of smooth, tanned skin through a side split.

Ten years ago, Olivia’s head would have been turned.

Now, she looked away, feeling like she was cheating on Rosie.

She kept having to remind herself there was no her and Rosie anymore.

She’d sent another flurry of messages thanking Rosie for her silence with the press. Still no reply.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

Olivia stood up, getting Jemima what she needed. Then they stared at each other for a few moments before Olivia spoke first.

“How’s Tabitha?”

Jemima let out a hollow laugh. “You want to play that game? Because from what I hear, you had your own plaything in Cornwall.”

Olivia’s jaw muscles twitched. “She was many things, but she was not a plaything.” Dammit, that was too defensive.

Jemima’s eyes narrowed as she sat forward, swirling her drink. “Let me make this very clear. It’s not just you in this engagement and this marriage — I’m in it, too. And yes, I know I’m second fiddle, but I’m still part of it. And you know the deal with such a marriage. We put up a united front, we smile for the camera and we sleep with who we want to. But the one thing we don’t do is fall in love because that wrecks things.” She held Olivia’s gaze. “I would never have agreed to this if I knew you were in love with someone else.”

Olivia cast her eyes to the ground, steeling herself.

“You have a duty, you are a royal.” Her mother’s words went round and round her head.

Her father’s pleading gaze burned into her soul: “She’s right, Olivia,” he’d reinforced.

“Bottom line, Olivia,” Jemima said. “If we do this, you can’t see this woman again, because I can tell she’s got under your skin.”

Olivia’s heart stalled: could she commit to never seeing Rosie again? She threw her head back, biting her lip to stop the tears.

Her mother, her father, Jemima; they all wanted the same thing.

She desperately wanted to see Rosie again, but their paths were unlikely to cross now, weren’t they?

Could she give up her life to being a royal like the rest of her family had? Did she have a choice now Rosie was lost?

“Do we have a deal?” Jemima asked, her stare heated. “No more falling in love, and we can make this work.”

Olivia looked at her, this woman she hadn’t even kissed in over a year.

Jemima was offering her a compromise, and maybe that’s all she could hope for anymore.

“Olivia?”

She looked up, ignoring the crack of her heart breaking, and slowly nodded her head. “We have a deal, Jemima.”