The White House is too quiet at night.
In the movies, it always looks busy—people rushing around with folders, phones ringing, someone always whispering something dramatic in a corner. But here, now, past ten in the evening, the hallways feel like a museum. Everything is bright and polished and echoing.
And I am alone in it.
I hug my arms around myself as I walk down the corridor toward the room that is now apparently mine. A princess of France, reduced to being an honored guest in a country that doesn't even know how to eat cheese properly.
What a tragedy.
A staff member—a woman in a navy suit with kind eyes—had shown me to my bedroom earlier, but I barely remember what she said. Something about security, something about a schedule for tomorrow, something about my new school.
All I remember is the feeling.
Trapped.
"Your room is just across from Charles's," she'd added with a bright smile, as if that was some kind of gift.
Of course it is.
I reach the door with my name on a small gold plate—MONIQUE DE BEAUMONT, printed neatly underneath a small French flag and an American one. They've tried to be thoughtful. It almost works.
I push the door open and step inside.
The room is huge. Bigger than my bedroom back home, even. A king-size bed with white sheets, soft golden lamps, a large window overlooking the gardens. There's a small desk near the window with a vase of white roses, and a bookshelf with a few carefully chosen French novels waiting for me.
They did their research.
I drop my handbag onto the bed and walk straight to the window. Outside, Washington glows in the darkness, distant and cold. Somewhere out there, my grandmother is probably drinking her evening tea, watching that ridiculous American soap opera she loves, waiting for me.
Except I'm not there.
I swallow hard, pushing away the sudden sting in my eyes.
"Get it together, Monique," I mutter. "You are not going to cry on your first night. Absolutely not."
There's a soft knock on my door.
Of course.
I straighten, smoothing my hair even though it doesn't need smoothing. "Entrez," I say automatically.
The door opens halfway, and Charles leans on the frame like he owns the place—which, technically, he almost does. He's changed into a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair damp, probably from a shower. Very casual. Very American.
"Wow," he says, glancing around my room. "They set you up nicely. I should've complained more when they gave me my room."
I arch an eyebrow. "You live here, American boy. I am the visitor. Obviously, they are trying to make a good impression."
He grins. "Clearly, it's working. You haven't cursed at anyone in ten minutes. I'm impressed."
I fold my arms. "You've been timing me?"
He shrugs, stepping inside without being invited. "I have nothing better to do." He looks at the window, the bed, the roses. "So. How's the royal treatment so far?"
"It is not 'royal treatment,'" I snap. "It is basic hospitality. Which you, by the way, are failing at. Again. You don't just walk into a lady's room without being invited."
He stops, actually looks guilty for a second, then holds up his hands. "Right. My bad. I'm still learning this whole 'princess etiquette' thing. Sorry, princess."
"I told you," I say sharply, "do not call me princess like it is a joke."
He studies me more closely now, his smile fading into something softer. "Okay. I won't."
I'm not sure why, but that makes me more uncomfortable than his teasing.
"So," he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "tomorrow is going to be… chaotic."
"Oh, how wonderful," I say dryly. "Just my favorite word."
He laughs. "You're starting at school with me."
I blink. "Avec toi?" With you?
He nods. "Yeah. They didn't tell you?"
Of course they didn't.
"Which school?" I ask carefully.
"Lincoln Private Academy," he says. "It's one of those fancy ones where everyone pretends to be normal and secretly has a trust fund and a therapist."
I stare at him. "You go to private school?"
He looks offended. "What, you thought I was raised in a garage?"
"Honestly?" I tilt my head. "Maybe a well-decorated one."
He puts a hand to his heart as if he's wounded. "Cold. Very cold, princess."
I want to smile. I hate that I want to smile.
Instead, I sigh. "So I am going to this Lincoln Academy. Do they know who I am?"
He hesitates. "Some people. The principal. A few teachers. Security. But the students…" He shrugs. "They'll find out sooner or later."
My stomach tightens.
"Fantastic," I murmur. "I always wanted to be a circus animal."
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. "You know, you could just be… yourself."
I give him a look. "Myself is the princess of France."
"Yeah, but also just a girl," he says quietly. "Who probably misses her grandmother."
I freeze.
For one brief, terrible second, my eyes betray me. They sting again, and I look away quickly, turning back to the window.
"You know nothing about me, Charles Winchester," I say, my voice colder than I feel.
He doesn't argue.
"True," he says softly. "Not yet."
The room is quiet for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat.
