THE CHANDELIERS SPARKLE AND IN their sconces lining the hallways, flames flicker. Marble floors shine with a polished gleam, the Monet and Dali paintings hanging proudly in their gilt frames. The aroma of smoke and perfume mingle with a few dust motes in the air, dancing in the few shafts of sunlight that have squeezed in through the narrow, arched windows. Floor-length drapes in deep burgundy frame the panes of glass.

The scene is set.

The castle awaits its prince.

I sit on the chaise lounges at the end of the reception hall and smooth out my gold dress, then cross my legs at the ankles. But I change my mind and decide that the position is too demure, too ladylike. I don't want my future husband to view me as some simpering, shrinking violet. I want to look strong, powerful, like the heiress to the Martell empire that I am.

"Your sister has yet to make an appearance," Charles Martell notes.

His voice startles me, but I refuse to let it show. My father's noiseless steps and inconspicuous way of moving shouldn't mark him as anyone special—but he prefers it that way. Prefers for people to underestimate him, not notice him, until he leaps, coiled from his hiding place, and pounces.

I rearrange my hair just for something to do. He places a hand on my shoulder, stilling my movements. To an outsider the motion would look comforting. I know better. "Do not fidget, ma fille," he scolds. "It's unbecoming of you."

My mother enters shortly after and smiles at me. It's a warning smile. Please him. Do not mess up. The place next to me is empty, cold, waiting for Priscilla. My twin sister has been late from minute she was born; the fact that she came into the world two minutes after me is mere proof of that. She made me heiress, and not her. But now, Antonio Cavalli will be able to have his pick of the two of us for a wife. Which Martell sister will he choose—I wonder.

Footsteps, too light and frenzied to be Priscilla's, echo through the great hall. I don't need to turn my head to know they belong to my youngest sister, ten-year-old Augusta.

"Is he here?" she asks, her voice eager and anxious. One would think she was the one being offered as a potential bride. I wouldn't mind backing out of a possible betrothal. I'd even let her take my place if she were old enough and there were not ten years separating her from Priscilla and I. "I want to see him!"

Her nanny runs into the room after her, panting but still possessing enough breath to begin scolding her. "Apologies, Mr. Martell. I..."

He clicks his tongue, scooping up Augusta in his arms and swinging her around like she's five, not ten. My father is tall and still fit enough to do it, at forty. "Excuses."

Augusta squirms and he sets her back down. "Off you go, ma petite fille. Back to the nursery with you."

"I'll fill you in later," I say.

Finally, Priscilla enters, ten minutes late. "Sorry! The curling iron stopped working and I had to..."

Her voice trails off at the look on our father's face. Her words are, just as he dismissed earlier, mere excuses.

"Be quiet," he murmurs. "Sit down."

"NAME?" THE MAN IN THE tower asks me when my car rolls to a stop outside the wrought iron gate of the Martell residence. The tinted window rolls down, and I push my dark sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.

"Antonio Cavalli," I reply.

He checks a list before waving me on through. "Go ahead."

Pulling up by the fountain, I get out of the Jaguar and pass the keys to a valet. "If I see one scratch on my car, you will pay for it."

He nods and holds the keys gingerly. The manor rises up above me, a looming mass of charcoal stone topped with shale roofs. I snort and walk into the manor, two guards opening the doors for me. A butler appears, dressed in a fine suit. "This way, sir."

I walk behind him through finely decorated corridors until we reach the reception chamber. At the end of it sit two girls in gold and silver dresses on a chaise lounge—a matched set, with similar but not identical features. They are fraternal twins, then. Charles Martell and his wife stand behind them.

"Welcome, Mr. Cavalli," Charles says, stepping forward.

"Please, Mr. Martell," I say. "Call me Antonio."

He smiles, but it's a silvery one, as quick and slippery as a snake. "Antonio. Call me Charles, then."

"Very well, Charles. Let's get down to business, then."

He folds his arms across his chest. "Which one of my daughters would you prefer? Joanna, or Priscilla?"

I shake my head. "Neither Joanna nor Priscilla, I'm afraid."

He raises a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Did you not arrange for me to marry one of your daughters?" I ask, casting a scornful look at the twins sitting on the couch. Joanna and Priscilla, attired in their best, stare back at me with unreadable expressions, radiating attitude and icy power. "Well, I found a better one."

Joanna tosses her hair over her shoulder but says nothing. Her cold glower says it all. She loathes me and despises being made inferior.

"What is this fool talking about?" Priscilla demands, standing up and waving her hands. She's more animated than her sister, the fire to her ice. "Father?"

Charles Martell, like his eldest daughter, remains silent. And like his daughter, his expression speaks for him. But unlike Joanna Martell, it is not anger that keeps him silent. It is shock and horror. At having his secret, illegitimate child revealed to his legitimate family? Next to him, at his side, Marcella Martell is a higher-class Norman Rockwell portrait, her ruby gown suiting the gold and silver hues of her daughters' dresses, her aura warm and matronly. She looks like a politician's wife, the kind who stands by through scandals with hookers and re-election campaigns.

Only, she could not have known that Christina Martell exists. A woman like her may appear soft and cuddly but her backbone must be adamantine. If she had known about Christina, she would have known that she was a threat to her true family, to the true heir. Yet no trace of surprise lies on her Botox-enhanced face.

"Get out," Charles finally says. No—he growls. "Leave, and never mention that to me again."

Oh, what a mistake he has made. What a mess he has made of power. Like my father always says, a rumour is not true until it is denied. And such a vehement denial only confirms the veracity of my statement.

"Are you scared of the truth?"