Yet she couldn’t read him.

She had long ago figured out Jefferson; he wasn’t all that complicated. It had become a sort of game with her, to introduce topics seemingly at random—reggae music, the Spanish Inquisition, last year’s congressional scandal—and try to guess what Jefferson would say. So far she hadn’t been wrong once.

Not at all so with Ethan, who was maddening and elusive and impossible to understand.

“Can I do anything to help?” he insisted.

Daphne let out a breath, shrugging off his concern. “How long have you known Jefferson?”

If Ethan was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten,” he said. Which she already knew.

“And you stayed that close ever since age five?” Daphne hadn’t meant to sound condescending. But if she couldn’t hold the prince’s interest for a mere three years, how had Ethan managed to do it for most of their lives?

He shrugged. “You know, the king was actually the one who originally invited me over. I guess he thought it would be good for Jeff to spend time with someone from a different background. Someone middle-class.” Ethan said it bluntly, without hesitation, almost as if he was proud to be a commoner. Then his gaze focused again on Daphne. “Why do you ask?”

She clenched her hands on the quilted bedspread and closed them into fists. “I need to figure out what I did to make Jefferson lose interest,” she heard herself say, in a dull, hollow tone. “Otherwise he’s going to break up with me.”

She hadn’t meant to confess that fear, especially not to Ethan, but the tequila seemed to have numbed the edges of everything and she no longer cared.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said quietly. “Only a fool would throw away the chance to be with you.”

Something in his tone made Daphne look up, but his face was as inscrutable and still as ever. She swallowed and explained. “Things between me and Jefferson have felt weird lately. And with his graduation coming up … I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Ethan must have been drunk too, the alcohol blunting the edges of his usual cynical courtesy, because his next words shocked her.

“Why do you care anyway, when you don’t even like Jeff?”

Daphne blinked. “Of course I care. I lo—”

“You love him? Really?” Ethan’s voice made a mockery of the word.

“I’ve come too far to stop now!”

The words were like champagne fizzing out of a bottle, impossible to suppress, as if Daphne’s final emergency pressure valve had snapped at last. “I have been struggling for years to be perfect enough for the royal family,” she said heatedly. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been?”

“No, but—”

“It’s exhausting, and I can never let up, not even for a second! I have to be constantly charming, not just to Jefferson and his parents and the media, but to every single person who crosses my path, even if it’s only for a moment, because they will judge me by that moment for the rest of their lives. I can’t ever stop smiling, or the entire thing will come crashing down around me!”

The sounds of the party felt very far away, like something in a dream.

Ethan swore. “If this is really what it’s like, then maybe you and Jefferson should break up. Maybe he isn’t the right person for you. Maybe,” he went on, “you should be with me instead.”

Daphne didn’t know how to answer.

Her stomach was a turmoil of confused emotions—attraction and irritation, liking and hate—all clawing inside her for dominance, as if every last neuron in her brain had turned on in a wild electric light show.

Ethan shifted closer, a smooth quarter turn along the mattress. His eyes gleamed, dark and fervent and questioning.

This was their last chance to draw back, to pretend that none of this had ever happened and walk away. But they were both very still, a pair of quiet shadows.

Even in the silence, Daphne felt something crackle and spark between them.

Suddenly they were tumbling onto the bed together, a tangle of hands and lips and heat. She yanked her dress impatiently over her head. It fell in a whisper to the floor.

“Are you sure?” Ethan’s breath sent little explosions all the way down her skin, like fireworks. It was the closest either of them came to acknowledging how wrong this was.

“I’m sure,” Daphne told him. She knew precisely what she was doing, knew the promises she was breaking, to herself and to Jefferson. She no longer cared. She felt fluid, electrified, gloriously irresponsible.

She felt, for the first time in years, like herself. Not the public, painted-on Daphne Deighton that she showed the world, but the real seventeen-year-old girl she kept carefully hidden beneath.

“Daphne?” I need to talk to you.” Her mother cut across the dance floor toward them, not even bothering to acknowledge Ethan.

“Oh—all right.” Daphne wondered what the expression on her face had looked like, to send Rebecca rushing over here.

Her eyes briefly met Ethan’s, and she saw his flash of understanding, and of disappointment. He nodded, stepping aside.

Rebecca’s nails dug into the flesh of Daphne’s inner arm as she dragged her away. “You don’t have time for distractions, tonight of all nights.”