"So. Anyway. My mom told me to come and offer you a tour tomorrow morning before school. You know, so you don't get lost on your way to breakfast or accidentally wander into the Situation Room and start an international crisis."
I give him a flat look. "I am not an idiot."
He smirks. "Debatable."
"Get out," I say, pointing at the door.
He laughs, backing away. "Fine, fine. I'm going. I'll knock at seven. We leave at eight. Don't worry, I'll try not to embarrass you too much in front of your new subjects."
"Classmates," I correct sharply. "They are not my subjects."
"Right. Classmates," he repeats. "Bonne nuit, Monique."
His accent is terrible.
But hearing him say my name in French does something strange to my chest.
"Bonne nuit," I reply stiffly.
He closes the door behind him.
I stand there for a long time, listening to the quiet click of the lock, the silence that follows. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, press my hands into the soft blanket, and finally let one small, furious tear escape down my cheek.
Just one.
Then I wipe it away and straighten my shoulders.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will be ready.
Morning in the White House is… different.
Back home, mornings mean the sound of clinking dishes, my father's voice on the phone, my mother humming softly as she checks her schedule. Here, it's the quiet rush of people who are pretending not to exist.
I wake up to a soft knock and a voice outside my door.
"Princess Monique? Your breakfast has arrived."
I groan into my pillow. "Why is everyone so polite?"
I drag myself out of bed and open the door. A woman in a white shirt and black vest rolls in a small cart with a silver tray on top. She smiles gently.
"Good morning, Your Highness."
"Just Monique," I correct her automatically.
She smiles again, but doesn't correct herself. "You have twenty minutes before your tour with Mr. Charles."
Mr. Charles.
I almost laugh.
"Merci," I say, and once she leaves, I lift the tray.
Croissants.
Real ones. Not the sad, dry versions Americans pretend are croissants. Eggs, fruit, a small pot of tea. Someone back there in the kitchen knows what they are doing.
I eat quickly, then get dressed: a navy pleated skirt, a crisp white blouse, a fitted blazer, and black knee-high boots. My hair goes into another sleek bun. Lip gloss, perfume, minimal jewelry.
If I am going to be stared at, I might as well look worthy of it.
At exactly seven, there is a knock.
I open the door.
Charles stands there in the Lincoln Academy uniform—which somehow looks more rebellious on him. His tie is loose, his blazer unbuttoned, his dark hair messier than any school handbook would approve.
He looks me up and down and lets out a low whistle.
"Wow," he says. "You're like a walking fashion magazine."
I tilt my chin. "And you are like the 'before' picture in a makeover article."
He laughs. "You really don't hold back, do you?"
"You asked for honesty when you were born," I reply. "Blame your parents."
"Fair enough," he says, still smiling. "Come on, princess. Time for your grand tour."
I should correct him again for calling me princess.
But I don't.
We walk down the corridor side by side. He points out different rooms like it's the most casual thing in the world.
"That's the library," he says. "Good place to hide when my dad starts talking politics for more than an hour. That's the small dining room. The big one is for when people pretend to like each other on TV. The kitchen's down that way, but if you go there unannounced, they'll either feed you or arrest you. Depends on who's working."
I try not to smile. I fail. Just a little.
"Do you make jokes about everything?" I ask.
"Pretty much," he replies. "It's either that or cry, and I don't look good when I cry."
We reach the staircase, and he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
"So," he says lightly, "when we get to school, do you want people to know you're a princess, or do you want to try the whole 'secret identity' thing?"
I pause mid-step.
"What do you mean, 'secret identity'?"
He leans on the banister, thinking. "Like, I could just introduce you as Monique. Exchange student from France. Normal girl. Likes… what do French girls like? Bread? Scarves?"
I glare at him. "Very funny."
"I'm serious," he says. "If you want a chance at being treated like a regular person, you might want to start that way."
A regular person.
The idea is almost… tempting.
But it's also a lie.
"I cannot pretend to be normal forever," I say quietly.
He shrugs. "No one's asking you to. Just for the first day."
We stop at the bottom of the staircase. Staff members move around us, discreet and efficient, pretending not to listen.
"What do you want, Monique?" he asks suddenly. "For tomorrow. For school."
No one ever asks me that.
They ask what I will wear, how I will behave, which speech I will give, which charity I will support.
Never what I want.
I take a breath.
"I want," I say slowly, "to walk into a school where nobody knows my title. Where nobody stands up when I enter. Where nobody pretends to be my friend because of who my father is. I want to have one day—just one—where I am not 'Your Highness.' I am just… Monique."
He studies me carefully.
