American Royals

She wondered how he knew that—whether someone had told him or whether he’d read it himself, in the news blurb she’d pressured Natasha to publish. Either way, it was nice to know that Jefferson was still keeping tabs on her.

“The real benefit of being prefect is that Sister Agatha no longer chases me down for hallway passes when I’m out of class.”

“As if you ever cut class.” Jefferson spun her in an expert twirl, causing the folds of her gown to flutter and settle around her with a pleasant whisper.

“I cut class that time we went to the World Series.”

“Was that when Nicholas got so drunk that he bartered away his shoes for a hot dog?”

“His shoes and his phone.”

They both laughed at the memory, the kind of easy, intimate laugh that they hadn’t shared in a long time, and when it was over, Daphne knew she had scored her first point.

Not to mention that people had noticed them together. She felt herself glowing ever more vividly, with the spark that collective attention had always struck from her.

“Daphne,” the prince said hesitantly, and she leaned forward, expectant. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for the way I ended things.”

“It’s okay.” She didn’t need an apology from Jefferson. She needed him to want her back.

“I just feel like you deserved better,” he added.

Daphne knew he was thinking about that girl in his bed, and for a moment she almost despised him, for being too cowardly to tell her the truth about their breakup. For apologizing without actually telling her what he was apologizing for.

“It’s all in the past,” she said quietly, hiding her emotions behind the courtier’s mask of her face. “Jefferson … I’ve missed you.”

She waited for him to say it back. And for an instant, it seemed like he might.

But then he was stepping away, lowering his hands to his sides. “I have to—sorry, but I have to go.”

“Of course.” Daphne forced herself to smile as if nothing were amiss, even though Jefferson was leaving her alone mid-song. Turning her into a source of gossip.

Tomorrow various versions of this story would make their way through drawing rooms and dinner parties. Jefferson abandoned her on the dance floor, people would say; there’s no chance of them getting back together now.

“May I cut in?” Ethan Beckett, Jefferson’s best friend, appeared at her side so quickly that one could only assume he’d been watching their whole interaction.

Daphne opened her mouth to make some incisive comment, then caught herself. If she danced with Ethan, just for one song, it would distract people from the prince’s abrupt departure. Which might have been precisely what Ethan was counting on.

“All right.” She tried to rest her hands lightly on his shoulders, so lightly that they almost weren’t touching, but through the fabric Daphne felt the warmth of his skin.

Ethan had been Jefferson’s best friend since elementary school. He was good-looking, with laughing dark eyes and a smattering of freckles. He wasn’t noble: his mom worked as a public school teacher, raising Ethan on her own. Daphne had always assumed he attended Forsythe on scholarship, because there was surely no way his family could afford the tuition. Now Ethan was a freshman at King’s College—where Jefferson would likely go, as soon as his gap year ended.

Daphne had always liked that about Jefferson, that he had someone like Ethan as his best friend. Someone who came from a background so drastically different from his own.

Then again, it was easy to ignore things like money and status when you had near-infinite amounts of both.

They danced in silence for a few moments. Without quite realizing it, Daphne had overstepped Ethan to take the lead, her steps growing faster and faster until they outpaced the tempo of the music.

When she almost tripped over Ethan’s feet in her agitation, his grip on her hand tightened. “It’s a dance. You can enjoy it, not attack it.”

She didn’t apologize, but she did back down. Slightly.

“I take it things didn’t go so well with Jeff,” he went on, in a conversational tone.

Daphne fought back a swell of indignation. She didn’t owe an explanation to anyone, least of all Ethan. Yet he’d always had a particular talent for getting under her skin.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Daphne, you guys are over. Is it really worth throwing yourself at him like this, just so you can get a tiara someday?”

Daphne stiffened. Only Ethan had ever accused her of dating Jefferson for the wrong reasons. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Relationships never make sense from the outside; the only people qualified to weigh in on them are the people in them.”

“Except that you and Jeff aren’t in a relationship anymore,” Ethan pointed out ruthlessly.

“For now.”

They were both speaking softly, their eyes locked on each other. Daphne had almost forgotten that they were in the ballroom at all.

“You’re wasting your time. You won’t snap your fingers and get him back, just like that,” he countered.

“Not just like that.” It wouldn’t be easy, and she might have to wait a while. So what if Jefferson hung out with some of those skanky, stalkerish girls from the prince posse? Those girls didn’t mean anything to him. He would come back to her, because in the end they belonged together, and he knew it as well as Daphne did.