The strain was wearing on Daphne, but she knew it was worth it. People were wrong when they whispered that she wanted to marry a rich, well-connected man.
Please. She hadn’t braved years of social warfare and left scorched earth in her wake just to marry a rich, well-connected man. She had done it for the rich and well-connected man, the only one in America who really counted.
Now all she had to do was marry into the royal family, even though no commoner had done it before.
Daphne looked down into the throne room, and her eyes locked with those of Gabriella Madison. Gabriella’s mouth curled into a sneer, color flushing her cheeks. Daphne relished the fact that she was standing up on the dais while Gabriella was lost in the crowd. It was always nice looking down on one of your archrivals.
Daphne’s other sworn nemesis, Nina Gonzalez, wasn’t here today.
Earlier this year, Nina had pulled an elaborate and deeply cruel con on Daphne, pretending to be friends so that she could get close and try to break up Daphne and Jefferson. And like a stupid, naïve fool, Daphne had let her.
She wouldn’t make that mistake a second time. She knew better than to believe in friendship anymore.
Friends became eyewitnesses to your weaknesses, your secrets. Friends could weaponize your vulnerabilities against you.
Gabriella looked away from Daphne with evident frustration. For now, the two of them were locked in a stalemate. Gabriella knew that Daphne had sold photos of herself to the tabloids, and Daphne had a video of Gabriella doing cocaine. Neither of them dared to act, for fear of the other sharing what she knew, but Daphne had a feeling that their cease-fire wouldn’t last forever.
She glanced back to where Jefferson was still accepting homage, reciting those same words over and over. As each person knelt before the throne, he studied them with calm focus, showing no signs of impatience or weariness.
Daphne knew better than to voice this thought aloud, but lately she’d caught herself wondering: What if Beatrice never recovered? What if Jefferson was America’s future?
What if she wasn’t just a future princess, but a future queen?
* * *
“Jefferson!” Daphne stepped into the Green Room: the vast chamber where the royal family gathered after public appearances, which also happened to be decorated in various shades of green. She noted with distracted pleasure that she matched the room perfectly, her dress set against the background as if she were a figure in an eighteenth-century painting.
Jefferson turned from where he’d been staring out the window and smiled. “Hey, Daphne. Thanks for standing up there all afternoon. I’m sure it wasn’t easy on you, given…” He trailed off before saying the baby.
She closed the distance between them, her heels sinking pleasantly into the lush carpet. Jefferson reached for her hands and tugged her closer, lowering his mouth to hers.
Usually their kisses were all sparks and fire and roving hands, but today it felt different: lingering, and soft, and tender. Not a frantic teenage kiss fueled by hormones, but the type of kiss that a man gave the woman he loved.
When they pulled apart, his eyes darted to her stomach, which was as flat as ever. “Ready to share our news?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she murmured.
A month ago, at the closing banquet of the League of Kings conference, Daphne had told Jefferson that she might be pregnant. She had been desperate, trying frantically to keep him from breaking up with her after he’d kissed Nina earlier that night.
Ever since, she’d been pleading with Jefferson to tell their parents—the crucial first step in her plan. The sooner she could nudge them into a public engagement, the better. She could only keep up her fake pregnancy for so long.
“Jeff! You were wonderful out there!” Queen Adelaide exclaimed as she swept into the room. Belatedly, she remembered to curtsy to her son—which she didn’t normally have to do, but circumstances were far from normal these days.
Jefferson cleared his throat. “Thanks, Mom. Actually…there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
With impeccable timing, a footman materialized in the doorway. “Your Royal Highness. Mr. and Mrs. Deighton are here, as you requested.”
Mr. and Mrs. Deighton. It was still jarring hearing her parents referred to by the common form of their names.
Daphne’s parents entered amid curtsies and bows and murmured pleasantries. They were dressed nicely, though not in gowns and ceremonial wear like Daphne and the Washingtons, because, of course, they hadn’t been at the ceremony. It was only for people with titles.
Daphne’s eyes cut to Queen Adelaide, who treated the Deightons with her usual courtesy; she was too well mannered to act like anything had changed. Still, Daphne swore she caught a fleeting hint of distaste on the queen’s features.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jefferson began. “Daphne and I have something to announce.”
Peter Deighton took a seat on the damask couch, clearly afraid to speak. He should be afraid, Daphne thought spitefully. He’d already lost their family’s title through his stupidity and carelessness; they couldn’t afford any more of his mistakes.
Daphne’s mother sat next to him, tucking her legs elegantly to one side. Even with a grown daughter, she was still frighteningly beautiful, her lips as red and her hair as blond as they had been in her days as a runway model. She flashed Daphne a knowing glance, and then her eyelashes swiftly swept down.
“Jeff? Is everything all right?” Queen Adelaide asked, a note of concern in her voice.
Jefferson hesitated. “Daphne and I…She’s…I mean…”
Daphne held her breath and said nothing. She sensed instinctively that the news needed to come from him, not from her.
“We’re having a baby,” he finished.
Here goes nothing, Daphne thought, terrified yet at the same time oddly thrilled. This was what she did best. Lie. Improvise. Act.
“Oh, Jeff.” His mother’s voice broke on the words.
To Daphne’s shock, the queen rushed to her feet, tugged Daphne upright, and threw her arms around her.
Daphne tentatively returned the hug, and felt Adelaide’s thin frame shaking with sobs.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Daphne hurried to say, but Jefferson’s mother pulled back. The queen was crying and laughing at once, her face a confused mess of pain and joy, as if all her emotions had mingled together, leaving her exhausted and…happy?
“Sorry?” Adelaide repeated. “Why on earth would you be sorry?” She sighed. “Oh, young love. No matter what else is happening, it always finds a way, doesn’t it?”