“I know.” She shifted, crinkling the medical paper that the nurse had draped over her legs. She was still wearing her green silk top from this morning’s interview, her face caked with full TV makeup—her lips a little redder than normal, her foundation a few shades too dark.
“I’m sorry we had to rush and do the interview today.” Jefferson sighed. “This whole thing with Sam, and now Beatrice…”
“I’m just so relieved that she’s okay. It’s a miracle,” Daphne said quickly.
Jefferson had been back and forth from the hospital ever since his sister woke up. Daphne had only seen Beatrice for a few minutes, long enough for the queen to congratulate her on the upcoming wedding.
Thankfully, Beatrice’s recovery hadn’t stopped the engagement interview. If anything, it was further incentive for the palace to put out some good news, at least until they were ready to announce that the queen had woken up. Daphne couldn’t help wondering whether Beatrice was as fully recovered as she pretended to be.
She and Jefferson had done the interview live this morning, in one of the sitting rooms at Washington Palace. Dave Dunleavy, the friendliest of the reporters on the royal beat, had tossed them softball questions about Jefferson’s proposal—the official story, that he’d proposed months ago over a candlelit dinner at home, was far more romantic than the truth—and had cheerfully asked for details about the wedding planning. He made a point not to mention Daphne’s parents, or her commoner status, as if this was all happening in a romantic vacuum.
The only strange moment had occurred when Dave asked Jefferson, When did you know Miss Deighton was the one?
Jefferson had replied, with utter seriousness, Daphne has been part of my life for so long, I don’t know how it would feel to live without her.
She wasn’t sure what to make of that answer. On the surface, it sounded like a sweeping, swoon-worthy romantic declaration. Yet if you listened hard, you might notice that there was no mention of love. Only of shared history, of lives that had become so enmeshed and intertwined that there was no easy way to tear them asunder.
Daphne’s fingers itched to scroll through her phone, see what new comments had popped up in the last half hour. She’d stolen a quick glance on the drive over and was relieved to see that she still had a loyal army of supporters; #TeamDaphne was still active.
But she had plenty of critics now, too. They had become vocal after her father’s scandal—as if her family’s fall from grace had broken a shield that used to protect her, and now anything was fair game—and from the look of things, they were having a field day with this morning’s engagement interview.
They rounded up plenty of evidence of her unworthiness: body-language experts who analyzed her posture and said she was lying (well, she was); fashion critics who called her outfit “totally cringe”; die-hard royalists who protested that she “just didn’t deserve” Jefferson, whatever that meant. Someone had even unearthed her mother’s decades-old swimsuit catalogs, from her days as a model. Daphne’s mom was a total skank!! they wrote. Like mother like daughter. #TackyDaphne
A commoner princess. She was something entirely new, something the likes of which the world had never seen. Which was why she had to be excruciatingly careful about her behavior. She had to act more princess-like than a princess by birth, more royal than the Washingtons themselves, or the entire fairy tale she’d spun around herself would fall apart.
She stretched out her fingers, and the facets of her ring, a cushion-cut diamond on a simple platinum band, sparkled in the morning light.
There was a knock at the door, and a woman with shoulder-length gray hair strode inside. “Your Royal Highness, Miss Deighton, I’m Dr. Carlisle. I apologize for the delay; I came straight from the hospital.” She chuckled. “Babies tend to arrive on their own timeline.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Carlisle. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Daphne replied, with a nervous smile. This entire practice had shut down their offices for the morning so that Daphne and Jefferson could visit the doctor in private, and the staff had all signed NDAs. Still, she needed to get the doctor on her side.
Her entire future was riding on how the next fifteen minutes would go.
“You believe you’re at eight weeks?” Dr. Carlisle nodded at Daphne to put her legs into the stirrups and lean back, which Daphne did.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think so.” Daphne hesitated. “Will you be able to see much on an ultrasound at this stage?”
“We should be able to see the baby’s head and torso, and the beginnings of some tiny arms and legs. May I?”
Daphne sucked in a breath. “No need to be anxious,” Dr. Carlisle added kindly, lifting the hospital paper. The entire room fell silent as she began moving the ultrasound probe.
This was going to happen eventually, Daphne reminded herself. She’d maintained the fiction of her pregnancy for an admirably long time, thanks to Jefferson’s trusting nature, and the old-fashioned nature of the monarchy as an institution. And, of course, her own quick thinking.
“It’s too early to tell whether it’s a boy or girl, right?” Jefferson sounded nervous, yet a bit excited, too. Guilt wedged into Daphne’s chest, which she did her best to ignore.
“Too early.” Dr. Carlisle moved the ultrasound wand, studying the screen with ferocious intensity. “Can you shift down a little?” She helped Daphne nudge her hips lower and adjusted the angle of the ultrasound wand.
Daphne knew what to say next. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m just having trouble finding your little one. Baby is playing hide-and-seek! Don’t worry,” the doctor said absently, “it’s common this early in the pregnancy, given how tiny the embryo is.”
Daphne arranged her features into an expression of concern. She kept darting glances at Jefferson, who seemed increasingly worried—and confused—the longer the doctor went without saying anything.
Finally Dr. Carlisle sat back with a sigh. “Please give me a moment.”
She retreated into the hallway, then returned with two unfamiliar doctors in lab coats. Each of them took a few minutes with the ultrasound machine, frowning down at it in the mounting silence.
“Miss Deighton, why don’t you go ahead and sit up,” Dr. Carlisle said at last. Daphne obeyed, trying not to wince at the stickiness of the ultrasound gel, and pulled the crinkly paper across her lap.
“I’m not sure how to say this…,” the doctor began, at a loss. She’d probably never imagined that she would have to tell an Acting King that his fiancée had been mistaken about a pregnancy.
“Is something wrong with the baby?” Jefferson asked quietly.
“There is no baby.” Dr. Carlisle winced and tried again. “Miss Deighton, I’m afraid you’re not pregnant.”