The carriage rattled down the main street toward the palace, wheels clattering over cobblestone. Inside, three women sat shoulder to shoulder: one giddy, one skeptical, and one nursing a hangover with a suspiciously "nutrient-infused" juice in a large stein Edward made her take before she passed out.
Emily wore a pale gown full of delicate beadwork and soft lines. It was regal. Elegant. And, predictably, boring.
Across from her, the maid — now dressed as a dashing young gentleman — slouched with nervous excitement. Kaelani had insisted on the disguise: tight gray riding pants, thigh-high velvet boots, a white shirt puffed at the sleeves, and a black vest cinched snug at the waist. The girl looked more handsome than half the real noblemen, which Kaelani admitted was half the kink.
And then there was Kaelani herself. She never dressed plain, not if she could help it. Tonight she was wrapped in the full splendor of her homeland: a sari-like ensemble reimagined for war with propriety. It bared more than it covered — shoulders gleaming, belly taut, cleavage framed in a plunging V-neckline. Long, puffed harem-style pants in jewel-bright colors billowed with every shift of her legs, slit scandalously from thigh to ankle to reveal shapely skin with every breath of movement.
A jeweled sash hugged her waist, heavy with beads that caught the light each time she gestured. The cut of the neckline was deliberate, concealing the hickies Nicolae had left like medals the night before. Her slippers, delicate with pointed toes, made her feet look small and elegant, the final touch of lethal femininity.
Back home, this outfit was traditional formal wear. Here? Scandal incarnate. And Kaelani adored scandal. She wore this for one reason and one reason only: to tell the country patriarch to fuck itself and to hopefully get that sexy brown man to look her way. Okay, maybe that was two reasons — but she wasn't quite sure which one was more important.
Emily eyed the maid again, her stomach tightening. If no one knew she was a maid, they might Emily was still uneasy about the maid coming along. If no one knew she was a maid, it probably wouldn't matter — nobles rarely paid attention to anyone beneath their notice. A "minor noble from Who-The-Hell-Knows-Where" could slip in, drink their wine, and vanish without anyone blinking.
But of course, Kaelani couldn't leave it at that. No. She had to dress the poor girl as a man, a dashing one at that. Tight trousers, boots up to her thighs, and a smirk painted on with Kaelani's encouragement.
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. What was she planning? Or... was she planning? With Kaelani, it was impossible to tell.
Sometimes it seemed as if she were an evil genius, always one step ahead, pulling strings only she could see. Other times, she looked like a woman tripping face-first through her problems, tumbling into chaos by accident, and somehow landing on her feet anyway.
Either way, it was a mystery. And a dangerous one.
Kaelani swore suddenly, patting at the air. "Shit balls! I forgot my fan."
Emily scoffed. "You'll live. You don't need a fan. Just behave. And watch your language."
Kaelani whined, flopping dramatically against the seat. "Nooo, I need it! How else am I supposed to do the passive-aggressive bitch thing? The fan makes it art. One snap, one flutter — I can tell those skanks off with my eyes alone."
Emily gasped, scandalized. "Kaelani! You're being a terrible influence on..." She faltered, brow furrowed. "On... um... what was your name again?"
The maid straightened at once, her voice bright. "Milly, Your Grace!"
Kaelani wrinkled her nose. "God, that name is awful."
"KAELANI!" Emily smacked her with her gloves.
But Milly only laughed, red curls slicked into a tight braid bouncing with the motion. "No, I agree! I hate my name too."
Kaelani tapped her chin thoughtfully, eyes glinting. "Hmm... then I'll rename you. You're 'Violet' now."
Milly gasped. "Violet? Oh, I love it! It makes me feel like a princess in a romance novel."
Kaelani grinned and the two fell instantly into animated chatter — how the new name would improve her standing, how soldiers would trip over themselves, maybe even a nobleman or two would notice.
Emily sat back against the rattling seat, her face blank, staring out the window.
These two idiots, she thought, are absolutely cut from the same cloth.
____________________________________________________________________________
The palace gates loomed ahead, towering and wrought in black iron, their arches swallowed in red and purple flowering vines. They were open wide tonight, spilling warm torchlight down the long drive to the entrance, a beacon for those invited to step into the lion's den.
