My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Personal letters on palace letterhead. Private communications that should never have been filed away where someone could find them.
The first was dated three years ago. Two weeks before my mother died.
The route has been finalized. Windsor road, as discussed. Security reduced per your specifications. The contractors you recommended are in position.
Marcel's signature at the bottom. Addressed to someone whose name had been redacted. Blacked out with careful precision.
But the response was still there. Tucked behind the first letter like damnation waiting to be discovered.
Confirmed. Payment transferred to offshore account per arrangement. Timeline: three days. Make it look like an accident. Brake failure. No witnesses. Clean.
No signature on the second letter. Just initials. M.D.
Marcel Devereux.
My hands shook harder. The paper rattled between my fingers.
I pulled out the next document. Financial authorization. Crown funds released for “vehicle maintenance and security upgrades” on my mother's personal carriage. Dated one week before her death.
Approved by the King.
Countersigned by Marcel.
Except the countersignature cameafterthe work was completed. After my mother was dead. After the “accident” had been ruled mechanical failure and filed away.
He'd signed off on his own murder weapon. Made it official. Buried it in palace records where no one would think to look.
The third document was a maintenance report. Technical specifications about brake line degradation. Stress fractures. Metal fatigue that should've been caught during routine inspection.
But wasn't.
Because the inspector listed on the report didn't work for the palace. Worked for a private contractor. One of Marcel's contractors. The same name that appeared in the communications we'd found at the data center.
The same contractor convicted in France two years later for vehicle sabotage.
The paper crumpled in my fist.
“Sebastian?” Dom's voice came from the door. Warning. “We need to move.”
“Not yet.”
“Sebastian—”
The door opened.
Marcel stood there. Framed by corridor light. Rain dripping from his coat. Expression unreadable.
“Well,” he said softly. “Curiosity really does run in the family.”
Dom's gun was out before Marcel finished speaking. Aimed center mass. Professional. Lethal.
Marcel didn't flinch. Just set his briefcase on the desk with movements that were too controlled. Too practiced.
“You found it, I assume? The Queen's file?”
My voice came out like broken glass. “You ordered her death.”
