American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  Maybe that was just part of being the spare.

  “As head of state,” the king went on, “Beatrice won’t be able to take on any charitable causes. She can’t demonstrate personal preference like that. But you can. That’s one of the inherent strengths of monarchy: you aren’t angling for reelection like members of Congress; you aren’t politically motivated, yet you have continuity. You can act on your good judgment, your empathy, in a way that would be impossible to them.”

  Her dad had never talked to her like this before—as if she might actually make a difference. Sam edged forward on her chair. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I was hoping you might take on a more active role in the Washington Trust. I’d like to give you a board seat,” her dad announced.

  The trust was a charitable fund that donated millions of dollars every year, usually by finding new and underappreciated initiatives, putting a large amount of seed money into them, and helping to boost awareness. Her great-grandfather had created the trust, many years ago, when he realized that there was only so much he could accomplish through the government. The trust gave him a direct way to help Americans without having to lobby Congress for a new law.

  “Thank you, Dad.” Sam felt strangely humbled.

  “No need to thank me,” her dad said gruffly. “You’ve earned this. I saw you at the shelter yesterday: you were such a natural, especially with the young children. The way you made a fool of yourself, laughing and jumping around with the kids as if no one was watching. You even remembered that boy from our last visit.”

  When they’d visited the shelter, Sam had recognized one of the kids from last year, a boy named Pete who’d told her all about his music. She asked him if he was still playing guitar, and he’d scrambled to go get it, elated that she had remembered him. The whole thing had devolved into a fun impromptu concert.

  Sam shrugged. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

  “It was unquestionably a big deal to that young man,” her dad insisted. “That’s one of your most amazing qualities, Sam—your lack of pretension, the way you can make someone feel heard. You are relatable, which is something the monarchy could use a little more of.”

  Sam thought of what she’d said to Beatrice last night, that Beatrice had to find a way to make her life feel like her own. Maybe she could, too. She might be the second-string princess, but she was still her. She could use her position to do something meaningful, make a real difference.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve pushed you too hard,” the king went on, staring down at his desk. “I thought I needed to give you the benefit of my experience, when all along I needed you to give me the benefit of your inexperience.” The king smiled. “You’re a force of nature, Sam. When you’re being yourself, you’re our family’s secret weapon.”

  “Dad …” She had to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. “Thank you. It really means a lot, that you believe in me.”

  “I’ve always believed in you. Sorry if I haven’t done the best job of showing it,” he admitted. “Now, what did you want to ask me? Wasn’t there something you came in here to talk about?”

  Sam looked up at her father’s calm smile, his steady brown eyes, so full of wisdom. Suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to hurl accusations at him. He would tell her of his sickness whenever he was ready, and in the meantime, every moment that she got with him was precious.

  “No reason, really. Just wanted to spend time with you.” Her eyes drifted to the Box. “Can I help with any of that?”

  “Want to answer this for me?” he offered, and slid the envelope toward Sam.

  “Am I signing it as you?”

  “You could,” her dad said. “Or you could answer as yourself. I think the author of that letter would really love to hear from you.”

  She nodded, the sun glinting on her hair as she bent over the paper. “I love you, Dad.”

  His Majesty smiled. “Love you, too, kiddo. So much.”

  DAPHNE

  Daphne swerved aggressively into another lane, resisting the urge to climb too far above the speed limit. She couldn’t afford to get pulled over right now—even though she could probably talk her way out of a ticket.

  She was finally going to confront Nina Gonzalez.

  It had only gotten worse in the week since those pictures of Nina and Jefferson at the fraternity party surfaced. Whatever happened that night must have resolved their differences, because now they were everywhere together: at a local coffee shop, in courtside seats at a basketball game, walking around the campus of King’s College.

  Daphne knew her mom was right: she needed to talk to Nina, alone. She shouldn’t have wasted time trying to go through the prince, not when Nina was clearly the weak point in their relationship.

  But crafting a situation in which she could talk to Nina—without Jefferson anywhere nearby—proved more difficult than Daphne had anticipated. She’d debated trying to tail the girl from her college classes, but Daphne knew her face was far too famous; someone would see her and make the connection, and then she would look like a crazy ex-girlfriend lurking around the new girlfriend’s dorm room.

  Eventually she’d set internet alerts for mentions of Nina’s name, and vigilantly monitored the various hashtags about Nina and Jefferson. Twenty minutes ago, someone had finally posted something: a blurry cell-phone pic of Nina browsing the designer gowns at Halo.

  Halo was a decades-old boutique in the center of Herald Oaks, widely known to have the best dress selection in the city. Daphne couldn’t quite believe that Nina had shown her face here. Didn’t she realize that she was in Daphne’s favorite store, on Daphne’s turf? This was tantamount to a declaration of war.

  Her mind drifted to the invitation her family had received earlier this week, on gilt-edged cream paper, stamped with the Washington coat of arms.

  The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by Their Majesties

  to request the honour of your presence

  at a reception celebrating

  Her Royal Highness Beatrice Georgina Fredericka Louise

  and Lord Theodore Beaufort Eaton

  Friday, the seventh of February, at eight in the evening

  A reply is requested addressed to the Lord Chamberlain, Washington Palace

  Daphne had every intention of going to that engagement party. And if Nina and Jefferson were there together—well, she would make sure that by the end of the night, they no longer were.

