Seventy-Five:
Three years later
Cecelia Porter
There were reporters waiting for me the minute I got out of Heathrow airport. Three weeks ago, the palace had leaked that I wasn’t dead. I’d allowed it because I’d finally finished school. In June, Marlowe and I had graduated. We’d also been together for four years, and people were starting to put the pieces together. Everyone thought it was very odd that “Lia Porter” shared the same, last name as Delilah. At first, they tried to make me out to be a cousin. But then no one was buying it.
I wanted anonymity a little longer, at least until I graduated. But I knew that I couldn’t keep the charade up forever. Especially not if I wanted a future with Marlowe. Getting to know each other as adults, outside of the palace, had been
