All night, as Daphne circulated through the party—as she sat in the place of precedence at the head table, next to a five-star general—she felt people staring at Queen Adelaide’s bracelet. She saw their eyes darting to it, the flash of recognition as they realized what it meant.
Daphne had been accepted into the royal family. At last, she belonged.
* * *
It was after ten when the final guests departed. They did so reluctantly, with much clearing of throats and gentle nudging by the footmen; at events like this, people often had to be kicked out. They were loath to leave the glamour and magic of the palace and return to the real world.
“Thanks for doing this with me tonight,” Jefferson told her, once the great hall was empty. He nodded toward the stairs. “Hey, didn’t the new Max Anderson movie just come out? We should watch it.”
“Max Anderson? Really?”
The moment she said it, Daphne wished she could swallow back the words.
Jefferson seemed puzzled. “I thought you liked those movies.”
Daphne hated those movies. They were full of explosions and car chases and juvenile jokes, but for years she’d pretended to like them, because Jefferson did. Again she felt a wave of useless frustration, that she’d fabricated a persona of a perfect girlfriend that was so very different from her real self.
She wondered what Jefferson would say if he knew just how fundamentally she’d lied to him. She’d been lying from the start, in large ways and a thousand small ones. She had lied deliberately, ingeniously, creatively. If lying was an art, she was its grand master.
And a part of her was beginning to feel so weary of it—of this great lie underpinning her entire life.
“Of course I love Max Anderson!” She laughed airily, then grabbed her phone from her clutch. Jefferson was starting to say something else, but her attention had fixed on the new message from Gabriella.
We’re heading to GSM. You and Jeff should come meet us.
Daphne looked up. “What if we went out instead? The night is young!” Then she added, as if the idea was just now occurring to her, “I think some of our friends are at GSM, the wine bar that just opened on Lafayette.”
Jefferson shrugged good-naturedly. “Sure. I’ll have Matt do a security sweep, and in the meantime I’ll put on some jeans.”
“Don’t change,” Daphne said quickly, resting a hand on his forearm.
He gestured to the medals scattered over his sash. “Daph, I’m in full ceremonial dress.”
That was exactly the point. Dressed like this, all crimson and gold braiding and fringed epaulets, he looked every inch a prince.
Unbeknownst to him, Jefferson was the bait that Daphne would be dangling in front of Gabriella.
“We never go out like this, all dressed up. It could be fun!”
“If you want,” he said slowly, unconvinced.
When they walked into the bar—Jefferson in his formal blazer and regalia, Daphne in her floating cocktail dress—everyone turned to stare, just as Daphne had hoped.
GSM was one of those small, trendy spots that could only exist in the capital. Most of the space was taken up by a dark wood bar that curved along one wall, a whitewashed brick arch soaring overhead. Bowls of blood oranges, lemons, and limes sat behind the bar, alongside crystal tumblers and a half-full bottle of Aperol.
Gabriella was perched on the central barstool, wearing the black crop top from her earlier selfie, which she’d paired with a full salmon-colored skirt that cascaded below her knees, and electric-blue pumps. Her face lit up hungrily at the sight of Jefferson.
“Jeff! You made it!” she trilled, sliding down to pull him into a possessive hug. When she stepped back, she stared unabashedly at his outfit. “Don’t you look handsome.”
“We had a military banquet earlier,” Jefferson explained, and Daphne was so grateful for the way he said we, casting her in his royal glow.
Gabriella looked over and halfheartedly added, “Daphne. I’m glad you came.”
Jefferson stared around at the bar. “What does GSM stand for, anyway? It sounds like a sex thing,” he added, and Daphne nearly choked in amusement.
Gabriella laughed indulgently. “GSM are grapes, of course! Grenache, Syrah, Mourvèdre: the varietals they use to make wine in the Rhône. This place serves only French wine. Obviously.”
“That’s not very patriotic. America makes wine, too,” Jefferson pointed out.
Gabriella laughed again, as if the idea of drinking American wine was just too funny for words. “Michel! Can you get a glass of the eighty-two Latour for His Highness?” It was clear from the way she spoke that she absolutely relished the chance to say His Highness.
Jefferson shook his head. “Actually, do you have any beers on tap?”
But the bartender had already poured a glass of red wine, so dark it seemed almost purple. “This one’s on the house,” he said gruffly, which might have been the stupidest thing Daphne ever heard. If anyone deserved a free drink, it was not people who were already extremely rich.
Daphne forced herself to smile despite Gabriella’s blatant attempts to ignore her. “Gabriella, how was the photo shoot at the League of Kings?” She tried to inject a simpering envy into her voice as she added, “I’m so jealous that you were there. How fantastic that you get to be a lady-in-waiting!”
For a moment she worried that she’d laid it on too thick, but Gabriella seemed pleased by Daphne’s question.
“It was fine.” Gabriella sighed, as if attending the photo shoot had been an imposition on her incredibly valuable time, and turned to Jefferson. “Honestly, your family needs to hire a new photographer. Colin is just so old-fashioned! He asked everyone to smile with their mouths open.”
Gabriella’s friends, who were all listening intently, gasped at the horror of it.
Jefferson frowned, puzzled. “What’s wrong with smiling? You have perfect teeth.”
“Oh, Jeff!” Gabriella laughed, and her audience laughed with her, like a pack of couture-clad hyenas.
Here was another chance for Daphne to worm her way in. “No one smiles in their photos anymore, Jefferson,” she said, a bit too sharply. “Haven’t you been on social media lately?”
People like Gabriella didn’t smile because they didn’t want to seem like they actually cared about anything. Their photos were all lazy smirks and posed candids.
Gabriella’s eyes drifted to Daphne’s wrist, then widened. “Is that the Kimberley diamond cuff?”
“Her Majesty lent it to me for the night.” Daphne had used Queen Adelaide’s title for emphasis—to remind Gabriella that she was in with the royal family—but it came out a little pretentious. She saw Jefferson’s lips press together. Still, she forged ahead.