Page 89 of Reign
“Sorry the news broke like that,” she said quickly. “It was an accident.”
He didn’t seem all that bothered. “Are you really not living with Nina? Because I’m not sure where we should send your invitation.”
When his words sank in, excitement flooded her chest. “To your wedding?”
“You’ll come, won’t you? I’ll understand if you don’t want to. But it would mean a lot to me if you were there.”
Sam smiled so broadly that it almost hurt. “Of course I’ll be at your wedding, Jeff. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Daphne and her mother stepped out of the car, and a man in a navy suit bustled forward to usher them into the department store. Velvet ropes cordoned off a path to the escalators. The scattered shoppers looked up and gasped, then quickly got out their phones and surged against the barriers.
“Mrs.Deighton, Miss Deighton,” the store’s manager exclaimed, flashing his whitened smile. “We are so honored to welcome you this morning.”
“Thank you,” Daphne murmured, though this whole outing had been her mother’s idea. When Daphne had protested that she didn’t want to go out shopping—it was such a hassle, especially now that they could get clothing messengered to them straight from the designer—Rebecca had just snapped that she’d already called ahead to the store, and it wouldn’t be fair to disappoint them.
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’sgaze. “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 aboutlove.
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 herwedding 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 itfor,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 theTimes.
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, whenFatherlost our titles?”
