“I’m so sorry. I knew Kelsey was a loose cannon, but I didn’t think…”
People were staring, and whatever was going on, Sam had a feeling that it shouldn’t be overheard. She grabbed Marshall’s elbow and led him out the double doors along the side of the ballroom.
A few stray royals were gathered out on the terrace; they took one look at Sam’s expression and skittered inside. Sam stalked over to the iron balcony with a sigh. To her right she could see the stone roofs of the guest cottages, which were scattered below like toy houses in a game of Monopoly. Each of them had a name: Two Step, Summer Camp, or Sam’s favorite, called simply the White House.
She turned back to Marshall, who’d come to stand next to her, his expression somewhere between angry and regretful. “What’s going on?”
“Kelsey gave an exclusive interview to some tabloid,” he explained. “Normally I get a warning about stuff like this, but apparently the magazine kept it under wraps.”
“Your ex-girlfriend Kelsey?”
Wordlessly, Marshall handed Sam his phone. The headline read kelsey brooke’s wild revelations about lord marshall davis and princess samantha!
At first, Sam didn’t even scroll down to read these so-called wild revelations. She was too busy staring at the photo of Kelsey, who was just so unfairly gorgeous. All of Marshall’s exes were gorgeous. Until Sam he’d only ever dated models and starlets, each a size zero, with long shiny hair and big doe eyes. Samantha was many things, but conventionally beautiful wasn’t one of them.
It was hard not to feel insecure about that sometimes.
When Sam scrolled down and began reading, her eyes widened. “Kelsey really hates us, doesn’t she?”
“She hates me. I’m afraid you’re just collateral damage,” Marshall apologized. “She’s desperate to be famous, and she used to date the princess’s boyfriend. Of course she was going to make up a bunch of garbage for some stupid interview.”
Kelsey certainly hadn’t held anything back. She called Samantha and Marshall “the most spoiled, self-obsessed people I’ve ever met.” You hardly met me at all, Sam wanted to cry out. We spoke for two minutes in a bathroom! But it was Kelsey’s next accusation that made her blood run cold.
She claimed that Marshall and Samantha weren’t in a relationship at all; they were just pretending to date because they craved the spotlight. According to Kelsey, Samantha was jealous of her older sister and wanted to “steal attention from Beatrice.” Marshall, too, apparently just wanted the fame that came with dating a princess.
It sickened Sam, mostly because there was a kernel of truth beneath all the invective and lies.
“How did Kelsey know that when we started dating, it was all for show?”
“She doesn’t know anything. She’s just firing shots at random, trying to see what gets a reaction out of people. I’m sorry,” Marshall said again, typing furiously on his phone. “I’m getting my family’s lawyer to sue her for slander.”
“Don’t.” Sam held out her hand, forcing him to fall still.
“She’s a liar!”
Marshall shoved his phone back into his pocket and leaned forward, staring out at the vast expanse of ocean. It made Sam think back to the night they’d met: at the G&A Museum, when they had been out on the balcony, both avoiding the party. So much had happened since then. So much had changed.
“Kelsey is a minor TV actress on a show that wasn’t even renewed for next season. No one cares what she thinks,” Sam assured him. “Let it go.”
“That’s easier for you than for me,” he said softly.
Sam hated how much pain was wrapped up in that statement. She hated that Marshall was judged more harshly, simply because of the color of his skin—that people like Kelsey Brooke could accuse Sam and Marshall of dating to “shock” people. The implication being, of course, that dating Marshall was provocative because he was Black.
Most of all, she hated that America had proven Kelsey right.
Marshall had gotten far more attention than any of Sam’s former romantic entanglements, more attention even than Daphne and Jeff. Some of it came from his reputation—his famous ex-girlfriends, his snarky humor, the fact that he was wealthy and titled and unbearably handsome—but race played a part in it, too. The nation wouldn’t have reacted so vociferously if her sarcastic playboy boyfriend were white.
Sam attempted to lighten the mood. “You know this is all worthless clickbait. I mean, there have been so many ridiculous headlines about me. That I’m allergic to water—”
To her relief, Marshall cracked a smile. “That can’t be a thing.”
“That I have calf implants—”
“You do have excellent calves,” he agreed, bending over as if he meant to lift the hem of her gown. She swatted him away.
“But hey,” Sam added, now grinning mischievously, “if you’re worried that people think we’re fake dating, we can always make a sex tape.”
“Somehow I doubt a sex tape would repair either of our reputations.”
Sam shrugged. “I never said we have to release it.”
Marshall laughed at that. “You’re too much, Sam.”
“Let’s blow off the rest of this party. It’s getting late anyway.” She reached for his hand and pulled him back toward the door. “Have you seen the pool downstairs?”
“This house has an indoor pool too?” Marshall asked, momentarily distracted.
“It’s Olympic-sized, and heated.”
“I didn’t bring a suit, though.”
“Somehow I don’t foresee that being a problem.”
Marshall nodded. “Good point. I’m more hydrodynamic without swim trunks anyway. That’s how the professional athletes train when they’re racing at the Olympic Club.”
“Racing? Is that what they call it these days?”
He laughed again, pulling her closer and dropping a quick kiss on her lips.
Samantha had never felt this way about anyone before—like she was grateful to the world simply because Marshall was in it, and at the same time like she wanted to make the world better because Marshall was in it.
She loved him. It was as simple as that. And Sam would do anything, would confront all the false accusations and prejudices in the world, to protect that love.
Daphne stood before her full-length mirror, turning back and forth as she assessed her navy dress and cropped blazer. Would people think she was overdressed for freshman orientation? Maybe she should switch to jeans. Her mother always complained when Daphne wore denim—“Beatrice doesn’t wear jeans in public,” she would sniff—but the other students would probably look like they’d just rolled out of bed.