“Look at this one!” Her mother brandished the tablet before her like a weapon, her face red with disappointment. “?‘Party Princess Pool Porno.’?”

“That’s bad alliteration. I expect better from the Daily News,” Sam replied, with more levity than she felt. Robert let out an aggrieved sigh.

“Samantha!” Adelaide slammed her fist on her desk, startling all of them. Even the dust motes that floated in the morning sunlight seemed to jump at the noise. “What were you thinking, letting yourself get caught half-naked like this?”

“I was fully clothed!” At least, technically speaking. “Besides, we were only kissing. You know we have plenty of ancestors who did worse—people who had flagrant affairs with ladies-in-waiting or gentlemen of the bedchamber. And they were married!”

“Yes, but they weren’t stupid enough to get photographed.” Her mom slid the tablet forward in disgust.

“Only because photography hadn’t been invented yet.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to the hundreds of comments cluttering the space below the article. The headlines might have been focused on Sam, but she saw with a sinking feeling that far more of the comments were about Marshall than about her. Some were so overtly racist that they made her stomach turn.

Marshall had been right when he said that he would take the heat for their relationship, not Sam.

Queen Adelaide ground her teeth. “What on earth possessed you to let your guests keep their phones? You know better than to trust a group of that size. Especially if you were planning on kissing Marshall Davis, of all people!”

“What do you have against Marshall?” Sam thought of those comments and drew in a slow, horrified breath. “Is it because he’s Black?”

She saw a fleeting expression of agreement on Robert Standish’s face, and wished she could slap it right off him.

“Samantha. Of course not,” her mother replied, startled and clearly hurt. “It’s his reputation I’m worried about. He’s too wild and reckless. And he’s always partying with celebrities,” she added, with a touch of disdain. Adelaide had never understood people who chose to live in the spotlight, when the Washingtons only did so out of a sense of duty.

Sam scowled. “If you disapprove of him, then why did you put him on the list of potential husbands for Beatrice?”

“Partying aside, Marshall is a very eligible young man. Orange is one of the wealthiest and most populous duchies in the nation. And you know the monarchy has never tracked as well in West Coast popularity polls,” her mom said matter-of-factly. “It would’ve been a smart move, bringing someone from Orange into the royal family.” She sighed. “But I never really expected Beatrice to fall for Marshall. It was pretty clear to everyone that their personalities wouldn’t mesh.”

Sam clenched the carved armrests of her chair. “I guess this means you want me to stop seeing him?” She strove for nonchalance, but the ragged edge to her voice betrayed her.

Robert cleared his throat, a soft “hem-hem” that grated on Sam’s nerves. “On the contrary,” he replied, speaking up for the first time. “We’ve consulted with the PR teams, and decided the best approach is to accelerate the relationship between you and His Lordship. It will help us spin this not as a scandal, but as a gross intrusion upon the privacy of two young people in love.”

“You…what?”

“The only way to salvage this situation is to double down on your relationship.”

Sam’s mind careened back to last night—to that stupid, ill-advised performance of a kiss. Why had she ever thought this was a good idea?

“His Lordship will remain in the capital,” Robert was saying. “You’ll do a few joint appearances; have dinner at high-profile restaurants, the type of places where people will sneak photos of you and post them all over the internet. There will be no more public displays of affection beyond hand-holding,” he added sternly. “And then, next month, you’ll go to Orange for their annual Accession Day festivities. Her Majesty will be attending as well, since it’s the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Orange joining the union.”

Sam ran a hand through her hair; it was still frizzy, and smelled of chlorine. “The thing is, Marshall and I only just started dating. I can’t turn it into a serious relationship overnight.”

“But I can,” Queen Adelaide said firmly. “I just got off the phone with Marshall’s grandfather, the duke. He was as distressed about these photos as I was. It’s all settled.” She nodded crisply, as if to say, That’s that.

“I don’t know if Marshall will want me in Orange with him….” They may have agreed to act like boyfriend and girlfriend until the wedding, but Sam wasn’t sure how Marshall would feel now that their families were stage-managing their relationship.

“I believe he’ll agree once his grandfather speaks to him.”

Sam heard the meaning beneath Robert’s words. Your feelings on this matter are immaterial. You are both going to do as you’re told, for the good of the Crown.

“We can’t afford any more negative publicity,” he added. “Your relationship with His Lordship needs to go smoothly—at least until the wedding. Afterward, you’re free to break up, of course.” He gave a narrow smile. “We’ll just release a statement that things didn’t work out, but you’re still friends.”

Robert clearly assumed her relationship with Marshall wouldn’t last. Sam hated that she would prove him right.

“Fine, I’ll make sure we stay together through the wedding. God forbid anything overshadow Beatrice’s big moment,” she said sarcastically.

Her mom’s eyes flashed. “Samantha, Beatrice never baited the press like you did last night.”

“Sorry I’m not as perfect as she is,” Sam snapped.

“Perfect?” her mom repeated. “All I’m asking for is acceptable. Daphne Deighton didn’t grow up in a palace, but she has a better understanding of appropriate behavior than you do!”

“Then maybe I should get Daphne to teach me how to be a princess!”

Queen Adelaide pursed her lips. When she finally spoke, her words were cold and without inflection. “I expected better of you, Sam. And you know who else did? Your father. He would have been appalled by your behavior last night.”

Sam stood up, scraping the chair so violently on the floor that it nearly tipped over. “Well then, sorry I’m such an epic failure.”

It was immature, but she couldn’t resist slamming the door behind her as she stormed out of her mom’s study. The hallway’s crystal light fixtures swayed in response, shards of light shuddering wildly over the walls.

How would her dad have reacted, if he were here right now?

Hey, kiddo. I love you, he would have murmured, the moment she walked into his office. Do you want to tell me what happened?

He would have let her explain, never interrupting or condescending. Even when Sam was young he’d always made time for her, listened to her childish concerns with utter seriousness. Then, instead of dictating terms, he would have asked, “How do you think we can fix it?” And they would have come up with a solution together.

It wasn’t fair of her mom to claim that he would’ve been ashamed of Sam—to use him as a weapon to win a fight.

But then, it really wasn’t fair that they had lost him at all.

If only Sam could go back in time, request a do-over, push some cosmic PLAY AGAIN button like in a video game. She would do everything differently. She wouldn’t act out to get attention, wouldn’t waste time on Teddy. Most of all, she would tell her dad how much she loved him.

Sam didn’t even bother alerting security to her departure. As she swept out the palace’s front gates, she heard the guards’ startled protests, their radio messages back toward headquarters about a princess on the loose. To his credit, her Revere Guard, Caleb, only asked once where they were going. When she didn’t answer, he just kept walking doggedly alongside her.

On the streets, a few tourists squealed at her sudden appearance, or turned to each other and whispered, “Look, there she is! Can you believe it, after last night?” They cried out her name, shoving their phones forward to snap photos of her. Sam flashed them a peace sign as she turned the corner onto Rotten Road—route du roi, it had been called in Queen Thérèse’s time, “the king’s route,” which had somehow devolved in English into rotten.

Past an enormous trash bin was a door that read THE MONMOUTH HOTEL: STAFF ENTRANCE.