“I’ve been acting weird because I’m terrified,” she said brokenly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know—I’m not sure—”
She had to be careful with her words. The key was to babble incoherently, so that later, Jefferson would never be exactly sure what she’d said.
“I didn’t know how you would react; I thought you’d be angry or upset. People are going to think that I was trying to trap you or something.”
Jefferson’s hand went still. “What are you talking about?”
Daphne lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “I’m late.”
“Late?” he repeated.
“I’m late,” she said again. “I might…I mean…”
She saw comprehension sink in. His expression flickered from stunned shock to a brief flash of dismay or maybe guilt, but then it all melted into a hesitant concern.
“You’re pregnant,” he breathed, and Daphne said nothing. “With a baby. Our baby.”
“Are you angry?” she whispered.
“Oh, Daphne. Of course I’m not angry.”
It was such a typically Jefferson response, so warm and sweet, that Daphne felt her resolve waver. Another guy might have asked more questions, or thought to make her take a pregnancy test, but Jefferson was so goddamned trusting, and his emotions were so easily swayed. He saw Daphne’s fear—which was very real—and read it as proof of her words. Then he took that fear and made it his own.
He retreated a step and began pacing around the room, muttering more to himself than to her.
“I can’t believe—I mean—Beatrice is going to freak out—Mom is going to freak out—”
Eventually he drew to a halt before Daphne. He seemed calmer now, more settled.
“It’ll be okay, Daphne. Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”
Her voice quavered as she whispered, “You’re not leaving me?”
“Of course not.”
Daphne felt herself start crying again, and Jefferson pulled her close, his hands closing around the small of her back. She buried her face in his shirt and sobbed into his chest—real, raw, painful tears.
She couldn’t believe she’d lost her composure twice in a single night. It had obviously shattered something deep within her, when she’d realized that Nina had never cared about her at all. But the detached, cool part of her brain thought that just this once, it was okay for Jefferson to see her true emotions. It lent credence to her lie.
“It’s okay,” he kept murmuring in a low, soothing voice. “I’m here. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Jefferson took a step back and looked at her, his whole earnest heart in his eyes. “What did you think, Daphne, that I’d leave you to do this alone? My parents raised me better than that. I’m taking responsibility for this baby—for both of you. It’s the right thing to do.”
The right thing to do. He wasn’t staying with her because he wanted to, but out of a sense of obligation. Still, it was better than nothing.
He kept talking, saying something about how they would figure this out, that maybe they should tell their parents together, but Daphne wasn’t really listening. Relief was flooding through her body like a drug, and in its wake came a sense of victory.
The part of herself that had stirred to life in her friendship with Nina, the part with a conscience—the part of her that still felt guilty—was steamrolled over by the great lumbering machine of her ambition as it creaked back to life.
“Thank you,” she murmured over and over, and “I’m sorry,” and “I love you.” And with every lie she spoke, a measure of strength flowed back into her veins. She began to feel a familiar sense of control, of mastery—over herself and Jefferson and the narrative she was spinning around them both.
Of course, her solution was only a Band-Aid. Eventually someone would make her take a pregnancy test, and it would be abundantly clear that she wasn’t, in fact, expecting. But Daphne had been careful in her choice of words. She’d simply told Jefferson that she was late, and cried some frightened tears, and let him fill in the rest. She’d never claimed that she was pregnant for certain.
No one could blame her for an honest mistake.
And in the meantime, he wasn’t breaking up with her. As long as she hadn’t lost him, she could figure out the rest later. She would just have to make him fall in love with her again. She didn’t doubt that she was capable of it.
After all, she’d done it twice before.
Beatrice stumbled into her room. Franklin, who was curled up in her closet, barked his excitement at her arrival.
“Oh, Franklin,” she said softly, and sank in a defeated puddle to the floor.
He whined, nuzzling his head against her, licking at her face as if puzzled by her tears. Beatrice let out a ragged sob and ran her hands over his warm golden fur. She wished she knew what to do.
She needed to talk to Sam—the only person who would understand.
Beatrice hurried to her sister’s room, then paused at the door to knock. She didn’t want to intrude if Sam and Marshall were in there together. “Sam?” She waited, then tried again. “Sam? Are you here?”
Tentatively, she pushed the door, and it swung inward on silent hinges.
The room was clearly empty: the bed crisply made, the curtains drawn. Beatrice started to turn away, but a flash of light caught her eye. Sam’s tiara was on the surface of the writing desk.
As Beatrice walked closer, she noticed that something gold was nestled by the tiara. Marshall’s grizzly-bear pin, the icon of the Dukes of Orange.
He and Samantha had both left their family heirlooms, the symbols of their positions, here on the desk.
Her hand trembling, Beatrice reached for the note that was folded next to the tiara, though she already knew what it would say.
Sam was choosing Marshall. I’m all in, she’d written. She’d placed her own desires over the Crown.
Most of the monarchs at this conference would have viewed Sam’s choice as a sign of weakness, a character flaw. Once upon a time Beatrice might have agreed. Now, though, she couldn’t bring herself to criticize Sam’s choice.
At least one of the Washington sisters was able to choose love over duty.
Since she was a child, Beatrice had been told that the Crown took priority—that if she and the Crown wanted different things, then the Crown must win, always. That she was a queen first, and a young woman second.