The Accession Day official reception was held at the ducal mansion, an enormous house on Sunset.

Sam had murmured her excuses to Marshall and headed straight to the ladies’ room. She was standing at the sink, washing her hands, when Kelsey Brooke walked in.

Kelsey was beautiful, but in a fresh-faced, all-American way, not the bold, aggressive beauty that most actresses chased. With her honey-blond hair and pale blue eyes, she looked like a cheerleader from an eighties rom-com.

Sam hated her on sight.

“Samantha!” Kelsey cried out. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I mean, it’s amazing to finally meet in person.”

Sam had a strong urge to correct Kelsey for failing to address her as Your Royal Highness. It made her feel oddly like Beatrice.

“Mm-hmm.” She started to turn toward the door, but Kelsey didn’t take the hint.

“You’re here with Marshall, right?” she asked, though of course she already knew. “He’s such a great date at these things. He used to always hold my drink when I posed for photos, put his jacket over my shoulders when I got cold. You’re in fantastic hands,” Kelsey added, with an indulgent smile. She spoke as if she’d lent Samantha a pair of shoes, and wanted confirmation of how great they were—but expected Sam to return them soon enough.

“Yeah, he’s great,” Sam said noncommittally.

Kelsey gave a bright laugh, her eyes meeting Sam’s in the mirror. “So are you guys, like, serious?”

“It’s, like, none of your business,” Sam heard herself say.

She sailed out of the bathroom, wishing she hadn’t let that girl get under her skin—but her anxiety calmed when she saw that Marshall was waiting for her.

“I’ve been looking for you, Skittle. Come on.” He grabbed her hand to drag her up a staircase. “There’s something I want to show you.”

When they stepped out onto the third-floor balcony, Sam’s breath caught.

The city unfurled before them, all the way to the dark blur of the ocean. Orange-clad revelers still streamed through the streets, laughing and calling out to one another, stumbling into bars. The lights of the city glowed like the candles of a birthday cake. It made Sam want to make a wish.

“The party doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon,” she observed.

“Oh yeah, people go totally wild on Accession Day.” Marshall dragged two Adirondack chairs forward and leaned back in one. “Everyone wears at least some item of orange clothing. If you’re caught without one, there’s a penalty.”

“What kind of penalty?” Sam asked, sitting down next to him.

“Well, you get a choice. You can either sweep the steps of your local post office, or buy a round of shots at your local bar,” Marshall explained. “Traditionally, it’s supposed to be a round of orange Jell-O shots, which I find absolutely horrifying.”

“Somehow I doubt Jell-O is all that traditional.”

In the streets, a group of revelers burst out laughing, then broke into drunken song. “Can we go down there?” Sam asked wistfully. “That party looks way more fun than the one in the ballroom. Jell-O shots and all.”

“I know.” Marshall sighed. “Why do you think I escaped up here? The moment they see me, my parents will make a point of reminding me what a disappointment I am.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not a disappointment,” she started to say, but Marshall talked over her.

“Trust me, I am. My parents wish that Rory had been born first,” he said, staring out over the city. The streets were turning a brushed gold in the darkness. “Sometimes I do too. If only Rory would put me out of my misery and agree to take the duchy instead. But she doesn’t want it.”

“I know the feeling,” Sam said quietly. “I’m the disappointment in my family.”

She’d been acting the reckless spare for so long, she sometimes forgot that it had all started like that: as an act. A way to be different from her sister. And where had it gotten her, in the end?

Millions of little girls wanted to grow up to be like Beatrice, America’s first queen. But no one ever said they wanted to grow up to be like Samantha.

“When I was younger, my dad was constantly giving me American history books,” she said into the silence. “About the Constitutional Convention, or the First Treaty of Paris, or the race to the moon. Each time I finished a book, he asked me what I’d learned. Even if what I had learned was that my ancestors were far from perfect.” She sighed. “Back then, my dream was to become a lawyer. I thought it meant that I would be like the people I kept reading about, that I could pass laws that fixed things. That I could help make history.”

“You’d be a fantastic lawyer. You’re certainly argumentative enough,” Marshall replied, only a little teasing.

“Except I can never be one!” Sam burst out. “Eventually my dad pulled me aside and told me it would never happen. ‘You’re the sister of the future queen,’ he said. ‘You can’t also be part of the legal system; it would be unconstitutional.’?” She blew out a breath, lifting a few stray pieces of hair. “I think that was the moment I finally understood, that was all I could ever be. The sister of the future queen.”

She ran her hands up and down her arms, suddenly chilly. Marshall started to slip off his jacket, to tuck it over her shoulders, but Sam shook her head sharply. He’d done the same thing for Kelsey when she was cold.

She didn’t want to think about Kelsey—and that eager look in her eye when she’d asked whether Sam and Marshall were serious.

Marshall shrugged and left the jacket draped over the side of the chair. “Sam, my parents would have given anything for me to go to law school.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was never good at school, unless you count PE,” Marshall said, and she heard the pain beneath the seeming lightness of the words. “Reading was difficult for me; the letters were always changing places or turning into black squiggles. I tried to talk to my parents about it, but they just told me to buckle down and study harder. It wasn’t until third grade that they finally agreed to test me. That’s when we found out about my dyslexia.”

Sam remembered what he’d said when they were ballroom dancing: I know what it feels like to be someone’s punching bag. Her heart ached for nine-year-old Marshall, struggling with a problem he couldn’t understand.

“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “I’ve gotten really good at hiding it. My family was so ashamed, they made me try everything: tutors, therapy, even hypnosis. ‘The Duke of Orange cannot have a learning disability.’?” The way he said that last sentence, Sam knew he was quoting someone: his parents, maybe, or his grandfather.

What surprised her most was that Marshall—who was always ready to push her buttons with a new, outrageous nickname, who argued with her for the sheer joy of arguing—had internalized his family’s opinion of him.

Someone must have opened a window downstairs—the party pulsed louder and more vibrant beneath them—but neither of them made a move to leave.

Marshall let out a heavy breath. “My parents always wanted me to follow the traditional path of the Dukes of Orange: to go to Stanford Law, graduate with honors, become a constitutional interpretation lawyer—or something equally highbrow—and eventually go into the family business of governing.” To Sam’s surprise, he didn’t sound bitter, just…hurt, and weary.

“I never wanted to be a lawyer like you did, Sam. But I still tried for years to live up to my parents’ expectations,” he said heavily. “Eventually it seemed easier to stop trying.”

Sam understood, then, why Marshall had embraced his tabloid image as a notorious partier. He acted that way out of self-preservation. Because it hurt less if his family rejected him for something he chose to do, instead of something he couldn’t control.

Unthinking, she reached out to cover his hand with one of her own. Then she realized what she’d done: that she’d touched him here, in private, when it was just the two of them and they weren’t performing for anyone.

Marshall didn’t pull his hand from beneath hers.

“Listen,” Sam said urgently. “I don’t care what your family says: you are going to be a great duke. You’re good at solving other people’s problems. You think outside the box. You are empathetic, and thoughtful, and charming—when you want to be,” she added, which coaxed an unwilling smile.

“Thanks, Sam,” Marshall said gruffly.

Sam was hyperaware of where their hands were still touching. It would be so easy to pull him close and kiss him, right there under the broad expanse of sky. A real kiss, not to make anyone jealous or to cause a scene but because she wanted to. Because she wanted him.