Page 84 of American Royals
Beatrice felt suddenly, terrifyingly lonely.
She reached for his hand, but he retreated a step. Panic laced down her spine. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t give up on us.”
“You’re the one who already gave up on us, Bee.” He let out a ponderous breath. “If this is really your choice, then of course I can’t do anything to stop you. All I can do is refuse to be part of it.”
“What do you—”
“Consider this my formal resignation. When we get back to the palace, I’ll let my supervisor know that I need to be reassigned.”
Once, in third grade, Beatrice had fallen off her horse and broken her arm. The doctors assured her that it was no big deal, that lots of people broke their arms, and that the bones often grew back stronger in the broken places.
Standing here in the cold empty garden, she thought of that day, of how much pain she’d been in, and how exponentially worse this was. It was so much easier to break an arm than to break your heart.
Hearts didn’t heal themselves. Hearts didn’t remake themselves stronger than before.
“I accept your resignation. Thank you for your service,” she told him, and the voice that came out of her was a voice Beatrice had never heard herself use before—steely, calm, taut with control.
It was the voice of a queen.
Connor gave a silent nod before heading back toward the palace.
Beatrice waited until she heard his steps crunch far down the gravel path before lifting her hand to study the line of Sharpie inscribed there. She could barely see it through the blurriness of her vision.
She reached into her pocket for her diamond engagement ring and slipped it back over her finger, covering every last trace of the ink.
NINA
“Come to Logan’s frat party with me tonight?” Rachel pleaded.
Nina shook her head automatically. All week, in the wake of her explosive fight with Samantha, she’d stayed camped out here in her dorm, emerging only to walk to her lectures or to her job at the library, a hoodie pulled low over her head. No way was she going to something as crowded and hypersocial as a fraternity party.
She curled on her side and closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of Rachel shutting the door.
Instead Rachel stormed over to the bed and yanked the blanket off Nina. “Get up,” she snapped. “No more wallowing in your room.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Rachel threw open the doors to Nina’s wardrobe and began pulling out various items, tossing them one after the other onto the bed. Her vivacity was contagious. “Get dressed and let’s go.”
“All right.” Nina was startled into agreement.
Rachel played music on her phone, singing along in a distinctly off-key voice as she waited for her friend to get ready. Nina pulled on a black crocheted top and skinny jeans, with a long multistrand gold necklace. Then she swept her hair into a high ponytail, revealing the piercings that trailed up the cartilage of her ears. Let people stare, she thought, with a new fierceness. Rachel was right—it was time she stopped hiding.
When they walked outside, Nina was pleasantly surprised to see that only a single paparazzo was stationed outside her dorm. He snapped a few halfhearted photos, muttering to himself, then began to pack up his gear.
Rachel gave a bright, quicksilver laugh. “Looks like Beatrice’s engagement took the heat off you.”
“Apparently so.” Nina wasn’t all that close with Sam’s older sister, but still, she felt oddly grateful to her.
Rachel led Nina to an old redbrick building at the end of Somerset Drive, which students at King’s College called simply “the Street,” since it was lined on both sides with all the fraternity and sorority houses. On nights like this, cars didn’t even attempt to drive down the Street; there were too many college kids spilling out onto the pavement, holding their phones to their ears, trailing back and forth from one house to another as they party-hopped. Despite the chilly weather, a few of the houses had kegs and music on their front lawns, so that people could bring the party outside.
The moment she stepped through the front door, Nina heard the whispers: She’s prettier than I expected; she’s not all that pretty; do you think her boobs are real; look at what she’s wearing. People held up their phones to take very unsubtle photos of her, which they probably hoped to sell to some tabloid or gossip site.
“Nina! How are you?” A girl from her English class—Melissa? Marissa?—stepped forward with an eager smile. “Is Jeff here?” She glanced around Nina’s side, as if Nina might be hiding the Prince of America on the fraternity’s front porch.
“He isn’t,” Nina said tersely.
“Bummer! Hopefully next time,” Melissa-or-Marissa replied, in the eager voice of someone who thrived on gossip. It shattered Nina’s already tenuous self-control.