Milly was beside herself, bouncing at every jolt of the carriage, her braid twitching like a nervous tail. Emily, meanwhile, fanned herself delicately, murmuring reminders about posture and etiquette, while Kaelani slouched back with a dark look, fighting the rising dread in her gut.
Maybe if she chugged enough of Edward's "nutrient juice" she could give herself a stomachache, fart her way through the gala, and make everyone pay for forcing her here.
The palace gates loomed ahead, towering and wrought in black iron, their arches swallowed in red and purple flowering vines. They were open wide tonight, spilling warm torchlight down the long drive to the entrance, a beacon for those invited to step into the lion's den.
Milly was beside herself, bouncing at every jolt of the carriage, her braid twitching like a nervous tail. Emily, meanwhile, fanned herself delicately, murmuring reminders about posture and etiquette, while Kaelani slouched back with a dark look, fighting the rising dread in her gut.
Maybe if she chugged enough of Edward's "nutrient juice" she could give herself a stomachache, fart her way through the gala, and make everyone pay for forcing her here.
The carriage lurched to a stop. The door swung open.
Milly nearly sprang out like a jack-in-the-box, only to be caught by Emily's sharp hand. "Slowly," Emily hissed, demonstrating as the palace doorman offered a steady hand. Milly descended with the wide-eyed grin of a girl convinced she'd stumbled into a fairy tale.
Heads turned. A few stifled laughs. More than a few lifted brows at the sight of a radiant redhead in trousers and a rakish vest. Scandalous. Improper. Delicious gossip. Emily saw the ripples spread through the crowd and, with a long-suffering sigh, lifted her hands in a helpless shrug. Kaelani's idea. The nobles accepted this explanation at face value, nodding with polite smiles before moving along.
Then Kaelani stepped out.
The crowd stilled. No rustle of silk, no clatter of carriage wheels, no whispers — just silence, as though the entire palace had drawn one collective breath and forgotten to exhale.
She basked in it, the attention searing against her skin like sunlight. Whether it was admiration or scandal, desire or disgust, she drank it all in. She was here for one reason.
...Or maybe two. But those reasons were the only ones that mattered.
The three entered, the heavy doors swinging open with a groan that carried across the marble hall. The doorman's voice rang out, trained to boom like a trumpet:
"Her Majesty, Queen Kaelani Adebayo.
Her Highness, Princess Emily Drachenberg.
And... Sir Hugh Jass."
The syllables echoed down the staircase like cannon fire. For half a heartbeat, silence.
Then a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom.
Emily froze mid-step, her pale cheeks blazing crimson. "Kaelani..." she hissed under her breath, fighting the urge to turn and strangle her on the spot.
Milly — or rather, Sir Hugh Jass — beamed like she'd just been knighted for real. She gave a jaunty bow, trousers creaking, clearly delighted to be living the fantasy.
Kaelani? She floated down the steps as if she were walking on air, lips curved in a smug little smile that told the entire hall: Yes, I did that on purpose. And yes, I am enjoying every second of it.
A cluster of noblewomen fanned themselves furiously, scandalized. One dowager whispered too loudly, "Did he say... Hugh Jass?" Her companion gasped, covering her mouth. A servant coughed into his tray to keep from laughing.
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering through clenched teeth, "I can't take you anywhere."
Kaelani only flicked her jeweled sash so the beads caught the torchlight and leaned closer to her. "That's because I don't go anywhere, darling. I arrive."
The announcement rang throughout the hall, carrying all the way to the far end of the great chamber where the King stood surrounded by his chosen circle — Prince Ritchor at his side like an obedient hound, Hakim looming nearby, and a clutch of nobles eager to soak in proximity to power.
The King straightened when he heard Kaelani's name. He turned to Hakim with the faintest glance, a silent message: It's time.
Then came the final name.
"Sir Hugh Jass."
The King's eyes rolled back so far it was a wonder he didn't collapse. He closed them instead, exhaling a long, dark sigh, the kind a man gives when he knows he will never, ever know peace.
When will this chaos end?
Prince Ritchor, however, blinked owlishly, lips smacking together before he asked with complete sincerity, "I've never heard of a noble with that surname. Is he foreign?"
Hakim pinched the bridge of his nose.
Before the King could bother answering, Merin appeared at his shoulder, a neat sheaf of papers under his arm. "Father, the documents are prepared. They're set in the state room — ready for Queen Kaelani's signature. You'll just need to ensure witnesses from her side and ours are present for it to be legally binding."
