American Royals

Ethan’s arms were still closed tight around her elbows. “I think it’s time we got you home.”

For once, Daphne let her eyes drag unabashedly and appreciatively over Ethan: the gleaming intelligence of his eyes, the soft curve of his mouth. He was wearing a tailored blazer that emphasized the broad lines of his shoulders. Daphne looped her arms easily around them, trying to find her balance.

“I have to at least stay until midnight,” she informed him, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You can kiss me at the countdown, if you want.” Maybe it would break through the wall of Jefferson’s indifference, make him jealous.

Or maybe part of her wanted to kiss Ethan again.

For the second time that night she’d said the wrong thing. Ethan recoiled at her words, anger—or perhaps hurt—flashing over his features. “You’re being unfair, Daphne,” he said quietly. “You know this isn’t how I want you. Not like this.”

Before she could argue, he’d grabbed her wrist and carved a path through the crowded dance floor. Daphne cast a glance back at Samantha, who hardly seemed to have noticed her departure, before stumbling after him. They turned a corner, past a bar where more flutes of champagne were lined up. She was acutely aware of how narrow the hallway was, how close she was to the heat of Ethan’s body.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You don’t want to leave through the front door. There are way too many people out there with phones, trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Daphne was drunk enough to admit. It was true. The only people she’d ever trusted were her parents, and even them she only trusted halfway.

“I know,” Ethan said quietly.

Her protests died off as she passed a mirror that hung on one wall. Where her reflection should have been, a stranger’s face floated before her: a hollow face with shadowed eyes and heavy, smudged makeup. Her hair had lost all its curl, to fall damp and listless around her shoulders.

“I can’t go out there,” she said softly, almost to herself. If she did, this image would be all over the tabloids tomorrow morning.

“It’s okay; I have a taxi for you out back.”

“A taxi?” Taxi drivers weren’t always trustworthy, especially picking people up from a party like this one.

“You’re paying in cash, don’t worry.” Ethan handed her a plastic Mardi Gras–style mask, lined with writing that said HAPPY NEW YEAR! “You can wear this, if you’re feeling extra paranoid.”

Daphne pulled the mask over her face, then turned to Ethan. “I don’t know why you’re being so nice, but thank you,” she said, summoning as much dignity as she could.

“Maybe I know how it feels, living through a broken heart,” he said gruffly.

Daphne’s breath caught. She couldn’t understand Ethan’s expression. He was looking at her as if she had no secrets from him, as if he could see through the gold plastic of her mask to the second mask beneath—her perfect face—and then even farther, beneath her skin and her muscles to the sticky dark ambition beneath. None of it bothered him.

Ethan nodded once before heading back toward the party.

As he walked away, Daphne’s eyes lingered on the back of his neck, between his hairline and the collar of his shirt. She knew she shouldn’t be looking at Ethan like that. But it didn’t matter anymore, now that she and Jefferson were over.

Except … did it have to be over? Was she really ready to admit defeat?

Daphne closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall as her mind raced through her various options. She smiled in a sudden flash of inspiration.

This game between her and Nina wasn’t finished, not while Daphne still had one last move to play.



BEATRICE



The following week, Beatrice woke to Connor stirring alongside her. Early-morning light bled through the curtains of her bedroom, casting a pearly glow over the ivory wallpaper, pale blue carpet, frothy lace pillows. When she’d first moved here from the nursery, Beatrice used to imagine that she was falling asleep inside a cloud.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded, and instinctively tugged him back down so that she lay curled against him. She burrowed deeper into her sheets, which were stitched in the corner with the royal crest.

“Five more minutes,” Connor breathed into her hair. He didn’t bother reminding her how dangerous this was. They both knew the risks.

They had been sneaking around ever since that night at the cabin in Montrose. Beatrice wished that snowstorm had raged on for weeks, wished that she and Connor were still there now, tucked away from the rest of the world. But the roads had reopened the next afternoon, leaving her no choice but to head on to Telluride, to her family’s annual New Year’s party—and to Teddy.

As she’d walked into that party, Beatrice had brushed her fingers against Connor’s: a swift, subtle reminder that she was his. Connor’s only response was a slight tightening of his jaw when Teddy appeared. And the territorial glances he kept sending her all night from the edge of the room.

Beatrice’s life now felt cleaved into two parts. There was her public self, who went to events with Teddy, who mechanically carried out her duties as heir to the throne.

And then there were her stolen moments with Connor.