“Sam.”
“What?” The single word came out sharp.
Sam had been fine—or at least she’d been able to pretend she was fine—when they were out at the photo shoot, with all those people around as human buffers. But now it was just the two of them, alone in this room, with no one to diffuse the impact of seeing him. No one to distract Sam from the fact that her entire body was humming, as if it had been dormant and only woke up again in Marshall’s presence.
“I’m sorry,” he said clumsily. “I know I’ve forfeited my right to ask how you are, that I have no claim on you anymore….”
Sam’s next words came out soft, like a sigh. “Marshall. You’ll always have a claim on me.”
He nodded slowly. “And you on me.”
There was so much packed into those four words. Sam knew that he was opening a door, ever so slightly.
“Sam,” he said uncertainly, hopefully. It struck Sam that she’d never seen Marshall, who usually projected such unabashed confidence, hesitate like this.
No, she should tell him. Nothing has changed. You’re still the future duke, and I’m still the princess.
Instead she whispered, “Yes?”
“I miss you.”
She said nothing, letting him continue.
“Being without you this week, I realized what a mistake I’d made. I hated that I couldn’t just pick up my phone and text you some funny thing I had seen, that I couldn’t hold you ever again. I kept telling myself I could handle it—” His voice broke; he shook his head. “But life isn’t something that I should have to handle, is it?”
At some point they had crossed the room, step by slow step, to stand next to each other. Marshall reached out to cup Sam’s face in his palm. “I miss you,” he said again.
Then Sam was burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso. Marshall pulled her close and tucked his head over hers.
They stood there for a long moment, just breathing, holding each other as tightly as if they were the only two survivors of a shipwreck, each other’s safe haven in a storm.
Things always felt so simple when it was just the two of them. The rest of the world vanished into a distant haze, and all Sam could think about was Marshall—the rumble of his laugh; the fluttery heat of kissing him; the way he made her feel, warm and gooey and at the same time flush with strength, as if she’d become the best possible version of herself.
But the rest of the world hadn’t vanished, and they both knew it.
Sam forced herself to step away, then reached for the paper on Beatrice’s desk. “Marshall—you need to see this.”
As he read Teddy’s statement of renunciation, Sam felt an ominous dread gathering in her stomach. This was it. Once he read that document, Marshall would say again that there was no future for them.
He lowered the paper, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair. “I’m not surprised that Eaton went and did this, even though he’s not required to until after the wedding. It’s a nice gesture, shows how committed he is to Beatrice, and that he’s stepping aside to make room for his younger brother.”
“I don’t care about Teddy,” Sam said impatiently. “I was talking about you, Marshall! The fact that if we stayed together, you would someday have to sign a document just like this! I don’t want you to do that.”
“Neither do I,” he agreed.
“Then what are we doing?”
“I don’t know, okay? All I know is that I can’t lose you again!”
Marshall ran his hands up and down Sam’s arms, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of her. “Things would be so much easier if we were ordinary people, without titles or positions. I wish we could escape for a while and actually live like that, that we could date without our families or the media breathing down our necks. But we are who we are, and that isn’t going to change.” He sighed. “I know that the logical thing to do is stay broken up and live our separate lives. And I tried to do that, I really did. Then I saw you today, at the photo shoot, and I missed you so much. It was torture, being so close to you but not being with you. I love you,” he said helplessly. “I know we’d have to face…well…”
“The geopolitical and dynastic ramifications of us dating?” Sam finished the sentence for him, and he grimaced.
“Yeah.”
“You know I love you, too,” she said urgently. “Where does that leave us?”
His dark eyes gleamed. “It leaves us where we were before—facing an impossible situation. But this time, we’ll face it together.”
Daphne circled the great hall of Washington Palace, studying the place cards with furious intensity. The guests would start arriving for the military reception in less than an hour, and she was determined that everything be perfect.
The tables were covered in starched white tablecloths, hemmed so that their lace trim just brushed the floor. The candles weren’t yet lit, but once they were—when the overhead lights were dimmed, because only candlelight was soft and stately enough for a room like this—the silverware would gleam. Folded napkins sat crisply at each place setting; wineglasses had been polished, ready for cabernet to be poured from crystal decanters. It was as if this banquet hall existed outside of time itself, untouched by the modern world.
When her phone buzzed, Daphne glanced down and saw that Gabriella had posted a new photo: after her conversation with Nina, Daphne had set up alerts to notify her each time Gabriella shared something. In order to defeat an enemy, you had to first know that enemy.
In the selfie, Gabriella pursed her lips in a blasé non-smile. Oversized earrings dangled from her ears, and she was wearing another of those enormous velvet headbands. Back from the League of Kings and ready for a night out! she’d captioned it. The comments were already filled with dozens of variations on You look gorg! and strings of fire emojis.
Swallowing her pride, Daphne began to type out a comment of her own.
Stunning! she wrote, because she just couldn’t bring herself to say “gorg.” Let me know where you’re headed, maybe we can all meet up later!
Hopefully she was right in assuming that Gabriella would jump at the chance to hang out with Jefferson.
Then, biting her lip, she typed out a quick text to Nina. I may see G later tonight. Will keep you updated.
Good luck and godspeed, Nina replied almost instantly.
Daphne didn’t know what to make of her interactions with Nina lately: their late-night tacos after Gabriella’s party, then the afternoon that Nina had come over and hung out in her bedroom. When they’d first pulled up to the taco place, Daphne had assumed Nina had an ulterior motive. Surely she was trying to lull Daphne into a false sense of security, then trap her in some kind of confession. Or maybe Nina assumed someone would take an unflattering photo of Daphne stuffing her face with queso?