Her Husband’s Family Humiliated Her—Until the Billionaire Royal Bodyguard Exposed Her True Power
The Hidden Princess of Somerville
She was the family’s biggest shame: the quiet, penniless girl their golden boy son, Nathaniel Harrison, had inexplicably married. To the powerful Harrison family of Boston, she was a stain on their perfect reputation.
Tonight, at their glittering annual charity gala, they decided to remove that stain publicly. They offered her a check, humiliated her in front of hundreds of the city’s elite, and told her to get out of their lives forever.
But as the laughter died, the ballroom doors swung open. And the men who entered didn’t just work for the rich; they worked for royalty.
The Harrisons were about to learn that the woman they tried to destroy could buy and sell their entire world. The apartment in Somerville was small, but the afternoon light that slanted through the old bay window was kind.
It illuminated the dust motes dancing over a worn, comfortable sofa and stacks of books that threatened to topple over. This was the life Sarah had built with Nathaniel—Nate Harrison—and it was a life she genuinely, terrifyingly loved.
It was a life built on a lie, a lie she told herself was necessary, a shield against a world that had never allowed her to be just Sarah. Nate kissed her forehead, his brow furrowed as he loosened his tie.
He worked in the mid-ranks of a finance firm, perpetually stressed, perpetually trying to live up to a name that opened doors for him and simultaneously trapped him.
“You’re staring at it again, aren’t you?”
he murmured, gesturing to the thick, cream-colored envelope on their tiny dining table. Sarah touched the embossed crest.
“The Harrison Foundation annual gala. I just… Nate, are you sure I have to go? I never fit in with your family. They tolerate me, barely.”
“They… they’re just old-fashioned, Sarah. Stiff, especially my mother.”
Nate sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But this is her biggest event of the year. All of Boston will be there. If I show up without my wife again, she’ll never let me hear the end of it. Please, for me.”
Sarah looked at his tired, pleading eyes. This was the man who, two years ago, had met her in a Cambridge coffee shop while she was supposedly a grad student on scholarship and hadn’t cared that she was wearing a threadbare sweater.
He had loved her for her mind, for her quiet observations, for the person she pretended to be. How could she refuse him?
“All right,”
she said softly.
“For you.”
His relief was palpable.
“It’ll be fine. We’ll go. We’ll smile. We’ll eat some tiny expensive food, and we’ll be home by 11:00. I promise.”
But Sarah knew Nate’s promises were often casualties of his mother’s ambitions.
The Captain’s Warning
Later that night, long after Nate was asleep, Sarah sat on their fire escape, the Boston skyline a glittering, cold promise in the distance. Her phone buzzed; the caller ID was a string of encrypted numbers.
She answered, her voice changing subtly, losing its soft American inflection.
“Valerius,”
she said, her French perfect, clipped, and aristocratic.
“Votra aless,”
The voice on the other end was deep and formal.
“The security protocols for the gala, they are lax. It is a civilian event. I am uncomfortable with this.”
“I will be with Nathaniel,”
Sarah—no, Saraphina—replied, gazing at the stars.
“My cover is my protection. No one looks twice at the poor student. It is the perfect disguise.”
“A disguise that has gone on for two years,”
Valerius pressed, his concern evident.
“Your father, the prince, is impatient. Sylvaria needs you. This normal life is a dangerous game.”
“It is my game, Captain,”
she said, a flash of steel in her voice.
“I will be fine. I am attending as Sarah Harrison, the unwanted daughter-in-law. Trust me, Valerius, I will be the most invisible person in the room.”
“As you wish, Your Highness, but my team will be in position,”
The line clicked dead. Saraphina closed her eyes.
She had wanted to know if a man could love her without the weight of her crown. She had found one, but now to keep him, she had to walk into the one place she had avoided at all costs: the heart of Genevieve Harrison’s empire.
She thought of the dress hanging in her closet. She’d had it sent from one of her accounts in Zurich.
