The second morning in America is easier.
Not easy.
Just… less like suffocating.
I wake up before the knock on my door this time. For a moment, I forget where I am—the ceiling too white, the room too big, the silence too heavy. Then the memories of yesterday settle over me.
Lincoln Private Academy.
Madison's smile.
Aaliyah's invitation.
Charles's terrible French.
I exhale slowly and sit up.
"Day two," I tell my reflection in the mirror as I smooth my hair into another sleek bun. "Try not to declare war on anyone."
My reflection lifts one eyebrow back at me.
"We will see," I mutter.
Breakfast arrives—croissants and tea again, plus something suspiciously American that looks like pancakes. I ignore those.
By seven, there's a knock.
"Come in," I say.
Charles pokes his head around the door. "Wow," he says. "You're actually awake. I was fully prepared to drag you out of bed like a sack of royal potatoes."
"Very funny," I reply, pulling on my blazer. "I do wake up on my own, you know."
"Sure," he says. "You just prefer not to."
He leans on the doorframe, watching as I check my bag for the sixth time.
"Schedule?"
"Yes."
"Pencils?"
"Yes."
"Crown?"
I glare at him.
"Joking," he says quickly, hands up. "I'm joking. Relax."
"I am relaxed," I say stiffly.
He laughs. "And I'm the Pope."
The ride to school is the same as yesterday—black cars, tinted windows, security detail. But something feels different.
I sit straighter. I know what to expect.
"Any plans for today?" Charles asks as the car slides through morning traffic.
"Yes," I say. "I am having lunch with Aaliyah."
He nods approvingly. "Good call. She's one of the few people here who says what she means. Also, she will absolutely fight anyone who messes with you."
I raise an eyebrow. "Fight? Physically?"
He thinks about it. "Emotionally. Verbally. Possibly physically if they deserve it."
I can't help it—I smile a little.
"And Madison?" I ask.
He snorts. "She's probably already planning a 'Welcome to Lincoln' event that somehow ends with her being on the front page of every school social account."
"So she is… ambitious," I say delicately.
"That's one word for it," he mutters.
We pull into the school driveway. Heads turn again, but it doesn't feel as intense today. Or maybe I am simply more prepared.
"Remember," he says as the car door opens, "no one knows who you really are yet. You still have control of the story. Use it."
I step out of the car.
"I always do," I reply.
The morning passes in a blur of classes.
English is better—Mrs. Carter splits us into groups to analyze a chapter, and my group quickly learns that I do not like when people say "vibes" instead of "themes."
History is slightly less painful—though the teacher still insists on saying "Loo-ee" instead of "Louis," and I die a little inside each time.
Between periods, people greet me more.
"Hey, you're the French girl, right?"
"Monique, yeah?"
"Loved your accent in English yesterday."
I respond politely, offering small smiles and measured answers. I can feel something shifting already—my presence rearranging the tiny social universe of Lincoln.
By the time lunch arrives, my stomach is actually… hungry.
An unfamiliar feeling in an unfamiliar place.
I take my tray—today I wisely avoid the meat—and scan the room.
Madison's table is in its usual place at the center, shining like a polished jewel. She spots me almost immediately and lifts her hand in a graceful little wave, as if summoning a servant.
But I'm not looking for her.
I spot Aaliyah near the windows, at a table with four other students. They're laughing at something, heads close together.
I walk toward them.
Halfway there, I feel it: the weight of Madison's gaze on my back. I don't turn around.
"Hey!" Aaliyah calls, waving me over. "You made it. I was about to steal you from the royal court if they tried to trap you again."
"I do not get 'trapped,'" I say as I sit. "I make strategic choices."
She grins. "Strategic choices can still look like traps from the outside."
The others at the table look at me with open curiosity.
"This is Monique," Aaliyah says, doing a little introduction with her fork. "Monique, this is Jonah, Maya, and Priya."
Jonah, a tall boy with curly hair and glasses, gives me a small wave. "Hi. Big fan of your work in French class yesterday. The look on Madame's face when you corrected her pronunciation? Iconic."
"I did not correct her," I protest. "I simply… offered an alternative."
"You said, 'In France, we do not say it like that,'" he points out. "That's the polite version of 'You are wrong.'"
I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
Maya, who has blue streaks in her dark hair and ink stains on her fingers, leans forward. "So, real question," she says. "Is France actually as romantic as everyone says, or do we just have good marketing?"
"It depends who you are and what you want," I say. "Paris is beautiful, yes. But it is also noisy, crowded, and full of tourists taking pictures of their food."
