She realized with a start that she didn’t actually regret what she’d done.
All she regretted was that she’d been caught.
“I don’t see how we can stop Himari from telling him, if her heart is set on it,” Ethan said slowly.
Daphne rolled her eyes in frustration. Why didn’t he seem more determined to fix this?
“Maybe we can undermine her,” she mused, thinking aloud. Her shoes crunched on the pebbles underfoot as she paced back and forth.
Daphne felt her mind spinning and clicking like the gears of a watch, racing down a thousand possibilities every second. What they needed was a way to sideline Himari—make her seem ridiculous, even farcical, so that if she did tell Jefferson what she knew, he wouldn’t believe a word she said.
“If only she would get drunk at the party. Then her accusations will come across like incoherent ramblings.”
“Even if she does get drunk, she won’t forget what she knows,” Ethan reminded her. “How does this prevent her from going to Jeff another time and telling him everything?”
He was right. They needed leverage.
“If we get her drunk enough, then she might do something ridiculous. Something we could take photos of, to hold against her—threaten her that if she ever told Jefferson about us, we would show the photos to her parents.”
Ethan nodded. “They’re so strict with her, it just might work,” he agreed. “Fight blackmail with blackmail. Except …”
“Except it’s Himari, and we both know she won’t get drunk and do something incriminating,” Daphne finished for him. No matter how often people urged her to let loose, Himari never had more than a single glass of wine. She was too scared of her parents’ punishments. The one time they’d caught her and Daphne sipping wine coolers outside, they’d threatened to send Himari to a military school if she ever did it again.
Panic swept through Daphne, a harsh, cold panic that wiped all thoughts from her head.
It was only then, when her mind was brutally empty, that she knew her plan. It didn’t even feel like she’d come up with it, more like someone else had written it for her, in stark block letters, and now she was finally able to see.
“What is it?” Ethan prompted, reading her expression.
“We could make her seem drunk.”
“What are you suggesting, that we roofie her?” Ethan said it jokingly, but when Daphne didn’t laugh, his eyes widened in trepidation.
“Hear me out,” Daphne said quickly. “We could slip a little something in Himari’s drink—not a lot, just a minimum dosage. If she does say anything, it will seem like drunken incoherent ramblings. Or she might just pass out on the couch before she gets the chance. Everyone will think she drank too much, too quickly. And she obviously won’t be in any condition to rat on us. We take some photos of her, just to be safe—to hold over her head in the future.”
“Daphne. Please tell me you’re joking.”
So Ethan wasn’t going to help her. Fine, then. Daphne would do this on her own. The same way she did everything else.
“Never mind. You’re right,” she agreed, too quickly to be fully convincing. “I’ll find another way.”
But of course, there was only ever one way for Daphne. Onward and upward, just like always.
That night at the palace, she slipped a few ground-up sleeping pills into Himari’s drink.
It was easy, really; no one knew that Himari and Daphne were feuding. All Daphne had to do was ask another girl to please hand this glass of wine to her friend.
Himari grew instantly, visibly drunker, her words louder and more pointed, and then a few minutes later she retreated to a sitting room. Daphne stood near the doorway with Jefferson, watching as Himari tilted her head back onto the expensive pillows of the couch, her eyes fluttering shut.
The party ebbed and flowed around Himari for several hours. Daphne saw Jefferson’s protection officer frowning at Himari’s sleeping form, but he never made a move to do anything, which Daphne found reassuring. He was medically trained—if Himari was in danger, wouldn’t he say something?
As the night wore on and people grew drunker, the passed-out girl became something of a meme. People posed for selfies with her, making a thumbs-up in front of Himari, whose mouth was open, a stream of drool falling onto the couch. Daphne wasn’t surprised. Himari had always been snobbish and inscrutable, and humiliation of the proud was one of mankind’s favorite sources of entertainment.
She knew from Ethan’s angry looks that he’d figured out what she’d done. But she did her best to keep him at a distance. She had enough to worry about right now without his self-righteous accusations.
Finally, later in the night, he found her alone.
“I can’t believe you,” Ethan whispered, jerking his head toward Himari.
Daphne shrugged. She knew this was an absurd plan, but what other choice did she have? Her reputation, her relationship, was on the line.
“She’s going to be fine. Her pride will be a little bruised, but she’ll survive that. I really am watching her,” Daphne added, in a plaintive voice. No matter what Himari had said, no matter that she’d thrown away their years of friendship like a pile of trash, Daphne would never truly hurt her.
Ethan cast Daphne a curious, inscrutable look.
“What are you going to do, tell on me?” she demanded, her chin tipped up in challenge.
“You know I wouldn’t.” He paused. “You’re terrifying, though.” The way he said it, it sounded oddly like a compliment.
“Terrifyingly brilliant,” Daphne amended.
A laugh rumbled deep in Ethan’s chest. For an instant, Daphne felt herself wondering what it would be like to feel that laughter—really feel it, her body tucked up against Ethan’s, skin to skin. “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he told her.
“I think you know better than to ever try.”
