American Royals

But if she wasn’t allowed to stay over at the palace … “Does that mean that Jeff can come see me in the dorms?”

Robert winced. “That would be far too public.”

Nina pursed her lips. She couldn’t help wondering how this conversation had gone when the palace had attempted it with Daphne Deighton. Or maybe they never had. Maybe Daphne was so perfect and proper that no one had ever needed to reprimand her for anything.

“I get it. No royal sleepovers,” she said stiffly.

“And we’ll need to discuss your security as well, now that you’re a figure of public interest.”

“My … security?”

“Unfortunately, unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family, we cannot provide private security using taxpayer dollars. I encourage you to reach out to your local police chief—or the campus security when you’re at school—if you ever feel unsafe. Especially if any of the reporters and photographers attempt to gain illegal entry to your home.”

“What?” Nina’s mom cried out, her face a dark thundercloud.

“They’ll start going through your trash, so either shred it or drive it all the way to the processing center yourself,” Robert said in a maddeningly matter-of-fact tone. “Especially sensitive items, like receipts or prescriptions—they will sort through the bins for that kind of thing. I sincerely hope you don’t keep a diary.”

“Not since I was in third grade.”

He nodded. “As for your wardrobe. Unfortunately, unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family”—he had this speech down pat, Nina thought, unamused—“the palace cannot be seen funding your wardrobe. However, we were hoping you might invest in some new pieces if you plan on attending any upcoming events with His Highness. I know that you and Her Highness Princess Samantha are friends, but you can’t be seen constantly rewearing dresses of hers. The fashion bloggers track her clothing choices; they’re bound to take notice.”

Her mom let out a low hiss. Nina held the chamberlain’s gaze. “I didn’t realize my outfits were such a problem,” she said levelly. Didn’t he have better things to do than worry about her clothes?

The palace had definitely never had this part of the conversation with Daphne, because Daphne never looked less than absolutely perfect.

Robert visibly struggled to find an answer. “The palace does prefer that hemlines be kept to right above the knee. And it might be better if you refrained from being photographed in sweatpants in public.”

“She’s a college student,” Nina’s mom cut in. “She’s perfectly entitled to wear sweatpants!”

But Robert had already moved on. He held out a manila folder containing a heavy stapled packet. Nina glanced at the opening line: THE UNDERSIGNED, NINA PEREZ GONZALEZ, HEREBY AGREES TO ENTER INTO THIS CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT.

It was a nondisclosure contract.

Nina had seen these before: they were distributed to Samantha’s and Jefferson’s friends, to anyone they invited over to the palace or who attended one of their parties. But never in all her years of friendship with the princess had anyone requested one from her.

Her mamá stood, gesturing toward the front door. “I think we’re done here. Please feel free to tell the gathered press that they can leave as well.”

But something else had occurred to Nina. “Even if you can’t touch the press, can you do something about the online commenters? What they’re saying about me … doesn’t it count as abuse?” she asked quietly.

Robert’s features relaxed into something approaching sympathy. “Unfortunately,” he began—Nina waited for him to say unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family, but instead he went on—“freedom of speech is a constitutional right in America. I sincerely wish I could have those comments removed, and have the commenters banned from the internet. But it’s completely legal to be ugly, and petty, and mean-spirited. I truly am sorry, Nina,” the chamberlain added, sounding human for the first time that day.

Isabella shut the door behind Robert, then turned to lean against it. “Oh, sweetie. Are you okay?”

Nina struggled to hold back the onslaught of tears. “Honestly, mamá, I’ve been better,” she managed, with a broken attempt at a laugh.

Nina’s mom still held tight to her hand. Isabella moved swiftly to her other side and began rubbing her back with soft, soothing gestures. “I wish you’d told us.”

“I’m sorry.” Nina felt awful that they’d had to find out like this: from the media, instead of from her. “I wanted to wait until I figured out whether there was anything real between me and Jeff.”

“And is there?”

She glanced around their open-air first floor, with its warped wood dining table, ferns and succulents cascading off various surfaces. Along one wall, an old library ladder had been repurposed as a bookshelf.

“I thought there was,” Nina admitted. “Except …”

“It’s a very big except.” Her mamá heaved a sigh. “Trust me—I know firsthand how it feels, being pulled into the orbit of the royal family. It’s a lot to sign on for. We would understand if you wanted to walk away from it all.”

“Is that what you think I should do?” Nina asked slowly.