The King gave a curt nod, waving him away. "Good. See to it."
Merin bowed and disappeared back into the sea of silks and uniforms, leaving the King with his wine, his nobles, and his prey drifting closer by the minute.
As soon as Kaelani's perfectly manicured foot touched marble, the ballroom shifted. Heads turned like a tide. Nobles, politicians, and the untitled wealthy — men whose fortunes bought them more influence than bloodlines ever could — surged forward in a glittering wave.
They came in droves, smiles lacquered on, voices dripping with flattery. Every word was aimed at her sari-like ensemble: the jeweled sash, the scandalous slits, the neckline that dared propriety to duel and win.
Not one of them risked mockery. Not a single whisper of impropriety. To insult the outfit would only betray envy, to mark themselves as lesser by admitting they noticed how she commanded the room. Better to admire, better to bow, better to let their longing tongues trip over compliments than bare the truth: she'd already stolen every eye, every breath.
Her outfit was a weapon, and they knew it. The moment they mocked it, they would only prove how deeply it cut them. And Kaelani basked in it.
However, as Kaelani let the nobles fawn and flatter, her eyes snagged on something across the room. A cluster of jeweled vultures, feathers puffed, smiles painted wide — circling.
At the center of their little storm was a woman Kaelani knew all too well: Ms. Tempers.
She tried not to get distracted. Really, she did. What did it matter? Not her circus, not her monkeys. But it was hard to ignore the subtle rhythm of bullying: the syrupy tones just a shade too sharp, the smiles sharpened into knives, the tilt of heads that said we're laughing at you, not with you.
Ugh. She shouldn't care. Why would she?
But then one of the women — lace-draped and venomous — made a show of "accidentally" spilling her drink down Ms. Tempers's gown. Gasps. A false apology. The others tittered behind their hands like hyenas.
Kaelani's jaw set.
Ms. Tempers, proud as always, stiffened. She murmured something tight-lipped, chin high, before retreating quickly toward the hall. The skank brigade followed, a pack scenting blood.
And that was when Kaelani's feet started moving.
Because here's the thing: Kaelani loved talking shit — but only on equal footing. She loved a good sparring match, a fair brawl. But this? Five dewy-faced jackals cornering an older woman for sport?
This was bullying. And Kaelani hated bullies.
So she moved, eyes sharp, lips curling into the promise of chaos. If the odds weren't in Ms. Tempers's favor... Kaelani would tip them. With all her weight. With Emily and Sir Hugh Jass following behind her.
____________________________________________________________________________
Ms. Tempers pressed her embroidered handkerchief against the wine stain spreading down her skirt, dabbing furiously as she fled to the balcony.
Don't let them see you cry. Don't let them see you cry.
The night air was cool against her flushed face, but it did little to stop her hands from trembling. She stood there, staring over the railing, trying to hold herself together—until the laughter followed her.
They spilled onto the balcony in a flurry of silks and perfume, circling like wolves that smelled blood.
She spun on her heel, chin high, though her voice shook.
"What do you want from me? Why do you keep pestering me? Does it delight you that you took everything from me? Now you have to haunt me every chance you get, and for what? You have what you wanted—now leave me in peace, you twigs."
The black-haired beauty stepped forward, a slip of a girl draped in a delicate pink gown that feigned innocence. Her light brown eyes gleamed with poison.
"Seeing you suffer," she said sweetly, "is my only happiness."
The ladies behind her snickered, cruel as carrion crows.
Then—
"If your only happiness depends on another's misery," came a clear, unhurried voice from the doorway, "you should probably get mental help. And maybe start smoking, since clearly you've got no life."
The women froze, turning toward the silhouetted figure.
Queen Kaelani strolled into the torchlight like it was a stage meant for her alone. Her small crown sat askew, but her confidence made it blaze like gold. She held a glass of strawberry champagne in one hand, her gown glittering with each step, her curls loose and tossing in the night breeze. Tiny flecks of shimmer on her eyelids caught the moonlight, making her look less like a queen and more like some dangerous star dropped down to earth.
The pack of ladies dropped instantly into curtsies.
Kaelani took a swig, then burped—loud, unapologetic. Their heads jerked up like startled deer. She pointed at the trembling black-haired girl.