They had drifted wordlessly into the other room, toward the table of drinks, only to stall partway there. Daphne forced herself to ignore the flickering sensation that Ethan’s gaze kindled in her chest.
Neither of them saw Himari rise drowsily from the couch and head toward the back stairs, the ones off the downstairs hallway. Even in her drugged-out state, she was determined to go up to Jefferson’s bedroom, to tell him the truth about Daphne. And probably for other reasons.
It wasn’t until she heard the unearthly sound of Himari’s screams that Daphne realized the other girl had made it halfway up the stairs—and tumbled right back down.
Daphne shifted on the hospital chair, her grip still closed over her friend’s hand. She wished more than anything that things had gone differently. That she’d listened when Ethan had tried to talk her out of this ridiculous plan, that she’d forced Himari to negotiate—hell, that she had done what Ethan wanted in the first place, and told Jefferson the truth herself.
Losing her virginity to Ethan was bad enough, but drugging Himari was far, far worse. It didn’t matter that Daphne had only meant for her to pass out and sleep it off. It was her fault that Himari had fallen and hit her head—her fault that her friend had been in a coma for the last eight months.
No one could ever find out the truth of that night. Especially not Jefferson.
“I’m sorry,” Daphne whispered again, and let out a sigh.
What was done was done, and now that it had happened, Daphne felt more permanently fixed on her path than ever before. She had lost too much—hurt her friend, traded away the last tattered scraps of her conscience—to give up now. She needed to see this through. Too many sacrifices had been made along the way for her to go anywhere but ruthlessly forward.
Daphne glanced up sharply. There was a slight pressure on her hand.
A shiver trailed down her spine. Her eyes cut sharply to Himari’s face, but it was as blank and drawn as ever. Still, her fingers tightened around Daphne’s in a barely perceptible squeeze. Almost as if she wanted to reassure her friend that she was still in there.
<
br /> Or to let her know that she’d been listening to every word that Daphne said.
BEATRICE
It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.
The words echoed over and over in Beatrice’s head, an awful, hideous mantra, and there was nothing she could do to dispel them, because she knew that they were true.
She had told her father that she didn’t want to be queen, that she wanted to renounce her rights and titles so that she could marry her Guard, and the shock of it had given him a heart attack. Literally.
Our Father, who art in heaven … All the prayers that Beatrice had memorized as a child came rushing back, their words filling her throat. She kept reciting them, because it gave her something to occupy her brain, a weapon to wield against her overwhelming guilt. Love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
But what kind of love was that verse talking about? The kind of love she felt for Connor, or for her father, or the protective love she felt for her sister? What about the love Beatrice felt toward her country?
If her father died—
She couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against the walls and howl her anguish, but there was a blade of strength within her that refused to let her break down.
Connor was here, in uniform. He stood unobtrusively to one side of the waiting room, trying to catch Beatrice’s eye, which she steadfastly refused to do. She couldn’t bring herself to send him away—but she didn’t dare talk to him alone, either.
“Your Royal Highness, Your Majesty.” One of the doctors hovered in the doorway, addressing Beatrice and her mom. “Could I have a moment with you both?”
Beatrice felt her heartbeat skip and skid all over the place. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed her mom into the hallway.
The doctor shut the door behind them. “The king’s condition is not very promising.”
“What do you mean?” The queen’s voice was as level and calm as always, though her hands visibly trembled.
“As you know, the king’s cancer is spreading from his lungs. What he suffered last night was a coronary thrombosis, meaning that one of the blockages caused by his cancer made its way into an artery, cutting off blood flow to his heart. That caused the heart attack.”
Thrombosis. Even the word itself seemed evil, those sibilant Ss coiled together like a nest of snakes, about to sink their fangs into you.
Beatrice’s mom leaned against the wall to steady herself. She hadn’t even been aware that her husband had cancer until they reached the hospital last night and the king’s chief surgeon informed her. “Shouldn’t he have recovered from the heart attack by now?”
“It did some damage,” the doctor said delicately. “The greater problem is that the cancer is still there. And now we’re having trouble stabilizing His Majesty’s breathing.”
Tears shone in the queen’s eyes. Her earrings from the party last night were still twisted in her ears: a pair of enormous canary diamonds, so big they almost looked like miniature lemons. “Thank you,” she managed, and returned to the waiting room. But Beatrice didn’t follow.
She glanced up at the doctor, swallowing her fear. Even though she already suspected the answer, she had to ask. “Could the coronary thrombosis have been caused by a shock?”
The doctor blinked, politely puzzled. “A shock? What do you mean?”
“If something happened last night that really surprised my father—something he hadn’t expected,” she said clumsily. “Could that have caused the blood clot?”
“A shock cannot create a clot in itself. It can only accelerate the process by which the clot enters the bloodstream. Whatever … startled your father last night,” he said tactfully, “may have contributed to the timing. But the king was already sick.”
Beatrice nodded. She tried to stave off the fear that crept through the cracks in her armor, to keep the placid Washington mask on her features. It was getting harder by the minute. “Could I … could I see my dad?”