It was simple, charcoal gray, almost severe in its cut, with no labels. It was a bespoke piece by a designer whose name was only whispered in the most exclusive circles.
Its simplicity, she knew, would be mistaken for poverty by the Harrisons. They, with their love for loud, obvious brands, wouldn’t understand.
They wouldn’t see the hand-stitching, the perfect drape of the billion-dollar fabric. They would see exactly what she wanted them to see: Sarah, the girl who wasn’t good enough.
And tonight, she had a dreadful feeling they were going to make sure she knew it.
A Night at the Harrison Townhouse
The drive to Beacon Hill was a journey between worlds. They left their cramped brick and vinyl Somerville neighborhood and crossed the Charles River.
The streets narrowed, the cobblestones reappeared, and the gas-lit lamps cast a golden, judgmental glow on the imposing brick facades of Boston’s oldest, wealthiest enclave.
The Harrison townhouse was a fortress of old money, a four-story testament to their perceived place in the world. Tonight, it was lit up like a jewel box, valets in crimson jackets hustling to open the doors of Bentleys and black Mercedes.
Nate, sensing Sarah’s tension, squeezed her hand.
“Deep breaths. Remember the plan: smile, nod, and find the champagne.”
The moment they stepped inside, the warmth and noise of the party hit them. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the grand foyer.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and hot-house lilies. And standing at the top of the marble staircase, greeting her guests, was the matriarch herself.
Genevieve Harrison was a woman sculpted from ice. She was tall, rail-thin, and wore a shimmering emerald green gown that seemed to advertise its own cost.
Her silver-blonde hair was pulled back in a chignon so tight it looked painful. Her eyes, the same blue as Nate’s but lacking all their warmth, scanned the room like a predator.
They spotted Nate and Sarah. Her smile, which had been bright for the senator in front of them, tightened by a fraction.
“Nathaniel, you’re late,”
she said, her voice a low, cultured blade. She offered him a cheek, which he kissed dutifully.
Then her eyes landed on Sarah. She looked her up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made Sarah feel like an insect.
“Sarah,”
Genevieve said, the name sounding like an unpleasant taste.
“How simple you look. That color is very functional.”
“Mrs. Harrison, thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful,”
Sarah inclined her head.
“Yes, it is,”
Genevieve replied, already turning to the next guest.
“Do try to stay out of the staff’s way, dear. They’re very busy.”
Nate’s sister, Chloe, descended on them next. Chloe was a younger, louder version of her mother.
“Natie, you came! And you brought her.”
She gave Sarah a dazzling, fake smile.
“Sarah, darling, that dress… is that from that little boutique in Cambridge, the one that sells recycled fabrics? It’s so brave of you to be sustainable at an event like this. Truly.”
“It’s just a dress, Chloe,”
Nate said, his face flushing.
“Oh, I know,”
Chloe giggled, linking her arm through her brother’s.
“Now you must come and see Father. He’s talking to Mr. Peterson about the new venture. You know, the sovereign wealth fund deal? It’s massive. Billions. It’s going to make us the most powerful family in New England.”
She physically pulled Nate away, leaving Sarah standing alone at the edge of the Grand Ballroom. This was the part she hated: the isolation.
She was an anchor tied to Nate, dragging down his social mobility. To them, she was a mistake, a low-class entanglement he was too weak to sever.
She took a flute of water from a passing tray. She never drank alcohol while on duty, and she was always on duty.
She retreated to an alcove, partially hidden by a large potted palm. From here, she could observe; it was a skill honed since childhood.
She watched Arthur Harrison, the patriarch, a man who puffed himself up with a cigar and a booming voice, but whose eyes constantly darted to his wife for approval.
She watched Chloe flirt outrageously with a man who looked distinctly uncomfortable, a minor British noble, Lord Barnaby Finch.
And she watched Genevieve. The woman was holding court, every politician, every banker, every old money heiress paying their respects.
Genevieve was the true power, and Sarah knew with a sinking certainty that all of that power was about to be focused on her.
