There was a slight catch in Daphne’s voice as she replied, “Of course not.”

The soft noises of the restaurant flowed around them, low conversations and the clinking of silverware. Daphne saw the other guests stealing glances at her and Jefferson, their eyes bright with curiosity or unadulterated envy.

Like always, the attention was exhilarating. It snapped through her veins like a drug.

“Daph, this isn’t about Nina,” Jefferson said haltingly. “But Ethan has been my best friend since kindergarten. We were in the same peewee baseball league, the same summer camps, the same everything. The minute we both had our licenses, we drove all the way down to New Orleans—my parents were so upset with me—taking turns at the wheel, even though my Guard was in the car, just because we could. We got drunk for the first time together, that night we accidentally had all that port and ended up puking our guts out. God, we almost got tattoos together, except Ethan talked me out of it at the last minute.”

Daphne felt a momentary pang of regret as she realized the full extent of the damage she’d caused. She forced herself not to think about it. I’ll fix it later, she promised herself, once I can afford to.

“Ethan probably thought he was doing the right thing, keeping it under wraps,” she offered, but Jefferson shook his head with surprising vehemence.

“I deserved to hear about this from him, instead of being blindsided by a stranger.” The prince met her gaze, his eyes brimming with confusion and regret. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, this has all got me thinking.”

Here it was, right on cue, Daphne thought. Now that Jefferson had lost Ethan, he felt alone—like he had no one else but her.

He had wanted her before, but now he needed her. And need was always stronger than desire.

“I owe you an apology,” he went on clumsily; apologies weren’t something he had to do very often. “You’ve always been there for me. Even when we weren’t dating, you were still on my side—god, you took Nina dress shopping, just because you saw she was overwhelmed by it.”

“It was nothing,” Daphne demurred. That was when she’d canceled Nina’s dress order so she would have nothing to wear to Beatrice’s engagement party.

“And I know you’ve been helping Sam lately, teaching her how to handle the media. You’re so good, Daphne. It means a lot, that you’ve always stood by me. That you’ve never…taken advantage of me.” His eyes flitted down to the tablecloth. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I took all of that for granted.”

In a seemingly absentminded gesture, Daphne let her hand rest on the table between them. But Jefferson made no move to reach for her.

“Jefferson. You know I would do anything for you,” she replied.

He gave her an easy smile, the type of smile you might give an old friend.

“I need to bring a date to Beatrice’s wedding. We’ll dance the opening waltz together, pose for pictures, you know the drill.” There was a decidedly platonic warmth in Jefferson’s voice as he added, “Would you go with me?”

It was the moment Daphne had plotted and waited for, yet it didn’t feel romantic at all. Jefferson wasn’t looking at her like he wanted to date her or even like he wanted to sleep with her. He was looking at her like…

Like he trusted her. Daphne wondered with a sudden panic if by cutting Jefferson away from his friends, she’d somehow friend-zoned herself.

She could fix this, she thought frantically. She knew the prince’s mind better than anyone; surely she could make him change it.

“Of course I’d love to go with you.” Carefully, she pulled her hand from the table. “As long as we’re going as friends.”

“Friends?” Jefferson repeated, and she knew she’d gotten his attention.

Daphne tossed her hair, well aware that in the restaurant’s dim lighting, his eyes would follow the curve of her neck all the way down to her cleavage.

“I can’t be casual about you, Jefferson. We’ve been doing this for too many years and know each other too well not to be honest with each other.”

She saw the expressions flitting over his face, surprise rapidly giving way to a puzzled interest.

“That’s what you want, to go as friends? Not as a real date?” he pressed.

Typical Jefferson, wanting what you told him he couldn’t have.

“I don’t want to be confused about where things stand. I can’t keep getting my hopes up about you.” She glanced down, so that her gaze was hidden behind the thick fan of her lashes. “Better that we stay friends, rather than confuse things and end up getting hurt all over again. Don’t you agree?”

She knew it was risky, the way she had just raised the stakes—by telling Jefferson that they couldn’t get back together if it wasn’t serious. It was an invitation wrapped in a rejection, and she knew Jefferson would puzzle over it for days to come. He never could turn away from a challenge.

Jefferson nodded slowly. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Perfect,” she told him, and smiled.

The sky overhead was a dazzling, brilliant blue. It seemed deceptively joyful, the type of sky that should be viewed from a picnic blanket or a sailboat. Not here.

The National Cemetery sprawled along the northern edge of Washington, almost a city itself within the confines of the larger city. No matter the day, there were always people inside: tourists come to see the war memorials, families who’d come looking for an ancestor.

Beatrice walked along the cemetery’s main pathway, past rows of military tombstones that gleamed white in the sun. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier rose in solemn grandeur to her left. Inside its brass urn burned the eternal flame, which was constantly guarded by two American soldiers. They acknowledged her with a quiet salute.

A few visitors saw her walk past, but for once they didn’t take pictures or dissolve into whispers. They just nodded their heads in silent acknowledgment of her grief.

The former kings were all buried at the highest point of the cemetery. Beyond a shallow reflecting pool was a series of plots, one for each of America’s former kings, set apart by low stone walls. Beatrice passed the massive sarcophagus of Edward I and Fernanda, and the tomb of King Theodore—Teddy’s namesake—who’d only ruled for two years before he died of influenza at age fourteen. As always, it was covered in a small mountain of flowers. Theodore’s tomb had become a site of pilgrimage for all grieving parents whose children had died too young.

Beatrice turned in to the small plot that was reserved for her family, only to realize that she wasn’t alone.

Samantha knelt before their father’s tombstone, her head bowed. There was something so intensely private about her sister’s grief that Beatrice started to retreat, but Sam’s head darted up.

“Oh—hey, Bee,” Sam said.

Bee. It was such a small thing, just a single syllable, but Beatrice heard it for the peace offering it was. Sam hadn’t used that nickname in months.

Because the sisters hadn’t spoken in months, not in any real way. Last weekend in Orange, when Beatrice was on the steps of the Ducal Pavilion, she’d thought she’d seen a momentary softening in Sam’s expression. But then ceremony and duties had interrupted, as they always did, and she hadn’t been able to catch a moment alone with her sister.

And Beatrice had so many other things to deal with right now—like Robert. Ever since their confrontation outside the House of Tribunes, she’d been trying to interact with him as little as possible. She’d started circumventing him altogether: calling people herself instead of asking him to set meetings for her, pointedly leaving him off emails. It felt liberating.

Beatrice lowered herself to the ground, setting her bouquet of white roses by the headstone, next to a spiky green succulent. “Is that what you brought Dad?”

“I didn’t want to bring flowers that would go brown and die right away. No offense,” Sam said hastily. “But it just felt appropriate.”

“Because it’s prickly like you?”

“And stubborn,” Sam conceded.

They both looked at the headstone before them, so immutable and heavy. HIS MAJESTY GEORGE WILLIAM ALEXANDER EDWARD, KING GEORGE IV OF AMERICA, 1969–2020, it read. BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, AND KING.

“I know it’s terrible, but this is my first time coming here since the interment,” Beatrice confessed. “Being here just makes everything feel so permanent.”

“Nothing like a three-ton monument to remind you that he isn’t coming back,” Sam said, trying and failing to be flippant.

Beatrice reached out to brush her fingers over the headstone. The polished granite felt warm from the sun. For some reason that startled her, as if it should have been bitterly cold.

“I keep thinking that I would give anything for just five more minutes with him,” she said quietly.