  She tore into the parking lot of Halo, her nerves on edge, and charged straight through the front doors. She needed to move fast; she had no idea how long Nina would stay. That is, if she hadn’t already left.

  There were a lot of people inside the high-ceilinged space: a couple gazing at the jewelry display, a pair of women giggling as they purchased identical quilted purses. Daphne had never understood women who went shopping together and bought the same exact thing. Didn’t they realize the whole point of clothes was to make you stand out?

  A few eyes flicked toward her with recognition, though no one greeted her. Daphne wondered which of them had posted the unflattering picture of Nina. She hoped they would think to take a photo of her—she looked utterly fantastic in her ivory sleeveless sweater and creamy leather pants. The monochromatic winter-white look was hard to pull off unless you had an absolutely perfect body. Which, of course, Daphne did.

  “Daphne! I didn’t realize you were coming. I’ve got some gowns on hold for you in the back, for Beatrice’s party.” It was her favorite sales associate, Damien: only a few years older than Daphne, with pale blue eyes and a grin that had probably charmed countless women into purchases they didn’t need. As usual, he was wearing a casual button-down and skinny tie.

  “It’s all right; I’m here just to browse.” Daphne tried to shrug away the irregularity, but she knew Damien saw right through her. Never in her life had Daphne come to Halo “just to browse.” She always texted him ahead of time, to let him know which event in the endless rotation of court functions she
was shopping for. That way, once she arrived, he would already have arranged a dressing room full of options.

  In the early days, Damien had knowingly let Daphne return dresses she had worn—she would leave the tags on, tucking them behind her bra if she could, then bring the garments back to Halo the next day. Damien never said a word, just winked and gave Daphne the full refund. The moment her relationship with Prince Jefferson went public, he’d talked the manager into giving her a full promotional discount, so that she could buy items at cost. Even after she and the prince broke up, he hadn’t taken the discount away.

  “You’re going to love the new gowns that just came in.” Damien resolutely tried to steer her in the opposite direction. “There’s a blush-colored one that will look perfect on you—Arabella Sykes tried to buy it yesterday, but I told her it was spoken for.” He waved at another salesperson, who bustled off, presumably to find the dress in question.

  Daphne knew what he was doing, engaging the rest of the store in a silent conspiracy to keep her away from Nina, and she adored him all the more for it. But she wasn’t about to be dissuaded from her mission.

  “I actually wanted to look through the formal wear myself this time,” Daphne told him, and headed toward the wing of the store that housed all the gowns. This time Damien made no move to stop her.

  Sure enough, there was Nina, browsing the gowns with a perplexed frown on her face. Daphne noted with pleasure that she was wearing stretchy black athleisure pants, with a baggy top that looked like it more rightfully belonged to someone’s grandmother. Her combat boots kept making an undignified squeaky noise over the floors.

  Didn’t Nina realize that she was a public figure now, and couldn’t leave her dorm room looking anything but perfect?

  “Nina!” Daphne exclaimed, pleased at how truly surprised she sounded. “What a coincidence. Is Samantha here?”

  “Oh, um—Daphne. Hi,” the other girl stammered, evidently caught off guard. “Sam isn’t here, actually. It’s just me.”

  Daphne’s ears pricked up at her tone. Something had clearly happened between the so-called best friends. Maybe Samantha didn’t approve of Nina dating her twin brother. Maybe that was what had bothered the princess at the New Year’s party—the reason she’d been standing at the bar alone, looking for someone to drink with. Because she’d just found out that her brother and her best friend were sneaking around behind her back.

  Daphne put back a printed jumpsuit she’d been pretending to examine. “Honestly, I don’t know who decided that jumpsuits count as formal attire,” she said conversationally. “I know they make our legs look fantastic, but we can’t exactly wear pants to Beatrice’s engagement party. That’s what you’re shopping for, right?”

  “Trying to,” Nina said awkwardly.

  So, she was going. At least now Daphne was forewarned. She could handle this. She was Daphne Deighton, and she could handle anything.

  “I’ve actually been hoping I might run into you. How are you holding up, after those horrible articles?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Nina pretended to examine a price tag, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I’ve been through it all, too, you know,” Daphne said earnestly. “I get how totally awful it is. I just wanted to say that I’m here, if you ever need any help.”

  Nina seemed confused by this unprecedented gesture of friendship from her boyfriend’s ex. “That’s really nice, but I wouldn’t want to bother you,” she said warily.

  Daphne shook her head. “Jefferson and I are friends,” she insisted. “I know you and I have never been close, but it’s clear to me that he cares about you. Trust me when I say that I understand. I’m probably the only person on earth who understands.”

  She saw Nina listening, softening, in spite of herself. “It really does suck,” Nina ventured.

  “Doesn’t it?” Daphne asked, and their eyes met in what Nina surely thought was a look of empathy.

  “This dress would look amazing on you,” Daphne went on, taking the reins of the conversation firmly in hand. “Though it’s too big. I wonder where Damien is?”

