There were so many things she wanted to ask her dad’s advice about. More than that, she wished she could tell him how much she loved him.

Sam braced her hands on the grass behind her. “I know what Dad would say, if he were here. He’d tell you that you’re doing a fantastic job as queen. That you should believe in yourself.” Her eyes cut toward Beatrice with a beat of apprehension, and then she added, “Most of all, that he always wanted you to be happy. He wouldn’t have insisted you marry Teddy when you’re in love with Connor.”

Beatrice’s breath caught. “How did you…”

It was the second time recently that someone had brought up Connor. Beatrice was still reeling from last week’s conversation with Daphne. She wondered what had happened to make the other girl so utterly desperate.

And yet, every time she thought of Connor now, it hurt a little less. She knew he’d left a mark on her—but that was to be expected. Even when wounds healed, they often left a scar tracing lightly over your skin.

“I figured it out,” Sam hurried to explain. “I just—I think Dad would want me to remind you that you don’t have to go through with this. You can still walk away.”

“You don’t—”

“I know it’s probably not my place, okay? But if I don’t say this, no one will!” Sam cried out, then self-consciously lowered her voice. “Bee, you don’t have to marry someone you don’t care about, just because you think America needs it. Being queen shouldn’t require that kind of sacrifice.”

“Sam…” Beatrice swallowed, rallied, tried again. “I never told you the full story of the night Dad went to the hospital. It was my fault.”

Sam shook her head, puzzled. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Remember how I told you, earlier that night, that I was going to talk to Dad? Well, I did. I told him about me and Connor.” Beatrice closed her eyes, but the memories wouldn’t stop assaulting her. “I told him I wanted to renounce the throne to be with my Guard! Don’t you see? I killed him, Sam! I literally shocked him to death!”

“Oh, Bee,” Sam whispered, stricken.

Beatrice fell forward, bracing her palms on the grass. Ragged sobs burst from her chest. It felt like a wild animal lived inside her and was angrily clawing its way out. This time, Beatrice didn’t fight it.

The tears that poured down her face were months—years, decades—in the making.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, folding her arms around Beatrice.

Beatrice remembered how when Sam was born, she would beg her parents to let her hold her baby sister in her arms. And now Sam was the one taking care of her, holding her close and rocking her like a small child.

Beatrice kept on crying her hot, ugly tears, allowing herself the heartbreaking luxury of grief.

She wept for her father and the years that had been stolen from him. For the ordinary life she’d never gotten a chance to live. Her lungs burned and her eyes stung and she was trembling all over, and yet it felt so good to cry, as if all her mistakes and regrets were leaking out of her along with her tears.

Beatrice felt like she’d cried out the last traces of the girl she’d been, to make room for the woman she’d become.

Finally she sat back, sniffing. “Sorry. I just got snot all over your shirt.”

Sam gripped her sister’s shoulders. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault that Dad died, okay?”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Sam said hotly. “He had cancer, Bee. If the doctors could have saved him, they would have. You can’t blame yourself for the fact he was sick.” She squeezed Beatrice’s shoulders one last time. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to carry all this guilt. He wanted you to be happy. If he was still here, he would tell you that himself.”

Beatrice closed her eyes, casting her mind back to the day her father had died: to the last conversation they’d had, in his hospital room. He’d clutched her hand with his remaining strength, and murmured, About Connor…and Teddy…Then he’d fallen silent.

Maybe he’d been urging her to marry Teddy, as Beatrice had always thought. Or maybe Sam was right, and he’d actually been granting his permission for her and Connor.

Maybe it shouldn’t really matter what her dad had wanted.

This was her life, wasn’t it? Not her father’s or the country’s, but hers. And no one should make this kind of choice but Beatrice herself.

“I can help you figure a way out of the wedding,” Sam was saying. “We’ll charter a plane to Mustique and hide out in a villa till it all blows over. And we can make up some scandals about me as distraction—maybe that I’m pregnant with Marshall’s baby?” Sam’s voice caught, but she forged ahead. “Or we can always tell them that Marshall left me for his ex.”

Beatrice lifted a tearstained face to her sister. “You would throw yourself to the tabloid wolves for me?”

“I would do anything for you. You’re my sister, and I love you,” Sam said simply.

Those three words, I love you, threatened to break Beatrice all over again.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, trying to gather her resolve. “Sam, as much as I appreciate the offer, I wasn’t asking you to help me call off the wedding. Actually…I should have told you this a long time ago.” She took a breath, wishing she could look away, but forced herself to hold Sam’s gaze. “I’m falling for Teddy.”

For a moment Samantha just stared at her, her expression flickering with startled understanding. The sunlight bore down on their faces, probably freckling their arms, but Beatrice couldn’t move.

“Okay,” Sam breathed, and nodded. “As long as you’re sure.”

“That’s it? Aren’t you upset with me?”

“Were you expecting me to throw a tantrum or something?” At Beatrice’s look, Sam smiled. “It’s fine, Teddy is ancient history. I’m happy for you. Seriously.”

“I…okay. Thank you for being so understanding,” Beatrice said awkwardly.

Sam plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between her thumb and forefinger. “I should be understanding, given the mess I’ve made for myself.” She let go of the grass, which fell listlessly to the ground, and sighed. “That’s why I came here today. I just feel like Dad always knew what to do, and I’ve made so many mistakes….”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Beatrice asked gently.

She listened as Sam recounted a wild and incredible story, about how she’d faked a relationship with Marshall Davis to irritate Teddy, only to realize too late that Marshall was actually the one she wanted.

When her sister had finished, Beatrice blinked, stunned. “Let me get this straight. You negotiated a politically advantageous relationship—even if it was out of spite—and manipulated the press into thinking it was real?” At Sam’s nod, she let out a slow breath. “Well. I think the monarchy has been underutilizing you.”

Sam started to laugh, then seemed to remember where they were, and swallowed it back. “Yeah, you have.”

“Why don’t you talk to Marshall, tell him how you feel?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, biting her lip. “I guess the whole epic-declaration-of-love thing isn’t really my style.”

“If Dad were here, he would encourage you to go for it,” Beatrice murmured, and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.

The two of them sat there together in a quiet, peaceful silence.

Beatrice knew she would never stop missing her dad. Grief like this was messy and brutal and it hurt, so much; yet, being here with Sam, Beatrice felt…maybe not better, but stronger.

It didn’t really surprise her that she and Sam had broken their silence at their father’s grave—as if he were here too, quietly nudging them to find their way back to each other.

“Everything is changing,” Sam mused aloud. “I feel like the entire world turned upside down this year, and I don’t know what to do.”

Beatrice reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “We’re not changing, okay?” she said fiercely. “No more fighting between us. From here on out, we’ll always have each other. I promise.”

Samantha gave the gravel a sullen kick, sending the stones flying in all directions. The stables were on the opposite side of the grounds from Washington Palace, far enough that tourists usually shuttled back and forth in royal blue trolleys, but Sam had ignored the footman’s offer to drive her over. It was a gorgeous day, and she’d thought she could use the walk.

She was so relieved to have cleared the air with Beatrice. But even being reconciled with her sister—they’d spent the weekend together, catching up on all the months they’d lost—wasn’t enough to distract her from thoughts of Marshall.

Sam hadn’t seen him since last week’s trip to Orange. When he’d texted, she’d replied with vague, one-word answers. Sam knew that Beatrice had said to go for it, but Beatrice hadn’t seen the way Marshall and Kelsey were tangled together on the dance floor.

It had all played out exactly as Sam had predicted. Seeing Marshall with a princess had made Kelsey decide that she wanted him back.