Kaelani took a swig, then burped—loud, unapologetic. Their heads jerked up like startled deer. She pointed at the trembling black-haired girl. "Tell me, what do you gain by hounding an elderly woman? A sense of importance? A hobby? Or is it just easier than facing the fact none of you matter outside these walls?"
The girl gasped, mortified. "No, of course not, Your Highness—we—we know each other and we are—"
A clipped voice interrupted. "It is a matter between houses, Your Highness. You do not belong in this conversation."
The other ladies recoiled in shock. How dare she speak so to the Queen!
Kaelani's lips curved into a smile too sharp to be kind.
"Oh, stop pretending loyalty, you feral strays. If you must claw and scratch, do it in the streets where you belong—not in my earshot."
They bowed again, mumbling Your Majesty, and began to shuffle past her with their heads lowered.
But as one brushed a little too close, Kaelani's hand shot out like a striking snake. She plucked the lacquered fan right from the girl's grip, snapped it open, and whacked her square on the head.
The girl yelped, stumbling forward with wide eyes, her cheeks burning crimson.
Kaelani snapped the fan shut with a flourish, twirling it idly as she grinned. "Souvenir," she said.
The rest of the ladies quickened their pace, skirts rustling like frightened hens, scattering back into the ballroom as fast as dignity would allow.
Silence. Only the night wind and the rustle of leaves below.
Ms. Tempers didn't bow. Didn't smile. She stood at the railing with her handkerchief balled in her fist, jaw tight.
"I don't need you to rescue me from a pack of children," she spat, voice rough with years of bitterness. "I can take care of myself."
Kaelani sauntered to the railing, but stayed a deliberate two feet away. She leaned against the stone, glass dangling loosely in her hand, her gaze fixed not on Tempers but on the glittering ballroom below.
"You know," she said casually, "making friends is so much better than making enemies. It's best to have people in your corner when the shit hits the fan."
Ms. Tempers scoffed.
"I never know what you're saying half the time. It's like you're from another world, speaking some language none of us understand."
If only you knew how right you are, Kaelani thought, sipping her drink.
"Not that I care," she continued blithely, "but does Lady Osco have a crush on you, or did you—I dunno—maybe fuck her dad?"
Ms. Tempers turned her face sharply toward the stars.
A long pause. Then, voice low, fragile, she forced the words out:
"Lady Osco... took my fiancé. We were in love—or so I thought. After my husband died, he left me with the estate, the money. And then I met Jorge. He was light in the darkness. Not rich, but he had a title, land. None of that mattered to me—I needed none of it. He was mine."
Kaelani's smile faded. She turned forward, listening.
"But that brat caught his eye. She was young. Spry. A barmaid once, I think. He wanted children, and I could not give him that. I loved him so much, but he couldn't see past my age."
Her voice cracked—and then it broke. Ms. Tempers crumpled forward onto the railing and sobbed, raw, helpless. Tears she had fought for years finally spilled, wracking her body with shudders.
Kaelani stood there in the moonlight, silent, her champagne untouched. And for once, she didn't laugh.
So that was why Ms. Tempers was so angry.
Kaelani tilted her head, watching her out of the corner of her eye.
"So all this time you've been angry and getting picked apart by hens... not that it bothered me, but I'm curious—why'd you aim all that venom at me specifically?"
Her eyes narrowed as she lifted the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip, letting the moonlight catch the sparkle in her wine before she swallowed.
Ms. Tempers dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, sniffing, then wiped her nose with a sharp, almost defiant gesture. She turned slightly toward Kaelani, chin lifting though her voice was rough.
"You..." Ms. Tempers' voice rasped as if the words resisted being spoken. She dabbed at her nose, then let the handkerchief fall to her side, her chin trembling before she steadied it.
"Because you were untouchable. The one woman I could snarl at without it ruining me. Everyone else bows and simpers before you. They treat every scandal you cause as a charming anecdote. And me?" she gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "I had everything—money, land, my husband's name—but no choice. I was bartered off young, told to smile, told to breed, told to endure. When he died, I swore that the next time, I would choose love for myself."
Her eyes flickered, haunted, then hardened again.
"And when that choice was ripped from me, when I watched him walk away for some spry girl who could give him children, I looked at you. With all your beauty, your freedom, men at your feet, a whole kingdom bending to your will. I hated you for having everything I thought I wanted. But I admired you too."