"Sounds like New York," Priya says dryly. "Except with better bread."
"I will not argue with that," I reply.
The conversation slides easily into comparing cities, schools, and how terrible American coffee is.
It feels… normal.
Not like sitting under a spotlight.
Not like a performance.
Just… lunch.
"So," Aaliyah says after a while, spearing a piece of fruit with unnecessary force, "how's Madison treating you?"
I take a sip of water before answering.
"She is… attentive," I say carefully.
Jonah snorts. "That's one way to put it."
"She has her own gravity," Maya adds. "People either orbit her or crash into her."
"Or escape her," Priya says quietly.
I look at her. "You escaped?"
Priya shrugs one shoulder. "We were friends in middle school. Then high school started, and she decided I wasn't… polished enough." She lifts her hands, still faintly stained with black marker. "She wasn't wrong. But she also wasn't kind."
Something tightens in my chest.
People like Madison exist everywhere.
In palaces.
In schools.
In governments.
"Madison doesn't like losing control," Aaliyah says. "You choosing to sit here today? That's a crack in her system. She won't show it right away, but trust me—she noticed."
"I am not trying to 'crack' anything," I say. "I am just trying to live."
"That's enough," Aaliyah replies. "Sometimes just existing outside someone's plans is an act of rebellion."
I think of my life back home—of schedules and bodyguards and expectations, of my mother's careful eyes and my father's careful words.
Rebellion.
It has never been a luxury I was allowed.
"Yesterday," Maya says, studying me, "you looked like you were in a movie. You had this whole 'untouchable European princess' aura."
I choke a little on my water.
Princess.
The word hangs between us for a second, sharp and dangerous.
Maya doesn't seem to notice. "Today, you look more… human," she continues. "Still intimidating, don't get me wrong. But less like you're about to fire your entire staff."
"I do not have a staff," I say quickly.
Jonah raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like something someone with a staff would say."
I laugh despite myself.
"You know," Aaliyah says, tilting her head, "you don't have to tell us anything you don't want to. But also… we're not idiots. You show up with the president's son, you live in the White House, and you talk about 'political families' like it's normal. You're clearly not just some random exchange student."
My fork stills.
Across the cafeteria, I see Madison watching our table, her chin propped on her hand, eyes narrowed slightly.
I lower my voice.
"What would you do," I ask slowly, "if you found out someone in your class was… more than they seemed?"
"Depends on what 'more' means," Jonah says. "Secret billionaire? I'd probably ask for a scholarship."
"Secret celebrity?" Maya says. "I'd make them join the drama club."
"Secret assassin?" Priya adds. "I'd ask them to eliminate my chemistry homework."
Aaliyah rolls her eyes. "Ignore them," she says to me. "What I would do is…" She thinks for a moment. "Treat them like a person. Unless they act like they're better than everyone, in which case I'd avoid them."
She looks straight at me as she says it.
I hold her gaze.
"I do not want to be treated like I am better," I say quietly. "I just don't want to be… used."
Aaliyah nods slowly.
"Then you're safe with us," she says.
Something in my chest loosens.
Safe.
The word feels strange.
I glance again toward Madison.
She is still watching.
Her smile, when it comes, is small and sharp.
After lunch, as we're dumping our trays, Aaliyah leans toward me.
"By the way," she says, "Madison is hosting some 'welcome social' thing at her house this weekend. She does it every year for new students."
"Is it mandatory?" I ask.
"Not officially," Jonah says. "But if you don't go, you're making a statement."
"I make statements just by breathing, apparently," I mutter.
Maya laughs. "You really do. It's kind of impressive."
As we head toward our next classes, I feel a familiar presence fall into step beside me.
"Look at you," Charles says casually. "Migrating to the cool table."
I glance at him. "You saw?"
"I see everything," he says. "Perks of being tall and bored."
"You are not that tall," I say.
He gasps. "Wow. Attacked for no reason."
I ignore him.
"Aaliyah and her friends are… interesting," I say instead.
"Good interesting, I hope?"
"Yes," I admit. "Honest. Sharp."
He nods. "Yeah. They're some of the only people here who talk to me like I'm just Charles, not 'Mr. President's Son, can you get me an internship?'"
I glance at him. "Does that bother you?"
"Sometimes," he says. "Mostly I'm used to it. But it's nice when people don't treat you like a walking status upgrade."
I look down at my schedule, then back up.
"I told them I am from a political family," I say quietly. "But I did not tell them… everything."
"Good," he says simply. "That's yours to tell. Or not."
We walk in silence for a moment.
