“It’s not that I don’t see how it helps me - god knows I’d love to get every girl who ever dreamed of marrying a prince and has decided a duke will do instead off my back - but how, precisely, does pretending to date me improve your social standing with other men?”

At his side, Daphne rolls her eyes and blows out an exaggerated sigh, her heavy bangs lifting, shining in the sunlight for a moment like fire - not, of course, that he’s noticed that, not one bit; nor is it in the least at all attractive.

“Simon, you’re my brother’s best friend,” she says, tucking her arm through his, cuddling up next to him as though she belongs there, holding up her phone to get a selfie (and she does fit alarmingly well, really - and even he has to admit the results are Instagram-perfect), “and, since you’re not an idiot, I know that means you know exactly how absurdly competitive men are - they never want something quite so much as when another man already has it,” and the way she smirks up at him, with those big blue eyes issuing a silent challenge, tells him this is going to be a problem - but damned if she isn’t right, because the thought of another guy claiming her already has his blood burning, his hand tightening on hers, even as his other hand pulls out his phone, ready to leave a truly disgusting amount of hearts on her post.