  Unsurprisingly, he appeared right away. He’d likely been eavesdropping from the other side of the clothing rack. Not that Daphne minded. If he sold this story to the press, it could only reflect well on her.

  “Can we get a fitting room, and can you please pull some things for Nina?” she asked sweetly, leading the other girl away.

  “I couldn’t—you don’t need to—”

  “Come on, the ball is in just a few days, and you clearly weren’t making any progress on your own,” Daphne reminded her. “Besides, this is way more fun than shopping alone.”

  Within minutes they were at the back of the store, twin racks of gowns rolled up alongside them. There were dozens to choose from: silk and chiffon, balloon-sleeved and sleeveless, tailored and slouchy. Though Daphne noted with a proprietary pleasure that Damien hadn’t really brought out the best options, as if he wanted to quietly undermine her efforts to help Nina. The thought warmed her.

  She smiled and began to sort through the various gowns, weeding out the rejects with brutal determination. While Nina retreated into a dressing room to try them on, one after the other, Daphne kept up a steady stream of chatter, confessing that People had trashed the first outfit she wore in public—“It was this awful green dress that made me look seasick; I don’t know what I was thinking,”—and that in the first few weeks, she read every one of the thousands of comments on those online articles.

  Tell no one your secrets, Daphne’s mom always said, but make them think that you have. It creates the illusion of intimacy.

  “I read all the comments too! Well, for a while. Eventually I just deleted my social media handles.” Nina’s voice emanated through the dressing room door. “You never did that, did you?”

  “I guess I thought that if I ran away from it all, the haters would win,” Daphne said simply.

  Nina stepped in front of the mirror, wearing a black column gown that Daphne wasn’t flat-chested enough to pull off. Of course, her hair was dull and unhighlighted, and she had no makeup or nail polish on. And yet—it didn’t look totally awful on her.

  “How did you make everyone …” Nina hesitated, sounding vulnerable. “Make everyone like you?”

  They’ll never like you, because they’ll always love me.

  Aloud she said, “They’ll like you eventually. And then they’ll dislike you, and then they’ll like you again, back and forth. That’s just the way it goes.” Daphne shrugged, as if she wasn’t particularly bothered by it, and changed the subject.

  “I’m not sure about this gown. It’s kind of boring,” she declared, and pulled an ivory one-shouldered trumpet gown from one of the racks. “What about this one?”

  Nina gave a puzzled frown. “Isn’t it weird to wear white at an engagement party? I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was trying to upstage Beatrice.”

  Oops. Nina had grown up around the royal family; of course she couldn’t be fooled by a cheap trick like that. “Right,” Daphne agreed, without missing a beat. “I wasn’t thinking, sorry.”

  “I’ll try this one,” Nina said, reaching for a navy gown flocked with a pattern of black velvet and pulling the dressing room curtain shut behind her. She didn’t suspect Daphne of a thing. Which would explain why her purse—a woven straw hobo bag that really should only be worn in the summer—was right out here in the hallway, just begging to be explored.

  In a single smooth motion, Daphne opened the bag and pulled out the cell phone tucked inside.

  It was touch-ID protected. Daphne swiped up to activate the camera function, then clicked the icon in the bottom left corner to scroll through the images saved to Nina’s camera roll. Surely there would be something incriminating, something Daphne could send to herself, to take this girl down for good. She flicked breathlessly through photo after photo, yet all she saw were screenshots of homework assignments, pictures of books—bo
oks!—and the occasional selfie with a dark-haired girl Daphne didn’t recognize.

  This was a waste of time. Nina was apparently smart enough not to take any photos with Jefferson, or any sexy lingerie photos, either.

  The curtain rustled. Daphne quickly dropped the phone into Nina’s purse and retreated a step. “This is utterly perfect,” she gushed. “I think we’re done here.”

  “You think so?” Nina twisted back and forth to examine herself in profile. “Even with heels, it might be a little long ….”

  Daphne nodded. She tried not to look too pleased with herself as she said, “Don’t worry about that; Halo will hem it for you. I’ll get one of the fitters now.”

  Poor Cinderella, Daphne thought smugly, be careful which fairy godmother you trust. You might not have a gown for the ball after all.

  NINA

  Later that week, Nina headed through the glass doors of Halo and turned toward the marble checkout desk. She was startled by how different the store looked from when she’d been here before: utterly empty and picked over, as if it had been ravaged by a pack of desperate socialites.

  Thank god Nina had bought her own gown before the last-minute feeding frenzy.

  The girl behind the counter, who’d been halfheartedly typing into her phone, glanced up at Nina’s arrival. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Nina Gonzalez. I’m here to pick up a dress that was being altered,” Nina explained. The salesgirl emitted a ponderous sigh and vanished into the back room.

  When Nina had ventured here last weekend, she’d immediately felt overwhelmed: there were too many gowns to choose from, in far too many styles. She’d wished more than anything that she could ask for Samantha’s help, except she and the princess still weren’t speaking.

  Nina’s hackles had risen when Daphne showed up. She’d assumed they would exchange a few pleasantries and go back to ignoring each other, but to her utter shock, Daphne had suggested they shop together.