Maybe it was what she had just confessed, or maybe he simply felt sorry for her, but the doctor stepped aside. “Five minutes,” he warned her. “There can’t be any more stressors to His Majesty’s system.”
It’s okay. I already told him that I’m in love with my Guard and that I want to renounce my claim to the throne. There’s nothing left I can say that will shock him any more than I already have.
“Thank you,” she murmured, as graciously as she could.
The hospital room was thick with silence, broken only by the methodical beeping of clustered machines. Beatrice hated them. She hated all those illuminated lines and ridges, plotting her father’s pulse as it struggled to right itself.
When she saw him, panic seized her with ice-cold fingers. Her legs suddenly felt unsteady.
Her dad was in a hospital gown, tucked beneath the blankets on the narrow bed. His face had a blue-gray tinge. Something about the angle of his arms and legs seemed awkward, as if they were superfluous limbs that he no longer knew how to employ.
He’ll be fine, Beatrice told herself, but she could taste her own lies. This didn’t look like fine.
“Dad, please,” she begged. “Please hang on. We need you. I need you.”
Some deep emotion in her voice must have reached through the fog of his pain, because the king stirred. His eyes forced themselves open.
“Beatrice,” he rasped.
“Dad!” She gave a cry of joy that was part grateful laugh, and turned to shout for her mom. After all these hours, he was conscious again. Surely that was a good sign. “Mom! Dad’s up, you need to—”
“Wait a second. There are some things I want to tell you.”
Her father’s voice was quiet, but there was an urgent gravity to it that silenced her. He reached one hand, feebly, to take Beatrice’s. She clasped both her hands around his, so fiercely that the signet ring of America pressed uncomfortably into her palm, but she refused to let go.
She couldn’t help thinking of the last time she’d been at a hospital bedside, when her grandfather had used his dying breath to remind her that the Crown must always come first.
No, she thought fiercely. Her dad couldn’t die. It seemed so impossible, so cosmically unfair, that he could die when they all needed him so desperately. He was only fifty years old.
“I need you to know how much I love you,” he told her, before a fresh wave of coughing racked his chest.
Beatrice forced back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Stop it, Dad. You can’t talk like this. I won’t let you.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Of course not. I have every intention of getting better. Just … wanted to say these things, since they’re on my mind.”
She knew that an apology might upset him. It would only remind him of what she’d said in his office, which had caused his heart attack in the first place. Beatrice forged ahead anyway. “Dad, about last night—”
“I’m so proud of you, Beatrice. You are incredibly smart, and wise beyond your years.” He didn’t seem to have heard her. “Trust your judgment: it’s sound. If someone tries to push you into something you have a bad feeling about, take another look at it. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, from your advisors or from your family. There is so much glamour, so much pomp and circumstance. Don’t forget …” His voice began to trail off, but he forced the last few words out as a whisper. “Don’t forget that it’s your position being honored, and not yourself.”
Beatrice held tighter to him, as if she could keep him here through sheer force of will. “Dad, I’m sorry. About Teddy—”
“Don’t be afraid to push back against your opposition. It won’t be easy for you, a young woman, stepping into a job that most men will think they can do better. Harness some of that energy of yours, that stubbornness, and stick to your beliefs.” He spoke carefully and slowly, each word underscored by a wheeze or a bit of a cough, but the words were certa
in. Beatrice had a sense that he’d memorized them. That he had been lying here in his hospital bed, composing them in bits and snatches, in the moments he hovered near consciousness.
“Dad …,” she said, in a faint voice.
“It’s been the greatest honor of my life, helping prepare you to take on this role. You are going to be a magnificent queen.”
Beatrice bit her lip to keep from crying. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, Beatrice,” he said heavily. “About Connor … and Teddy …”
His head tipped back against the sheets, his eyes fluttering shut, as if the effort to stay awake had been too much.
Beatrice let out a single anguished sob. He didn’t need to finish that sentence for her to know what he meant. He was telling her that she needed to let go of Connor—to marry Teddy, and start the rest of her life.
She felt the grinding and turning of some axis deep within herself as the human part of her fell silent and the part of her that answered to the Crown took over.
“Your Royal Highness.” The doctor creaked open the door. “I think it’s time you let the king rest.”
“I don’t …” Beatrice didn’t want to leave when her father was like this, when he’d just expended so much energy on that speech. It felt somehow that she was tempting fate.
“It’s all right, Beatrice. I’m going to sit with him awhile.” The queen appeared in the doorway. She’d washed her face and redone her makeup, clearly trying to hide the evidence of her tears. “Why don’t you step outside? You could take Sam and Jeff. I’m sure the crowds would love to see you. Many of them have traveled a long way to be here right now.”
The last thing Beatrice wanted to do right now was a walkabout, but she lacked the emotional strength to say no. “Okay. We’ll be back soon.”
She gave her father’s hand one last squeeze, then headed out to give her siblings, and Connor, the heads-up.
American Royals Page 39
