American Royals

She pursed her lips against an incisive retort. “Thank you for helping me get in,” she forced herself to say.

Ethan chuckled at her discomposure. “No worries, you can owe me one.”

Daphne didn’t deign to reply. She had zero intention of owing Ethan anything.

He grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and tried to hand one to her, but she shook her head. She never drank in public: no matter that she was turning eighteen in a few months, and that underage drinking was tacitly permitted, or at least politely ignored, at private events like this. She had worked far too hard to risk her image over a cocktail.

“It’s New Year’s Eve; no one cares,” Ethan countered, but Daphne ignored him.

Her eyes had locked on a girl who stood to one side of the room, wearing a strapless black dress and cropped booties—booties, to a formal New Year’s Eve party.

It was the look in Nina’s deep brown eyes that gave Daphne pause. Because she was staring at the patio, to where Prince Jefferson stood.

It killed Daphne that they were both watching him. She hated that they had that in common, that they had anything in common.

Daphne walked briskly toward her. “Nina! It’s been a while … since this summer, at least?” She said it hesitantly, implying that the other girl wasn’t memorable enough for her to be certain.

Nina shrugged. “I was at the Queen’s Ball a few weeks ago. Maybe you were there?”

Daphne’s smile froze on her face. Was Nina the reason that Jefferson had run off in the middle of their dance? “You look fantastic, by the way. I love those earrings.”

It was an old tactic of hers: to use compliments to get the measure of her opponents, set them at ease.

Nina reached a hand up to one ear, as if to verify which earrings she was, in fact, wearing. A tattoo flashed on the inside of her wrist. “Oh—these are Samantha’s.”

Of course they were. “Well, they look lovely,” Daphne declared, and slightly tilted her head. “You know, I had no idea that you were in town. I guess I haven’t seen you post anything?”

“I don’t really do social media,” Nina said dismissively. “Come to think of it, I didn’t realize you were in town this weekend either. Are you here with your parents?”

The nerve of her. “I am. Actually, I ran into Jefferson the other day off the Apex lift. If I’d realized you were here, I would have suggested you come meet us,” she added, in a politely puzzled tone.

Nina gave a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s okay. I can’t keep up with Jeff on those intense runs.”

You can’t keep up with us anywhere. “I remember, you were always happier reading a book by the fire than out on the slopes. It’s nice to know that things haven’t changed.”

“At least, most things,” Nina countered, as if to remind Daphne of what had changed most of all—her relationship with the prince.

There was nothing more to be accomplished here; Daphne had made her point. “If you’ll excuse me …,” she said vaguely, and headed off in a flutter of spangled tulle skirts.

Jefferson was out on the back patio, surrounded by a cluster of people, most of them young women. They cast him sidelong glances, fidgeting with their clothing as if their dresses had suddenly become too hot, or too loosely fastened.

Daphne didn’t let it faze her. Girls were always throwing themselves at Jefferson. Things had been like this even when she and the prince were dating—and wouldn’t stop, she knew, until they were engaged. Maybe not even until they got married.

When she met Jefferson’s gaze, he relaxed into an easy smile and followed her past an outdoor fire pit. Fairy lights had been strung throughout the space, echoing the sparkle of the stars overhead.

“Can you believe the snow we’ve gotten this year?” the prince exclaimed. “I’m thinking of heading back to Apex tomorrow, if you want to meet up with us.”

Daphne tried not to flinch at the fact that his us no longer included her. “I’d love that.” She took an unobtrusive step forward, letting her dress slip ever so slightly lower. Jefferson’s eyes drifted predictably downward, to the shadowed curve of her cleavage. For a moment, the look in them—a look Daphne knew well—struck her as one that she could play to her advantage.

“I had so much fun, spending time with you the other day. More fun than I’ve had in months.” She gathered her breath and took the plunge. “I really miss you, Jefferson.”

He blinked at her uncertainly.

“I know we ended things … messily,” she murmured, her voice rippling with seduction. “But I’m here now, and I want to try again. This time we don’t have to wait. For anything.”

There was no mistaking her meaning.

Ever since the breakup, Daphne had wondered whether her mistake was that she’d never slept with Jefferson. It had just seemed like the right thing to do—these might be modern times, but she was aiming for the highest of goals, and therefore held herself to the highest of standards. Certainly to the standard set by Princess Beatrice.

She’d told Jefferson that they were too young, that she wanted to wait until they were both a little more mature. And to be fair, they were young; she was barely fifteen when they started dating.

Well, she was older now, and much surer of herself—of what she wanted.