Daphne’s eyes drifted to the royal-wedding-themed display near the makeup counters. It took up two enormous tables, which groaned beneath the weight of flags and coffee mugs, commemorative china and aprons and calendars. There was even a photo booth where shoppers could pose for pictures and transpose their own faces onto Jefferson’s and Daphne’s bodies.
“Our wedding-themed merchandise has been this quarter’s top performer,” the manager said, following Daphne’s gaze. “People can’t get enough! I’ve never seen anything like it, not even—”
He broke off awkwardly, but Daphne had a feeling she could finish the sentence. Not even when Her Majesty was planning a wedding.
Jefferson had been America’s favorite sibling since he was born—because he was a boy, or perhaps because of his easygoing charm, or because he was so unbearably handsome.
She glanced again at the wedding-themed table, where a pair of young women were holding up what looked like a newborn onesie. She didn’t remember licensing for baby clothes, but she supposed that had been covered in their general contract. According to the most recent reports, Americans had spent over fifty million dollars on souvenirs for her wedding.
It was as if everyone in the nation had forgotten their various complaints—their grief over the late king’s death, their anger at rising home prices, the resentment and alienation they felt every time their government disappointed them—and had turned into a nation of sappy romantics. This was the whole point of a royal wedding, after all. It gave people a rallying point, one that had nothing to do with party lines. One that wasn’t about an issue, but simply about love.
Daphne used to be flattered by all this. There had been a time, not long ago, when she would lie awake during sleepless nights and scroll through the various Daphne-related items on the internet. Every time she searched her own name and found more merchandise—action figures, CGI avatars meant to look like her, an oven mitt printed with her wedding ring—it felt as satisfying as drinking from a cool bottle of water, slaking her bottomless thirst for attention.
Now, when she looked at the table of commemorative gear, Daphne just felt ill. What was the point of all that stuff? What was it for, really?
At this rate, she didn’t know if the wedding would happen anyway.
After her last email, when she’d asked Gabriella again to meet up, the anonymous emailer had sent a simple reply: No deal. Keep your blackmail.
Daphne had stared at it in shock, then called Ethan. Gabriella really wasn’t going to cooperate? Fine, she and Ethan had agreed. They had no choice but to go public with what they knew. So they’d wrapped up Rei’s files and deposited them on the front steps of the Times.
Hopefully the newspaper would make a move on Madison before Gabriella decided to leak what she knew about Daphne and Ethan. And even if she told, afterward, no one would take her seriously—would they?
Daphne managed a wobbly smile as the manager led them to a fitting room on the top floor, where a small army of sales assistants waited next to racks of couture. A side table held a bottle of wine, chilling in a silver bucket, and a tray of pastel macarons that would certainly go untouched. Along the back wall were stacked boxes of shoes in Daphne’s size—because, apparently, her shoe size was public knowledge now.
“Thank you, but we need a moment alone,” Rebecca told the sales associates, who obediently scattered.
Daphne reached for a dusky-purple high-low dress, but her mother swatted her hand away.
“You’re not trying anything on until you tell me what you’re up to.”
Panic spiked in Daphne’s stomach, sour and fizzy, like when she drank too much champagne. She swallowed back the feeling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Where were you the other day when you claimed you were going to lunch with the Madison girl?”
Rebecca didn’t know anything, Daphne noted with relief. She suspected, but she didn’t know for certain. Daphne could play that to her advantage.
“I was dealing with something. Don’t worry, it’s handled.”
Her mother’s bottle-green eyes, the same green as Daphne’s own, narrowed. “I don’t trust you to handle things anymore. Not after you interfered with the Duke of Virginia and lost us our titles.”
“You mean, when Father lost our titles?”
The slap was so unexpected that at first Daphne didn’t process what had happened: that her mother had pulled back her hand and struck her across the face.
Her cheek burned. Tears sprang to her eyes, not so much from the pain, but from shock. Her mother certainly was a believer in tough love, but she had never hit Daphne before.
Rebecca sucked in a breath, seeming almost remorseful. “I didn’t mean to—it’s just—Daphne, you can’t speak about your father like that. He has sacrificed so much to get you where you are. Didn’t you see those displays downstairs? Do you not understand what’s at stake?” Her voice was quiet but fierce. “This family has given up everything to get you that ring. Don’t you dare ruin things now. You have come too far to slip up at the finish line.”
“You’re right, I am at the finish line.” Anger pulsed through Daphne. “Which is why I don’t need a bruise on my wedding day.”
Her mother’s eyes darted to the mark on Daphne’s cheek. “That will heal. Whatever is going on, promise me you’ll put a stop to it. Now.”
There was a dead silence in the room.
Daphne turned toward the door. “I’m going to clean this up.”
The ladies’ room was at the other end of a hallway. Inside, Daphne ran a few paper towels under cool water, then held them to her cheek. The mark on her face already looked normal, and Daphne felt irrationally angered by this, as if her body was betraying her by healing so quickly. She swiped some concealer over it and started back with a sigh. It hadn’t escaped her notice that her mother wasn’t able to say I’m sorry.
As she passed a row of empty fitting rooms, Daphne drew to a halt. An all-too-familiar figure stood behind an open door, studying her one-shouldered sequined dress.
Their eyes met in the mirror, and before Daphne could think twice, she took a step forward. “Nina. I’m glad I ran into you.”
Jeff had told her that Nina was with Prince James now. It’s weird, right? he’d demanded, and Daphne had nodded in fervent agreement, uneasy that Jeff was still keeping tabs on Nina.
Whatever game Nina thought she was playing, she was playing it too well for Daphne’s comfort.
“Daphne. Um, it’s been a while,” Nina said awkwardly.
Daphne felt suddenly desperate to bring things to a head. “You can tell your friend Gabriella to stop threatening me.”