"Bonjour, Monique."
I hear my name and groan into my pillow. Oh God, it's morning.
Today I have to fly all the way from my beautiful, lovely country, France, just to go to America. America. I mean, what is there to fascinate, to enjoy, to really admire in America? And on top of that, I have to meet the president's son, who I already know is going to be suffocating. He'll probably be clingy and want to know everything about me. God knows he might even ask for a French kiss.
Ugh. How I don't like Americans.
The girls might be fun, I'll admit, but some of them are far too jealous—the way we French girls speak, the way our skin shines so exquisitely. Of course they're jealous. The French, after all, have exquisite taste.
"Monique, you'd better get up. I will not call for you again!"
I hear my mother's voice from down the hall. I know she means business. I really do not want another long lecture about how I'm supposed to be a proper lady—when they call me, I must come; I must be ready, composed, relaxed, and prepared for the day.
"Okay, Mama, I'll be out front. Give me some time to get myself ready!" I shout back.
She appears at my door just long enough to give me a hug and a kiss before she leaves me to dress.
"Okay, let's get ready, Monique," I tell my reflection.
I pull my hair into a sleek bun and smooth down the last few flyaways. Then I find a good pair of black and red heeled bottoms, slip into my favorite blue baggy jeans, and choose a tight white long-sleeved shirt. Over that, I put on a huge black coat that nearly swallows me, and finish the look with oversized Beverly Hills–housewife sunglasses—Dior, of course.
I spray on some Chanel perfume. Now, I'm ready.
"Wait, I forgot my bag and my lip gloss," I mutter, rolling my eyes at myself. "Gosh, I'm so silly."
Once I'm finally out of the house, my mother looks me up and down and laughs softly.
"Wow, honey, you're so stylish. I love what you've done with your hair. Very American."
I roll my eyes again. Americans have no style like me. But of course, I had to wear something that would help me blend in with them. I guess. At least I'm not wearing one of those tiny crop tops—such a mad, disgusting thing to do. But it's so American, isn't it?
As soon as we get onto the plane, I fall asleep almost immediately. It feels like I've only been out for five minutes, but when I open my eyes again, we're already landing.
We're actually in America.
I'm the princess of France, as you might say—because I really am a princess. But I act more like a normal human being who just happens to come from a sophisticated family and attend a private school. I only hope they have better private schools in America.
Gosh. Why do I have to study here?
When we arrive at the White House, the president greets us personally. He talks for a long time about politics, my education, my stay, and how everything is going to be fine, how I'm going to enjoy it here.
I stop listening after a while. My smile stays in place, but my mind drifts.
"May I look around the house?" I ask politely when there's a pause.
He and his wife both nod, pleased. I slip away as quickly and gracefully as I can.
I wander down long, bright hallways, glancing at paintings and photographs I've only ever seen on TV and in magazines. Even though I've watched countless videos about the White House, being here feels strangely new. The air feels heavy with history—and with rules.
Eventually, I reach a door I don't recognize. Curiosity prickles at me.
I open it.
Inside, a young man—maybe a soldier, maybe a bodyguard—drops down into another set of push-ups on the floor. He's shirtless, but he's at least wearing pants, so I suppose that's their attempt at sophistication.
My eyes widen.
Those muscles are… impressive.
I lean against the doorframe, my big green eyes shamelessly taking him in. He looks handsome from this angle. If I could just see his full face, I'm sure it would make the view even better.
I stay there longer than I realize, watching him. Suddenly, he stops, pushes himself up, and turns.
Our eyes meet.
I blush and look away, caught.
"You must be the French girl. The French princess," he says.
I stop gushing internally and narrow my eyes. Seriously?
Does someone here not know how to show respect? A little politeness wouldn't hurt. It wouldn't bite, either.
"My name is Monique, monsieur," I say stiffly. "And I do not like being called 'French girl' or 'French princess.'"
I stare at him for a very long moment, waiting. He should at least apologize by now.
"Oh. Yeah, right. Sorry. My name is Charles. Charles Winchester."
"I did not ask for your name, monsieur," I reply, lifting my chin. "I asked for an apology. No—wait. I didn't ask. I waited for an apology. So stop with all these informalities and just apologize properly, American boy."
He chuckles, clearly amused.
"Okay, okay, fine. I'm sorry for the… information." He winces at his own words. "I'm sorry for what I said about 'French girl' or 'French princess.' It wasn't very nice of me, and I'll try—what was it again?—to be nicer to you."
