Page 72 of Rivals
Daphne tried not to think about what she’d done to get it.
This time, she’d made sure that the photos she sold were more generic, almost anonymous: a candid shot of Jefferson in his school uniform from Forsyth Academy, laughing in the hallway; another of him playing football, which she’d taken from the sidelines. The photo was so high-resolution that you could see each bead of sweat.
Those photos had been taken in public places; anyone could have snapped them. There was no chance that they could be traced back to Daphne.
“Thank you,” Daphne told the queen. “Your family has always been so welcoming to me.”
Adelaide smiled approvingly. “You’ll do fantastic tonight, Daphne.” She tilted her head, considering. “There’s something missing, though.”
Daphne watched, speechless, as Adelaide loosened her diamond bracelet and handed it over. “You probably know I’m not allowed to lend out anything from the Crown Jewels collection, but this one’s my own personal property. George gave it to me for Christmas one year.” The queen winked. “A bit of sparkle never hurts, does it?”
“I…thank you.” Carefully, Daphne fastened the delicate clasp. The bracelet seemed to glow on her wrist, as if each diamond were a shard of white-hot fire. It weighed surprisingly little, yet it still felt heavy with significance.
All night, as Daphne circulated through the party—as she sat in the place of precedence at the head table, next to a five-star general—she felt people staring at Queen Adelaide’s bracelet. She saw their eyes darting to it, the flash of recognition as they realized what it meant.
Daphne had been accepted into the royal family. At last, she belonged.
It was after ten when the final guests departed. They did so reluctantly, with much clearing of throats and gentle nudging by the footmen; at events like this, people often had to be kicked out. They were loath to leave the glamour and magic of the palace and return to the real world.
“Thanks for doing this with me tonight,” Jefferson told her, once the great hall was empty. He nodded toward the stairs. “Hey, didn’t the new Max Anderson movie just come out? We should watch it.”
“Max Anderson? Really?”
The moment she said it, Daphne wished she could swallow back the words.
Jefferson seemed puzzled. “I thought you liked those movies.”
Daphne hated those movies. They were full of explosions and car chases and juvenile jokes, but for years she’d pretended to like them, because Jefferson did. Again she felt a wave of useless frustration, that she’d fabricated a persona of a perfect girlfriend that was so very different from her realself.
She wondered what Jefferson would say if he knew just how fundamentally she’d lied to him. She’d been lying from the start, in large ways and a thousand small ones. She had lied deliberately, ingeniously, creatively. If lying was an art, she was its grand master.
And a part of her was beginning to feel so weary of it—of this great lie underpinning her entire life.
“Of course I love Max Anderson!” She laughed airily, then grabbed her phone from her clutch. Jefferson was starting to say something else, but her attention had fixed on the new message from Gabriella.
We’re heading to GSM. You and Jeff should come meet us.
Daphne looked up. “What if we went out instead? The night is young!” Then she added, as if the idea was just now occurring to her, “I think some of our friends are at GSM, the wine bar that just opened on Lafayette.”
Jefferson shrugged good-naturedly. “Sure. I’ll have Matt do a security sweep, and in the meantime I’ll put on some jeans.”
“Don’t change,” Daphne said quickly, resting a hand on his forearm.
He gestured to the medals scattered over his sash. “Daph, I’m in full ceremonial dress.”
That was exactly the point. Dressed like this, all crimsonand gold braiding and fringed epaulets, he looked every inch a prince.
Unbeknownst to him, Jefferson was the bait that Daphne would be dangling in front of Gabriella.
“We never go out like this, all dressed up. It could be fun!”
“If you want,” he said slowly, unconvinced.
When they walked into the bar—Jefferson in his formal blazer and regalia, Daphne in her floating cocktail dress—everyone turned to stare, just as Daphne had hoped.
GSM was one of those small, trendy spots that could only exist in the capital. Most of the space was taken up by a dark wood bar that curved along one wall, a whitewashed brick arch soaring overhead. Bowls of blood oranges, lemons, and limes sat behind the bar, alongside crystal tumblers and a half-full bottle of Aperol.
Gabriella was perched on the central barstool, wearing the black crop top from her earlier selfie, which she’d paired with a full salmon-colored skirt that cascaded below her knees, and electric-blue pumps. Her face lit up hungrily at the sight of Jefferson.
