Chapter 2 - The High-Security Nursery
By 2:00 AM, the grand banquet hall had been cleared of guests, who were placed under strict non-disclosure agreements by the palace legal team. Clara sat on a plush velvet settee in the private family wing, wrapped in a heavy monogrammed cashmere blanket that felt far too soft against her skin.
She felt like an alien who had accidentally landed in a fortress of gold and marble. All her life, she had known nothing but the drafty, overcrowded orphanages of Eastern Europe, followed by a succession of harsh foster homes where she was treated as free labor. Her only comfort had been the secret heavy metal beneath her shirt—the blue stone that always felt warm when she was cold.
Dr. Jonathan Vance, the personal physician to the von Hanover family, stepped back from the portable testing machine. He held a small digital tablet, his face a mask of absolute disbelief.
Eleanor stood over him, her cane tapping a frantic, irregular rhythm against the oak floorboards. Julian stood near the window, his arms crossed, while Beatrice hovered near the door like a vulture waiting for a carcass.
"Well, Jonathan?" Eleanor demanded. "Do not keep an old woman waiting on the brink of a stroke."
"The DNA profile is an absolute match, Your Grace," Dr. Vance said, his voice trembling slightly. "We compared the hair follicle sample from the waitress to the umbilical cord tissue we preserved from Princess Valerie's delivery in 2002. There is a 99.99% probability. This girl is not a fraud. She is Anastasia Valerie von Hanover. Your granddaughter."
Eleanor let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. She dropped her walking cane and fell to her knees in front of Clara’s settee, grabbing the girl’s rough, calloused hands and kissing them repeatedly. "My child... my beautiful, lost child. You've come back to me. The shadows haven't won."
Clara looked at the powerful woman weeping at her feet. "I... I don't know how to be a princess," she whispered honestly. "I've cleaned toilets, Your Grace. I've washed dishes for five euros an hour. I don't know anything about your world."
"You don't have to know anything yet, my darling," Eleanor said, wiping her eyes. "We will teach you. We will protect you."
"Protect her from what, Mother?" Beatrice sneered, stepping into the light of the fireplace. "If she really is Anastasia, then we have a massive legal crisis on our hands. The royal trust fund—the one established by the Duke before his passing—was set to dissolve and distribute its assets to Julian and me at the end of this month because the twenty-year missing-persons clause was expiring. If she is alive, the entire inheritance reverts to her."
Julian glared at his wife. "Beatrice, shut your mouth. My niece is alive. The money doesn't matter."
"It matters to the banks, Julian!" Beatrice snapped. "And it matters to the people who took her twenty years ago. Have you thought about that? If she was kidnapped by professional syndicates, why is she suddenly showing up as a waitress at our private family banquet? Who booked her agency? Who put that necklace around her neck today?"
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I looked at Beatrice, a cold prickle of fear breaking through the warmth of the cashmere blanket. She was right. I hadn't chosen to work this party. My agency manager had called me at the last minute, practically forcing me to take the shift at Moncoeur Palace because another girl had suddenly fallen ill.
Someone had guided me here. Someone wanted the necklace to be seen.
