least. “You may not care… At least I hope you don't. But I think it will keep me from ever being able to marry you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Tell me. What could possibly be that bad?”
She looks down for a beat, her eyelids fluttering closed. Then she looks back at me, her eyes filled with pain. “I'm not Pippa Welch. Pippa Welch is a complete fabrication.”
I blink a few times. “What?”
She licks her lips, her hand finding mine. She clenches my fingers. “I'm not Pippa Welch. I was born under a different name. I've been lying for most of my life.”
I know that she is looking at me and saying these words, but I shake my head in disbelief. “No, that's not right. I mean, you were Pippa Welch when I met you. We have known each other for ages.”
She grips my fingers so hard that it's almost painful. “I'm telling you the truth, Lars. I was brought to St. Matthews after being smuggled out of France. My father was Ansel Martin, the terrorist who bombed French Parliament. He killed people.”
I squint, trying to make sense of her story. “So what? So your father was a terrorist? I don't understand why that qualifies you to change your name and move to another country…”
She swallows heavily. “I was just a little girl. I was only twelve when it happened. A family friend took my sister and I in for a while. She thought that eventually we would stop being harassed by everyone that we met… But after a year, she made the decision to split us up and change our identities.” She shakes her head. “I agreed to it. I agreed to be separated from my sister and to go live a new life under a new name. None of this would ever have come out except…” She bites her lip, her eyes steady on mine. “Except for you are a prince.”
She falls silent then, tears overwhelming her once more. I sit up, shaking my hand a little. She lets go of it and I make a fist to regain blood flow. “So you're… you're not Pippa Welch.” I look at her, frowning. “Are you even from England?”
Her cheeks burn red. “My mother was. She died a few years before my father… killed all those people.” She dropped my gaze, looking down at the sheets.
“What's your real name?” I ask.
“Sylvie. Sylvie Martin,” she whispers.
I crack my knuckles, shaking my head a little. “I guess I am in shock of some kind. Why didn't you just tell me? Literally you could’ve told me anytime in the past thirteen years. You could've told me before we got engaged, for christ's sake. I think it would be nice to know that you are not really who you say you are.”
She sits up, pulling up the sheet with her, and touches my arm imploringly. “That name… that girl is dead. She died on the way to St. Matthews. I am Pippa. I've only ever been Pippa since I met you.”
I blow out a long breath. “Why are you telling me this now?”
She looks down again. “Because your grandmother found out somehow. And she's been blackmailing me for months.” Pippa glances up at me, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It's a long story, but essentially she has known since before we were engaged. And she's been… trying to get information on you, I guess.”
I stare at her, feeling like for the second time in as many minutes she's speaking a language other than my own. “What? We…” I shake my head angrily. “My grandmother has been blackmailing you?”
Pippa's face grows anguished. “Yes,” she answers simply. “I didn't know at first that she was behind the person blackmailing me. But it turns out that she expected me to play along with her and her schemes. Your grandmother had a woman name Mrs. Olson come visit me. She wanted to know everything that you said to me.” She bites her lip. “She had pictures of my little sister. She had photographs of you and I in a compromising position. And she threatened me that if I didn’t obey her rules, she would hurt you or my sister.”
I squint at her. “Momse threatened you? Seriously?”
Her cheeks turn bright red. She nods. “Mrs. Olson threatened me first but when I didn't comply with her, your grandmother quite openly said that she would deal with me and I wouldn't like it.”