"By the way," he adds lightly, "Madison's furious."
I blink. "Because of lunch?"
He grins. "Because of lunch, because of yesterday, because you exist. Take your pick."
"I did nothing to her," I protest.
"You sat somewhere else," he says. "In her world, that's an act of war."
I roll my eyes. "Americans are dramatic."
He bumps my shoulder lightly with his. "Says the literal princess who almost started crying over croissants being too soft yesterday."
"I did not almost cry," I say.
He gives me a look.
"Fine," I add. "Maybe a little."
He laughs.
The rest of the day passes with small, strange moments.
In math, a girl I don't know asks where I got my boots.
In science, the teacher mispronounces my last name three times before giving up.
In the hallway, I catch snippets of conversation.
"—that French girl—"
"—lives in the White House, I heard—"
"—maybe she's like an ambassador's kid—"
The rumors are already spreading.
But they are still only rumors.
Outside, as the final bell rings and students flood toward the doors, I spot Madison near the front steps.
She's talking to a group of girls, but her eyes flick to me as soon as I step outside.
She glides toward me like she's on a runway.
"Monique," she says, her voice smooth as ever. "I've been looking for you."
Of course she has.
"Bonjour, Madison," I reply politely.
She links her arm through mine before I can stop her. "Walk with me?" she says.
It's not really a question.
I let her lead me a few steps away from the crowd.
"So," she says lightly, "I heard you sat with Aaliyah and her little crew at lunch."
"I did," I say. "They are very kind."
Her smile doesn't flicker, but her fingers tighten briefly on my arm.
"They're… nice," she says. "In a chaotic, rebellious sort of way. I just wanted to make sure you know what you're getting into."
I tilt my head. "And what is that, exactly?"
"They don't really care about how things work here," she says. "They like to act like the rules don't apply to them. It's cute, but it doesn't get you very far."
"Far where?" I ask.
"In life," she says simply. "In this school. In this city. People remember who you associate with."
There it is again.
The warning.
The threat dressed as advice.
"I appreciate your… concern," I say. "But I am capable of choosing my own friends."
She studies me for a long moment.
"You're interesting, Monique," she says finally. "Most people would do anything to be included in my circle. You seem… undecided."
"I am not undecided," I reply calmly. "I am uninterested in being owned."
Her eyes flash, just for a second.
Then she smiles.
"Don't worry," she says softly. "No one owns you."
We both know that's not true.
"Anyway," she continues, her tone brightening, "my parents and I are throwing our annual 'Welcome Social' this Saturday. For new students, but also for… important ones."
She pulls a pale pink envelope from her bag and presses it into my hand.
"I'd love for you to come," she says. "It'll be fun. Music, food, people you should know."
Her eyes drift past me for a moment—to where Charles is standing near the motorcade, watching us with open suspicion.
"Charles usually shows up too," she adds lightly.
I run my thumb along the edge of the envelope.
"I will… speak to my mother," I say. "And to my security."
"Of course," Madison says. "I'm sure they'll understand. It's important to make the right connections here."
She squeezes my arm one last time and steps back.
"Think about it," she says. "I'd hate for you to start off on the wrong side of people who can help you."
I smile sweetly.
"I have survived worse than high school," I say. "But I will consider it."
She nods, satisfied for now, and turns away.
As soon as she is out of earshot, Charles appears at my side.
"What did she want?" he asks.
"An audience," I say. "And to remind me that she is important."
He snorts. "Sounds about right."
I hold up the pink envelope.
"She invited me to a 'Welcome Social' on Saturday," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "Wow. She's moving fast. She must really want you in her corner."
"Or out of yours," I reply.
He looks at me, surprised.
"You notice more than people think," he says quietly.
"I have spent my whole life in rooms where people pretend to be what they are not," I say. "I have learned to see what they try to hide."
We walk toward the car.
"Are you going to go?" he asks.
I look down at the invitation.
At the edges of two worlds.
Madison's.
And my own.
"I do not know yet," I admit. "But whatever I choose… it will make things interesting."
He laughs softly.
"Monique," he says, shaking his head, "I don't think you're capable of doing anything not interesting."
As I climb into the car, I glance back at the school.
At the windows where Aaliyah and her friends are still talking.
At the steps where Madison stands, perfectly posed, already planning her next move.
At Charles, shoving his hands into his pockets again, watching me like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
Day two in America is over.
And somehow, instead of feeling trapped, I feel something else.
Like the first moves have been made on a very complicated chessboard.
And for once in my life…
I am not just a piece.
I am a player.