He shrugs. "But just so you know, don't act all strict. Or like a parent used to being a teenager. Have fun. Chill. This is America, after all. A lot of freedom. Not a land for strict rules or, I don't know, being a pain in the ass."
I stare at him, horrified.
I mean, I do curse. Sometimes. But his apology was terrible. Truly, terribly terrible.
"Oh God," I mutter under my breath. "You are going to be one of my longest issues to correct, aren't you?"
He just chuckles again and walks past me, out of the room.
"Typical American boy," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I follow him out and head back the other way.
When I return to the sitting room, the adults are still deep in conversation about my schooling and what my life in America will look like.
"Oh, hey, she's back," the president's wife says kindly. "Monique, did you love looking around the place?"
Her once-straight hair is now softly wavy, probably from hours of stylists working on it. Her big green eyes are almost majestic, and today she's chosen a soft lip color instead of bright red lipstick. She looks effortlessly elegant—like this is simply another ordinary day for her. Small hoop earrings glint beneath her hair, and her necklace is delicate, nothing too flashy.
"Yes, I loved it, Mother," I say politely to my own mother. "It's a very beautiful home."
Then I take a breath and ask the question that's been hovering in the back of my mind all day.
"Will I be going to stay with Grandma now? I really want to see her. She does live in America, and this is New York, so I could just live there. It's a very peaceful place, dear Mother. And you did promise."
Her eyes weaken. She looks at me, and my stomach twists.
"Oh dear," she begins slowly, "I did promise. But… we have a change of plans."
I frown. A change of plans?
"What do you mean, Mother?" I ask more firmly. "What do you mean, 'change of plans'?"
She looks at me very deeply, like she's trying to tell me something but is too afraid to say it.
"Dear," she tries again, "I was talking to the president and his wife"—she gestures to both of them—"and we decided that instead of you staying with your grandmother in that beautiful, lovely house you wanted to go to, and attending your private school from there… we thought it would be better for your safety if you stayed here. With them."
She pauses.
She waits for me to yell, to kick, to curse in French the way I usually do when I'm upset. But I don't. I just stare at her.
I'm shocked.
The only reason I agreed to come to this stupid country was to stay with my grandmother in New York. She's peaceful, she doesn't ask for much, and she loves my company. And I love hers.
Now I'm stuck with the president and his family.
The parents aren't mean—I've met them a couple of times. They're peaceful and reasonable, very proper. But the son… I've heard a lot about him. Too much partying, too much trouble, and he doesn't take anything seriously. He's the one who causes chaos.
And I do not want to be part of chaos. It's not my thing.
"Mother…" I begin, trying to master the storm of emotions in my head. "Okay. I don't mind staying with the president's family, if it's for my safety. I know I'm the princess. I know I'm next in line. I should be polite and grateful to the people who will be hosting me. So, really… I don't mind, Mother."
She smiles softly. She knows I'm trying. She knows I'm doing everything I can not to be difficult.
"Thank you for understanding, dear," she says.
Before I can say anything else, a familiar, annoying voice cuts through the room.
"So we've got the French princess over here, acting all sophisticated," Charles says lightly. "Wow. If I were you, I'd be really—like, really, really—mad that my mom is making me stay with people I barely know in this country. And you can't even go to your grandmother's."
I turn to him slowly.
"I can go to my grandmother's in my free time," I respond, my tone as sharp as a blade. "I just need protection because I am the princess of France, you idiot. Get yourself in check, and then you can start talking, Charles."
His eyebrows shoot up. I've hit a nerve.
"Okay, okay, I see I struck—or should I say hit—a nerve," he says, raising his hands in surrender.
I roll my eyes again. I cannot keep doing this nonsense.
"My bad," he adds. "I understand, it's fine."
I straighten my shoulders and speak more firmly, more for myself than for him.
"I want to have a good time," I say. "I know there are many things that need to be worked out with Father in France—that's why he's not here, and it's only me. I will enjoy school. I will visit Grandmother. And I will try my best to live with the accommodations I've been given. I'm thankful to our hosts for being considerate about my protection and my safety as the princess of France. There is no need for me to be sad or angry about everything that happens."
I take a breath and add, with as much grace as I can muster,
"What if I say I will be a very nice child? I'll be respectful. And I'll make sure to get myself ready on time."
The adults exchange glances, surprised and pleased.
Charles just looks at me, a small, curious smile tugging at his lips—as if he's finally realized that the French princess isn't going to be as easy to figure out as he thought.
And somehow, in that moment, I know this is only the beginning.