“What?” I asked.

“She told me you died in Iraq ten years ago,” my mother said.

The cruelty of my sister’s lies felt like a physical weight on my chest.

“Why did she do this?” I asked.

My mother looked toward the heavy oak door, her eyes wide with fear.

“To protect the secret,” she said.

“What secret?” I asked.

“Your father’s death,” she whispered. “It was not an accident.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, the brass handle of the door turned.

A key clicked sharply in the lock.

The heavy oak door began to slide open.

The heavy oak door swung inward with a slow, agonizing groan.

I stood up quickly, stepping between my mother and the threshold.

My hand instinctively reached toward my waistband, though my service weapon was miles away in my travel gear.

It was Prince Alexander.

His formal wedding tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, and his dark hair was disheveled.

He looked pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had been running.

Behind him stood two royal guards in dark blue uniforms, their expressions solemn.