Though she did recognize Daphne Deighton, dancing with Prince Jefferson.

Daphne’s arm was curled over his shoulder, her mouth red and smiling. Everything about her—the blaze of her earrings, the glitter of her gown—seemed rare and expensive and impossibly elegant. Maybe the rumors were true, and she and Jeff were going to get back together after all.

Nina felt suddenly desperate for fresh air. But too many of Jeff’s friends were out on the terrace, and the last thing she wanted was to run into the prince.

Then she remembered where else she could go.

She started forward, her reflection in the ballroom’s antique mirrors moving with her. She never would get used to the sight of herself in formal attire. Her gown, a gauzy violet one of Sam’s with a halter neckline, billowed around her heels as she walked.

Nina headed out the ballroom’s main doors and down a side hallway lit only by antique sconces every few yards. She moved quickly, past ghostlike statues on marble plinths and landscapes in heavy frames. The only security guard she saw was stationed at the top of the stairs; he gave her a disinterested nod before turning back to his phone.

Most of Washington Palace had been renovated many times over. All that remained of the original Mount Vernon house was a small set of rooms along the southeast corner. They were low-ceilinged and outdated, never used for official court functions. But Nina had always loved it here, especially at night, when the building’s age was softened beneath a cloak of shadows.

Kicking off her silver shoes, she stepped out onto a balcony. The flagstones were deliciously cold beneath her bare feet.

Below her stretched the gardens, a patchwork quilt of light and dark. Nina leaned her elbows on the iron balusters and gazed past the cherry orchards—the most popular stop on the palace tour, because of that old story about King George I and the cherry tree—to the city beyond.

Washington, the nation’s capital. The city of dreamers and hustlers, of nobility and commoners alike, of finance and fashion and politics and art—the greatest city in the world, its residents always said, where anyone could come make a name for themselves. It was a glorious clutter of stone roofs and new high-rises, loud with neon billboards. The twin domes of Columbia House, the meeting place of both bodies of Congress, rose above the skyline in gilded splendor.

A door creaked open behind her. “Nina?”

Her breath snagged in her lungs. She should have known this might happen.

“I’ve barely seen you all night,” said Jeff. Or rather, Prince Jefferson George Alexander Augustus, third in line for the throne of America.

“I wanted to be alone,” Nina said curtly. Her tone failed to send him away.

“Smart, coming out here right before the fireworks start. You’ll have the best seat in the house.” He flashed his usual cocky smile, though it didn’t make Nina go weak at the knees the way it once did. Seriously? The last time she’d seen the prince, he’d been in bed with her, and now he was acting as if nothing between them had changed. As if they were still the same easygoing friends as always.

“I was just leaving.”

Nina started to turn away, but Jeff’s hand closed around her wrist. The feel of his skin on hers shot erratically up her nerves. She glared at him, and he let go, chastened.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to say, about the night of graduation …”

Nina crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra with this dress, which made her feel suddenly self-conscious, though what did it really matter? Jeff had already seen it all. “Don’t worry. I never told anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What? No,” he said quickly. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that it happened, or sorry you never bothered to text me afterward?” Nina didn’t usually talk like this, but these words had been rattling around her mind for months, and now that she was with the prince again, they seemed to be spilling out independently of her.

“I didn’t know ….”

“You didn’t know that you’re supposed to acknowledge a girl the next morning?”

Jeff winced. “You’re right. I should have said something. That was just such a weird night, after what happened to Himari. I guess I didn’t think.”

Nina had readied herself for an excuse—that he’d forgotten, or lost his phone, or that she was overreacting, since after all they hadn’t even slept together. But this caught her off guard.

“Was that the girl who fell?” She’d heard about Himari Mariko, how she tumbled down the palace’s back staircase the night of the graduation party. It was a miracle her parents hadn’t sued the royal family.

Perhaps aristocrats considered it poor form to accuse their monarchs in a court of law. Nina wouldn’t really know.

“After it happened, security came banging on my door. I decided to let you sleep through all that,” Jeff added, glancing at her awkwardly. “And then the next morning we left so early for the royal tour, and I didn’t really know … I mean … I’m sorry,” he said again, helpless.

His apology knocked some of the air from Nina’s chest. The wave of her anger seemed to break, leaving her with a strange sense of uncertainty.

As if on cue, a low, rumbling boom sounded from the lawn, and the sky erupted in a pinwheel of spinning flame. The annual Queen’s Ball fireworks.