"Okay then," he says. "Just Monique."
He holds out his hand.
"Let's go introduce you to America."
I stare at his hand for a second, then take it.
His palm is warm and steady.
For the first time since I arrived, something inside me loosens.
Maybe this doesn't have to be a complete disaster.
Maybe.
Lincoln Private Academy looks exactly like the kind of school that thinks very highly of itself.
Tall brick buildings. Perfectly trimmed lawns. Expensive cars dropping off perfectly dressed students. Everyone looks like they stepped out of a catalog.
As we step out of the car—well, motorcade, because of course I can't just have a normal car—heads immediately start turning.
"Don't freak out," Charles murmurs beside me. "They stare at me all the time, too. Occupational hazard of being the president's kid."
"Je ne panique pas," I say. "I do not panic."
My heart is pounding.
He swings his backpack over one shoulder and walks ahead of me like this is any other Tuesday. I follow, my chin high, my steps measured. I can feel eyes on me, whispers starting already.
"Who's that?"
"New girl?"
"Is she with Charles?"
We pass a group of girls near the front steps. They're all in variations of the same uniform: skirts rolled a little too high, shirts a little too tight, hair perfectly styled. One of them—a blonde with glossy curls and sharp eyes—looks me up and down like I'm a new handbag she's not sure she likes.
She steps toward Charles.
"Charlie," she says sweetly, "you didn't tell us we were getting a foreign exchange student. How selfish of you."
Her voice drips like honey over ice.
Charles forces a polite smile. "Morning, Madison. This is Monique. She's from France. She'll be in our year."
Madison.
Of course her name is Madison.
She turns her focus to me. "Monique," she repeats, drawing out the syllables. "That's… pretty."
Her eyes say: I'm still deciding if I hate you.
"Merci," I reply smoothly. "Your name is very American."
A couple of her friends snicker. Madison's smile tightens.
"So," she says, still pretending to be friendly, "are you like… an exchange student? Or like… visiting family? Or just here for the American dream?"
I open my mouth, but Charles cuts in quickly.
"She's just here for school," he says. "Long-term. So, you know, be nice."
Just here for school.
He didn't say princess.
He didn't say anything.
Something warm flickers in my chest.
Madison's gaze flicks between us, and I can see her brain working. She steps back with a bright smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Well, welcome, Monique," she says. "If you need help with anything… I'm president of the student council. I basically run things around here."
I smile, all teeth. "How perfect," I say. "Back home, I am used to dealing with presidents."
Charles coughs to hide his laugh.
We escape inside the building before Madison can ask any more questions.
"Wow," he says under his breath as we walk down the hallway. "You're dangerous."
"I am polite," I reply. "She was… curious."
He glances at me sideways. "You're enjoying this a little bit."
"Maybe," I admit.
The hallway smells like floor polish and expensive perfume. Lockers line the walls, and students move in clusters—some laughing loudly, some glued to their phones, some watching us walk past like we are a TV show.
"Your locker's over here," Charles says, stopping at a row near the center. A shiny lock with a small French flag sticker is already on it. Of course.
He hands me a small piece of paper. "Combination. Don't lose it. Or do, and I'll have an excuse to talk to you again."
I ignore the last part.
"I will memorize it," I say.
He leans against the locker next to mine, watching me as I spin the dial.
"You know," he says casually, "if you get overwhelmed at any point today, just… find me. Or text me."
I pause. "I do not have your number."
He smiles. "Tragic. Give me your phone."
I hesitate, then hand it over. He types quickly, then his own phone buzzes in his pocket.
"There," he says, handing it back. "Now you have the president's son on speed dial. Use wisely."
I roll my eyes. "I will try not to abuse the privilege."
He's about to say something else when the bell rings. Students start moving faster, doors opening and closing.
"First class?" he asks.
"English literature," I reply.
He grins. "Perfect. I'm in that one too. Come on, princess. Time to see how America analyzes books it doesn't understand."
I glare at him, but my heart is pounding for a different reason now.
As we walk into the classroom together, I feel dozens of eyes turn toward us.
Some curious.
Some jealous.
Some suspicious.
Some… interested.
I take my seat near the window, my back straight, my hands folded neatly on the desk.
For today, they only know me as Monique.
Not the princess.
Not the girl who almost cried in her enormous White House bedroom.
Just a French girl in an American school.
But as I catch Charles watching me from across the room, that small, curious smile back on his lips, I know one thing for certain.
This—this strange, ridiculous, infuriating American chapter—is only just beginning.