“Perfect.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a roll of cash, grabbing the money for the drinks and adding a fat tip on top. Autumn notices, eyes widening for a long, awkward pause. Ultimately, she stammers out a quiet, “Wow. Thanks.” I squeeze Verity’s leg under the table. “Thank her.” Their eyes meet, and sure enough, I see a flicker of understanding pass between them. “May she reign,” Autumn says, and it doesn’t even sound sarcastic. Jesus, sometimes it’s absurdly obvious that we’re not just Royals, but royally fucked.
