“I love you so much,” she told him.
“I love you, too, Bee.” He took a reluctant step back, running a hand through his hair. “I should probably get going.”
Beatrice reached for him. She couldn’t let him leave without one last kiss—a soft, lingering kiss that expressed all the gratitude and regret and fear that she couldn’t put into words.
“Now you can get going,” she said, and he smiled.
When he was gone, Beatrice studied Teddy’s statement of renunciation for a long time, reading its phrases over and over. Franklin whined softly, as if sensing her mood. “I know, Franklin, I know,” she murmured. Though what she knew, she wasn’t entirely sure.
Finally she set the document to one side of her desk—handling it carefully, as if it might detonate at any moment—before turning to the stack of papers before her.
If Daphne hadn’t already hated Gabriella, she would certainly have started hating her tonight. It was hard not to resent anyone who could throw a birthday party this lavish.
Everything was over-the-top, from the glittering gold photo booth to the ice sculpture to the towering display of French macarons in pastel pink and white. “How did you get them here from Paris?” Daphne heard someone ask, to which Gabriella airily replied, “Oh, we didn’t bring the macarons here! We considered flying them over on the jet, but they were going to get stale, so we decided to fly the executive chef here instead!” As if that were a perfectly reasonable request, to bring a pastry chef from Paris so that he could bake macarons for a college student’s birthday party. Though Daphne supposed it was more reasonable than chartering a private plane full of cookies.
And, really, this was more than just a birthday party. This party was a declaration: a coming-home party, an I’m back and I’m here to win party.
The Madisons’ estate, Payne House—not their ancestral home in Virginia, but their massive residence in town—was on the opposite side of Herald Oaks from where Daphne lived. Here, nineteenth-century mansions sprawled on enormous lots, their backyards sloping all the way down to the Potomac. Most estates still boasted the private docks their owners’ ancestors had once used, back when it was easier to reach the palace by boat than by horse and carriage.
Daphne and Jefferson stood behind the main house, staring down at the massive white tent on the back lawn.
“Thanks for inviting Nina tonight.” The prince glanced to where Nina stood, talking with someone from their college class. “It was sweet of you to include her.”
Sweet, Daphne thought wryly. It was a word to describe small children, and sugar-dusted scones, and sappy movies. Never her.
“Of course. I really am glad you’re friends again,” she told him.
Jefferson let out a breath. “By the way, I’m sorry about that photo.”
Last week, the Daily News had published the photo that Daphne had sold to Natasha. The tabloid had spun a whole article out of it, with a timeline tracking the progress of Daphne and Jefferson’s relationship, and eager speculation about when they might get married. Honestly, the engagement rumors had increased in volume ever since Beatrice postponed her wedding to Teddy—as if, deprived of one royal wedding, America seemed determined to plan another.
“It’s fine,” Daphne said hastily. “I’m not worried about it.”
Jefferson didn’t seem to have heard. “We should have the palace security team do a sweep of your computer, see if you were hacked.”
Daphne’s stomach dropped. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Or maybe your phone?” he went on, frowning. “I just don’t understand how anyone could have gotten that photo—”
“Please, Jefferson, just stop!”
He blinked, startled by her outburst. A few people glanced over with raised eyebrows. Daphne managed a flustered, frantic smile, lowering her voice to a conciliatory tone.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just hate the thought of some IT consultant raking through my computer, seeing all our personal emails and messages.”
Jefferson nodded. “That’s exactly why I want to make sure this doesn’t happen again. I know how much you hate articles like that—how much you value your privacy.”
Hate articles like that? For a moment Daphne wanted to cry out in frustration at how little he knew her. She’d spent the entirety of their relationship trying to engineer that sort of article, spoon-feeding gossip to Natasha in exchange for positive headlines.
But then, she couldn’t exactly blame Jefferson for believing all the half-truths and lies she’d told him.
“Your Highness!” a voice singsonged, and Daphne barely refrained from rolling her eyes.
Gabriella’s outfit was as overdone as the rest of her party. She had on a lavender dress with a high neck and voluminous poufed sleeves, emphasizing the clutter of her jewelry. She looked like she’d raided the family’s safety-deposit box and couldn’t decide what to take, so she’d taken it all—four necklaces layered one atop the other, dangly diamond earrings, and a thick headband tucked behind her ears. More doesn’t always mean better, Daphne’s mother would have said. But clearly Gabriella’s parents weren’t in the habit of telling her no.
Gabriella’s lips pursed as she gave Daphne’s outfit a once-over. Daphne was suddenly glad she’d sold that photo, because she’d used the money to buy this dress, which was so new that the sales associates at Halo had only just received it from the designer. It was a gorgeous deep green, with a flattering scooped neckline and thin shoulder straps.
“I keep hearing that Kelli B is the guest performer tonight. Is it true?” Jefferson asked, and Gabriella preened beneath his attention.
“I’m not telling,” she teased. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
She lifted her eyes to meet Daphne’s. It was abundantly clear that she was goading her, flirting with Jefferson and rubbing it in Daphne’s face.
Let Gabriella think what she wanted. Soon enough, Daphne and Nina were going to take her down.
* * *
“It’s time,” Daphne murmured, coming to tap Nina on the arm.
Everyone was crowded into the massive tent, waiting for the DJ to finish, squealing in excitement as they tried to guess the identity of the much-hyped surprise performer.
“Now?” Nina glanced uncertainly at the stage, then at Gabriella, who was surrounded by a fawning circle of admirers.
“The only place to vacation on the Riviera is Antibes, obviously,” Gabriella was saying. Her posse nodded as solemnly as if she were telling them the secret to eternal happiness—and to them, she probably was. Gabriella went on: “The hotel has this rope swing that goes out over the Mediterranean. If you rent out the whole hotel, like Daddy will do for my wedding someday, then you can go off the rope swing naked.” She winked suggestively.