She turned her gaze out toward the gardens, voice dropping low.
"You're the only one who ever answered me back. The only one sharp enough, shameless enough, to stand toe-to-toe with me. Competing with you made me feel alive. Made me feel seen. And it made me furious, because in this country we're still just objects—pretty things to be married off, wombs to be bargained with. You reminded me of what I lost... and what I'll never stop wanting."
Kaelani let out a long, knowing sigh. "Believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel."
Ms. Tempers scoffed, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the ruined handkerchief. "How could you possibly? You stand equal to the king himself."
That earned a sharp laugh. Kaelani straightened, pointing her glass toward the ballroom. "Equal? Please. This whole circus is designed to get me drunk enough that His Majesty can trick me into marrying his crusty-ass son, Ritchor. My uncle's here to grease the wheels, Nicolae keeps begging me to step on him—and honestly, it's exhausting."
Her voice faltered on the last word, her chest rising with another sigh. "From the outside it looks like I'm powerful, untouchable, hot... well, I am hot, let's be real—but the rest?" She swirled the champagne, gaze sinking into the bubbles. "Illusions. I'm hiding from assassins while my country is gutted by civil war. And all the while, I'm caged by the man who broke me in the first place."
For a moment the only sound was the muffled music from the ballroom and the low hiss of the torches. Kaelani stared into her glass, suddenly very small in the moonlight.
Ms. Tempers studied her, lips pressed tight. She didn't press—didn't need to. As a woman, she already understood. Pain was a shared language, no matter the crown, the class, or the color of skin.
So instead she chose something else. A soft bridge. "You know," she said quietly, "you've never once invited me to one of your... wild parties."
Kaelani blinked, startled, then looked up with a sly grin. "Wait. You'd come to a kink party? Really?"
Ms. Tempers leaned in, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Maybe I'm not as much of a prude as you think."
Kaelani tipped her glass toward her with a smirk. "Knew there was a reason I liked you."
They both laughed then—sharp, unrestrained laughter that cut through the night like bells. And for the first time in a long while, the world didn't feel so suffocating, so narrow. For just a heartbeat, it was wider. Wide enough for two women who finally saw each other.
In one of the corridors outside the ballroom, Nicolae was practically wearing a groove into the carpet. Back and forth, boots clicking, shoulders stiff with barely-contained energy. His braid swayed with each sharp turn, and that one rebellious strand kept falling across his face no matter how many times he swiped it back.
Darius leaned against the wall, arms folded, red head wrap immaculate as always. His eyes followed Nicolae with the quiet intensity of a cat watching a moth batter itself against a window.
Both men were sharp in their formal uniforms—tight white riding trousers, high-necked blue jackets lined with tassels, black gloves polished to a shine. But only one of them looked like he was about to combust.
"Okay," Nicolae muttered, elbows pinned to his sides, hands flicking up as if conducting invisible music. "So I find someone hot—woman, man, hell, goat for all she cares—and I start flirting. Not just casual flirting—obvious, over-the-top, let's-make-the-room-uncomfortable kind of flirting." He stopped pacing long enough to jab a finger toward Darius. "This is gonna work, right?"
Darius's expression hardly shifted, but there was the faintest quiver at the corner of his mouth—as if the absurdity threatened to break his calm. "The only way to be certain," he said smoothly, "is to find out by trying."
Nicolae beamed, dimples flashing as he spun on his heel. "That's what I like to hear!"
He was about to march straight back into the ballroom when the curtain over the doorway rustled. His sister Bennihan stepped through, crisp in her own tailored uniform, her curls cut short and tucked neatly under her cap.
"Bro-bro, why are you out here? I've been looking for—" She stopped dead at the sight of Darius standing so calmly across from Nicolae. Her brow arched. "Uh. Are you two about to kill each other, or...?"
Nicolae swooped in, pinched her cheek hard enough to make her squawk. "Nope. I've decided I like him." He dropped her face, winked at Darius, and strode off like a man embarking on a divine mission. "Now let's go, my entourage awaits."
Bennihan blinked after him, baffled, then swung her gaze toward Darius. He only smiled faintly, one hand extended in a gentleman's gesture for her to walk ahead.
Together they fell in step behind Nicolae, trying to catch up—half eager, half dreading whatever "genius plan of the century" their mad dog prince was about to unleash.