Someone so unlikely, I’d never even considered him as a suspect.

Lilly was still in New York, and I was here, in Genovia, so she had to call me. She didn’t even text. Or look at the time difference before dialing.

“It’s J.P.,” she said, before even saying hello.

“What? Who’s J.P.? What are you talking about? Did you know it’s one in the morning here? I was asleep.”

“Sorry. But RoyalRabbleRouser is J.P. I just got off the phone with Michael, who confirmed it.”

“Michael? Michael is downstairs in the billiard room, playing pool with Lars.”

“Yeah, he is now. Before that, he was talking to me. And he said not to tell you, but when he punched J.P. that one time in your grandma’s apartment, he also stole his phone, because he wanted to see who else he’d been trying to sell tickets to your wedding to. And that’s when he saw all J.P.’s posts as RoyalRabbleRouser, your stalker.”

I’d gasped. “Oh my God!”

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. I don’t know why I didn’t see it right away. It’s just so unbelievable that someone I know would be so angry with me, and make so many hurtful remarks about me and my family.

But who else would have so much reason to? Or perceived reason to, anyway, since ever since I met him, J.P.’s always wanted to use me, for one reason or another, and I was never willing to go along with any of them.

Now all I can think about is how many hours he wasted sitting there in front of those various computers, logged in as someone else, spewing hatred, when he could have spent them doing something positive for himself and the world. He had the talent—his book wasn’t my cup of tea, but a lot of people would have loved it. What twisted path was he following?

The wrong one, obviously.

“Why didn’t Michael tell me?” I asked Lilly.

“Because the next day you found out you were pregnant with twins, dummy. He didn’t want to upset you. Anyway, he says there’s nothing to worry about, because it’s all taken care of.”

“What does that mean, it’s all taken care of?” I’d demanded. “How is it all taken care of?”

“Well, have you heard from RoyalRabbleRouser lately?”

“No.” It was true, when I thought about it. There hadn’t been a single post or threat since that night I’d seen J.P. at Grandmère’s. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “Oh my God, Lilly! What did Michael do to J.P.?”

“Michael didn’t do anything to him. Don’t be stupid. He turned the phone in to the RGG.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“Oh, right,” Lilly scoffed. “You think J.P. is locked up in a holding cell somewhere under the palace like the president did to Olivia Pope’s boyfriend on Scandal?”

“No,” I said. “Grandmère’s new boyfriend used to work at Interpol. I bet that’s where they’ve got J.P.”

“Well,” Lilly said, “good. Then I guess his douchey dystopian novel is never going to get published. And J.P. has learned a valuable lesson: don’t mess with the Princess of Genovia.”

Obviously, none of this explained why Michael didn’t want to go to Argentina, so I had to confront him about it as soon as he returned to our bedroom.

But he only expressed dismay about his sister’s betraying his confidence and said not to worry: Lars had told him that J.P. had “volunteered” to go work on a Russian icebreaker in order to “clear his head,” and wouldn’t be back to the United States for several months, possibly years.

“Michael,” I said skeptically. “Volunteered? That doesn’t sound like J.P. at all. He hates physical labor. And none of this explains why you don’t want to go to Argentina for your bachelor party.”

“I already told you,” he said, climbing into bed. “I don’t want a bachelor party. If I go to Buenos Aires to have steak, it’s only going to be with you.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Oh, speak—or write—of the devil: Michael’s just come in to check on me. He looks so handsome in his morning suit! When I was coming down the aisle and saw him standing there, looking so nervous—partly because of the many camera people buzzing all around us, shining their extremely bright lights directly into our eyes—I could hardly believe my luck.

But of course luck had nothing to do with it. We both have worked very hard—and have been through a lot—to get to this day. We should get some sort of hazard pay just for putting up with Grandmère these past few weeks. There were several times I thought I might actually pack up and run off to Bora Bora to live under an assumed identity to escape her.

After tonight, though, it will be all over.

At least for two weeks, while we’re on the yacht, and we don’t have to listen to her constant yammering about how every single solitary thing we do is wrong . . .

“Why aren’t you resting?” Michael wants to know.

“I am resting.”

“Writing in your diary is not resting.”

“Really? You’re going to criticize me, too?”

Once you become pregnant—especially with twins, apparently—all anyone cares about anymore (including your partner, sometimes) is what is growing inside your uterus, especially if you’re a person of royal heritage. Once they realize the tabloids were right all along, and you really are carrying twins, all anyone wants to know is: