“I think she might be with Marshall?” Nina guessed.
“That was what we assumed as well. She left this note in her bedroom, next to her tiara and the Davises’ ducal pin.”
Anju handed Nina a folded sheet of stationery. Nina began scanning the message, then looked up, stunned. I need to stop being the Princess of America? Thank you for letting me choose love over duty?
“Is this…” She didn’t know the phrase she was looking for.
“It’s a note for Her Majesty, obviously.” Anju pursed her lips. “But the courts may view it as an official statement of renunciation.”
Now Nina understood why Sam had vanished in the middle of the night. Wherever she and Marshall were, they hadn’t just escaped for the week or even the month. They’d run off indefinitely. This was a big decision, and one with serious consequences.
Sam hadn’t told her where she was going because she didn’t want to implicate Nina, or put Nina in a position where she would have to cover for Sam. The less Nina knew, the fewer lies she’d be forced to tell once people started asking questions.
Like Anju was doing right now.
“I don’t think Sam wants to stop being a princess forever. Just temporarily,” Nina explained, panicked.
“Then you should try to call her from the car. None of us have been able to get through, but she might answer for you.”
Numbly, Nina followed the Lady Chamberlain into the backseat of a van. Anju was talking rapidly the whole time, snapping at various people in a tone that managed to be both hushed and frightening at once. Nina tried calling Sam a few times, but it kept going straight to voice mail.
“Yes, we’ll have to make a statement soon enough,” Anju was hissing into her earpiece. “It’s a miracle we’ve been able to keep it from the media this long. I was hoping to get Her Majesty’s condition a little more stable before we let everyone storm in with their questions and conspiracy theories….”
Nina hadn’t even spared a thought for the media; she was too shocked by the fact that Beatrice was seriously hurt. If only to keep her mind busy, she flicked over to the major news sites on her phone. They were all still reporting the usual mix of political updates and splashy celebrity pieces about the League of Kings.
Certainly there was no indication that America’s queen was currently on life support.
Then they were being shuffled through a side entrance to the hospital, and into an elevator, and Anju finally clicked off her call and glanced down at Nina. “Samantha didn’t answer?”
“I’ll try her one more time,” Nina offered, though she wasn’t optimistic.
In the private wing of the hospital, they paused outside a waiting room. As Nina held the phone to her ear, trying Sam yet again, she heard Jeff’s voice from inside.
“You’re sure I’m supposed to do this? It feels wrong, while Beatrice is still…” Jeff hesitated before saying alive.
“Jefferson, I don’t know if you have a choice,” Daphne murmured softly, soothingly.
Why was Daphne here?
Anju had breezed through the door, clearly forgetting about Nina in the face of more urgent matters. Nina edged closer and peered inside.
It was one of the private VIP waiting areas, with plush armchairs and an expensive glass coffee table. Jeff was there, and Daphne, and an older, distinguished-looking Black man whom Nina didn’t recognize—along with Anju and a few other people in suits, who were palace staff or PR people.
Beyond, Nina saw a hospital room filled with beeping machines. Beatrice’s dark hair spilled over the pillow, though her face was covered in a breathing mask, various tubes stretching from her wrists and nose.
Tears stung Nina’s eyes, and she hurried to wipe them away. God, this was like last year, when the king had been in the hospital, except this time it felt worse because this was Beatrice.
Beatrice, who’d been an older sister to her in so many ways. Who’d winked and shown eight-year-old Nina the concealed door behind the credenza so that she could win hide-and-seek against the twins. Who’d sat patiently with Nina one day in high school, explaining all the various pieces of silverware so that Nina wouldn’t embarrass herself at her first state dinner. Who’d given Nina so many things: advice on her college application, a set of first-edition Brontë novels for her eighteenth birthday, the conviction that she shouldn’t ever hide her nerdiness in order to fit in.
Nina sniffed, wishing that Sam were here. It felt surreal that Sam didn’t even know what had happened to her sister.
A figure shifted in the chair by Beatrice’s bed. It was Teddy, Nina realized. Dimly, she wondered why Beatrice was on life support, while Teddy had escaped the car crash unscathed.
“It’s okay, Jefferson,” Daphne murmured, drawing Nina’s attention back to the waiting room.
Jeff’s back was to Nina, so he didn’t see her, but Daphne looked up and met her gaze. Her stare was filled with such bitter hatred that Nina recoiled.
Clearly, Daphne had found out about Nina and Jefferson. Nina had no idea how, but this was Daphne, who always knew everything. Except…the look on Daphne’s face wasn’t one of hurt confusion. She wasn’t just upset with Nina; she despised her.
Last night, after he’d kissed her, Jeff had said that he was breaking up with Daphne and wanted to be with Nina. Had he not actually meant it? Or had Daphne convinced him to change his mind somehow?
It made Nina wonder if Daphne had ever been her friend at all.
Daphne had said it herself, the night they got tacos: she’d turned to Nina and asked, Aren’t you hanging out with me to try to break us up?
What if, the whole time, Daphne had been the one pretending? It made sense; she’d been threatened by Nina and Jeff becoming friends again. So she’d pulled Nina into her fold and kept an eye on her, ready to strike if Nina became too much of a threat. Keep your enemies close and your rivals even closer, right?
A bitter, ashen taste filled Nina’s mouth. She was surprised how much it hurt, realizing that Daphne had never cared about her. The whole thing had been a charade, a great game of pretend, and Nina had fallen for it. She’d let Daphne play her like a pawn in her scheme, just as Daphne was playing Jeff.
She should have known that Gabriella was right—Daphne wasn’t capable of a true friendship.
“Let’s get started,” Anju said, with a nod toward the man Nina didn’t recognize. “In the absence of a Supreme Court justice, a senior peer can swear you in. Lord Orange is here to read you the oath.”
That must be Stephen Davis, the Duke of Orange, Marshall’s grandfather. He stepped forward and bowed. “It’s a great honor, Your Highness.”